South End Walk

Home work was pressing us as the wife and I and boxer Molly went walking on a fresh sparkling winter's day in Rockport town. But a weekend walk we must have or we get upbraided, even through newspaper articles, so off we took to the South End.

On Penzance Way, which has nothing to do with Gilbert & Sullivan's fictitious pirates, Molly found a paradise of adventure on the yellowed icy marsh, a treat you ought to give to your favorite canine without leash holding her back. 'Tis good for her digestion.

Then came a car with a dog inside and that gave the family pet of 65 pounds a chance to drop a couple of heft in puffing noisily after it, even though she only wanted to say a fond hello. Inside the car, we viewed the antics of one who wanted to break through the window, yapping a livid streak just to swap the same greetings. Frustrating, no less.

We met our friend Mrs. Harriet Garfield, another who knows the value of a stroll, and were reminded of our joint duty to our church. Looking to port, we caught sight of cat-o'-nine tails flush in their wintry growth, and close by, three snowy owls that Naturalist Elliott Rogers, the sage of 'Squam, taught us to observe. He once tried in vain to convert us into a Rogers Ranger over that terrible termnal moraine on Dogtown.

Oscar Harvey and Frank Haskell came along, collecting rock samples along the shore. They showed us feldspar, among other minerals that can be seen in Sandy Bay if you know where to find them. Frank's mustacheoed sire once ran Loblolly, where his claim to fame was that he fed a lobster dinner in the open air to President William Howard Taft.

We noted summer homes barricaded for the winter, homes of folks prominent in the nation's affairs. We came on a staunch peastone-buuilt road that defied winter. From here we went down a dead-end road to the ocean's lip, confronted by a dilapidated barn. This led us to a side street that challenged us in its muddy and icy condition, but nothing stops us weekend hikers. Walking into the late sun in all its winterish glory, we met up with the constabulary in their shiny jalopy. Aboard were Officers Johnny Borge and Jorma Savinen, who knew better than to offer us hoofers a lift. After making sure that we were not cottage breaking, they sped for richer realms in crime pursuit.

We continued to enjoy the richness of cloud formations , bathed with fading sunset. The South End was boldly riotous in color. And artist would blush to dare such tints on a canvas. Down by Henry's Pond we viewed an outburst of colorful humanity of all ages. Here, where the town has expended nothing, is a natural haven for those who love gliding on sharp steel in safety, with the broad surging Atlantic for a seething foreground.

Molly is far from a Sonja Henie, but her heft and her broad paws lend her purchase on ice, so she too, reveled on the pond as well as in the brush along the way, flushing out whatever wee animals might have nestled in the thickets.

It was along this road that a pleasing traffic jam allowed us to chat awhile with Dr. Reginald Courant, former school committeeman and alderman of Gloucester. Politics, Gloucester style, was the subject. Then the traffic came surging along like on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue and we had to button up. Back to our jalopy and the close of another joyous stroll with neighbors and friends.

J.P.C., Jr.