Just A Walk Next Door

There are times when a feller just can't squeeze out enough time even for a short walk on a weekend. One of these times is when Uncle Sam and the old Bay State breathes down your neck with those confusing forms known as income tax blanks. Before us that Sunday was the Federal readjustment form for 1959, the State readjustment form for same, the 1960 estimate for both federal and Commonwealth.

By mid-afternoon, snowed under by forms, by scribbled tabs, we were suckers for a strait jacket, foaming at the mouth in our curses of all those chair warmers who had stayed up nights thinking up questions to trap us unsuspecting taxpayers so as to bait us into Danbury or Walpole. Believe you me, we were about ready to sign over the weekly pay check and moan help yourself but save us from these nightmares. Instead we completed every mother's son of them right down to signing our names to the dotted lines, so help us God. Now all we have to worry about is that grim gray badge three years from now demanding "How come you figger this way?"

But that's far, far, away, so with it off our chest, the wife and I decided to steal out for the short space before twilight to again catch the joys of Rockport afoot. The lateness of the hour insisted that it be just a walk next door. Up our own way, School Street, with our dainty little four-footer Molly waddling ahead like a dreadnought in wallowing seas, we dropped by the Drolets to check on the progress of his lobster boat. Emery had it swathed in tarpaulin to ward off the winter's gales. We hope to live to see the day it is launched. At least it's planked. But of course, he has to make a living meanwhile.

Our Molly, the questionable Boxer, cared not for boats but instead butted up against a l'il ol' houn' dog that had us puffing for a second until we saw the tails semaphore an "All's well with the world." That even made the sight of a bitter frigid ocean in the distance look heart warming to us.

Strolling this time of year has its hazards what with the glare ice hidden beneath thin snow. The town sanders try to smooth the way but playful winds throw them off stride. At our age, equilibrium means a great deal. But we managed to stay upright until the tag end of the meandering.

The spirit of Christmas still hugs Rockport. Clear evidence of this was noted at the Tuc Kraft Shop at the start of High Street where a lone miniature Christmas tree stood bravely on the top of a porch. Gaudy baubles adorned it. May it stay there until next Yuletide to remind all that the day should be year-round.

From there by Rockport's former police chief, Dick Manson's cozy house with its horsey sign for what reason we'll never know when we realize he's the prexy of the Gloucester Auto Bus Co. union drivers.

An indication that the olden days had a much greater respect for sheds was evidenced in the existence of a strong brick chimney protruding up from one in Agnes Rich's property on High Street. It was an impressive extension.

And the sight of deep pink blinds on the house at 22 High Street proved an eye-arrester. They lent an air of distinction to the abode. And nearby was an ivy covered apple tree in a yard which sported a "For Sale" sign.

A stately Christmas treee that would do justice to Dock Square come Christmas morn with the thousand of kiddoes surrounding Santa's emissary, hugged the portside of Skipper Alvin Brown's homestead at 20 High. Personally we think it should live out its days right where it is guarding the hearth of Rockport's Boy Scout history.

Back of Ready Kilowatt Don Pool's home we saw a new home rising up two floors. And almost next door, an ancient well sweep. Peaceful scenes these that couldn't last as long as Molly was in tow. For then all of a skitter, another female appeared, and how the fur flew. Who's to blame? S'help me, we don't know. But the air was blue with our curses as we couldn't fathom why ladies just couldn't be ladies, dogs or no dogs. But she'll be a walkin' with us come another Sunday. Why not do the same?

J.P.C., Jr.