It was a Saturday made for walking. So the wife selected the area off Thacher Road, alongside a story-high ridge of millions of pobbles down to the wooden bridge at Saratoga Creek, gateway to Long Beach. A short walk it is when you let horsepower take you most of the way from School Street in Rockport.
Beautifully colored rocks greeted us as we had hardly stepped from the car. Alongside were evidences of the winter's scrubbing of the shoreline in fragments of weather-beaten lobster pots, ideal for the fireplace, though financially rough to some poor lobsterman.
We came across a noisy brook that was actually running away from the sea instead of into it. For all we knew it may have been heading into town. One sure thing, that brook seemed to be in a big hurry.
The sky was of as much interest as was the shore. Over Gloucester, the sun splashed sheer white clouds, but over Rockport, grim blue-black clouds blotted the sky. Then it rained, lightly, in defiance to the sun. Here's where the wife and I were treated to one of the most glorious rainbows we have ever seen, here or in upstate Vermont. That bow, a perfect arch, with spectrum colors sharply defined, had the dour clouds for a backdrop. A stage director could have done no better.
Its beauty was completely lost on our scampering Molly, the boxer. Her sniffer was in extra high gear as she gunned down the length and breadth of the landscape and slithered along the top of the pobbles heap. Even the barking of fellow dogs in the distance failed to divert her attention from a newly discovered territority. She was the only member of the party to step foot onto Long Beach. The ocean was rushing too fast and deep into the vicinity of Saratoga's bridge to tempt us. For Molly, it was her first swim of the season, maybe a wee bit frigid, but that didn't disturb her.
We decided that if we stayed there too long the four-footer would be marooned, so it ws back-tracking for us to get her back onto dry land, on our side of the pond. Only others to enjoy the richness of the heavens and beach were a couple of young ladies in a Jersey red puddle-jumper who looked interested in the pobbles. But across the highway that was considered an expressway when it was built 40 years ago was the happy laughter of kiddoes.
Beneath the rainbow was the sprawling summer mansion once known as that of Judge Cotter, who, we were told, handled a noted case in maritime law involving a murder aboard ship.
Nearby was a 2 and 1/2 story dwelling characteristic of summer homes of the past, a modest but most liveable affair. Next door was a 20th century type ranch house, modern to the core. Such contrasts dot the Cape these days without clashing.
We trod the pobbles for a spell to catch the sea in April. The surf had calmed down to a ripple, the beach was deserted except for sweeps of gulls and small birds. Returning to the hot-topped road that leads from Thacher Road to the town parking lot, we noted there was no green yet in the marshes. But in those marshes were two spectacular birds that resembled a sort of duck, one with big black and white stripes. It could have been a stool pigeon.
Then to the car again to leave behind what to us is the greatest mass of mail boxes that we have ever met. They were for those who reside in Poole's Village. The walking trio enjoyed every minute of the hour with the pobbles. We will go there again.
J.P.C., Jr.
Monday, December 14, 2009
A Walk into 6,000 Years
It was a roundabout walk that the wife and I and our four-footer took last Sunday in Rockport. We ended up in the dim-dim past, muct too dim even for us. The day was perfect though gray overhead, not so good underfoot, as we headed in the buzz-wagon for the neighborhood of Thacher Road. There we walked where the wife has planned to go for a long time, into the new colony of homes.
Ridgewood Road, they called the first one leading off Thacher Road. The wife recalled that hardly more than a dozen years ago, the area was just plain unbroken woods. Before us were at least 20 bright looking homes with cars parked outside and many other signs of folks living there. Rockport has moved out in still another direction.
In the distance could be heard the dismal boom of the fog horn as if we didn't know that winter was still with us, what with the forever falling white flakes. Even the sheer white birches looked winterish amid a background of laurel.
For our lady boxer, it was a new world to conquer. My heart was in my mouth for fear we would meet up with all manner of wild-eyed canines resenting her intrusion into their province. I was walking as I thought on eggs but instead found it was just sheer thick mud.
As it happened only one woofer sounded off and the pride and joy of our family kept up her reputation of being a snob and paid not the slightest bit of attention. Apparently the homer was more than eager to share her realm with others, big or small for he (or was it she?) let it go with a bark.
The sight of lobster pots piled high in a yard gave us notice that this new colony was still Rockport at heart just as did the clear musical sound of a brook in the distance. This the wife recalled from a walk up through there 12 years ago with her den of Cub Scouts. Sure enough, going beyond the settlement, and down a yellow muddy slope we came upon the spirited tumbler on its way from Cape Pond to the ocean. Winter or no, that brook is still glorious to behold. It was worth the trouble. This was Rogers' Ramblers' terrain, and we could just picture him and his scrambling into it, over snow-spilled rocks and tripping vines. The wife remembered a quaint low wooden footbridge that once spanned this pond. It had probably gone the way of civilization. But no one is going to halt that brook, it would seem.
Scars of time were seen farther into these woods as we noted heaps of junked car bodies and also of gravel pits in the making. Ah me, progress is progress, we suppose, but we can take just so much before we choke up and would prefer reversing the picture.
At this point, the wife espied bright red checkerberries amid their green leaves, and promptly ate a berry much to the annoyance of her husband who never takes chances on woodland offerings, though the day may come when he will have to.
As for Molly, her nosy ferreting in the brush showed us where pussy willows had again come to life. That's a sign of something or other, but if it is of Spring then we know that in this Spring at least, all signs fail. However our 60-pounder wasn't concerned about human signs, for her concern in that excited pawing was without doubt a fox scent.
Once more we came onto Thacher Road, where the view of the ocean was fabulous, sparkled by a ridge of lobster pots along the edge of the beach. Continuing on, we came to the beach of Henry's Pond to see what the wife had viewed a few days earlier. It was the yellowed bole of a tree that had emerged from the sands at low tide these past few days and on which by laboratory tests, Harvard had stamped an age. That age was why the wife and I claim to have walked into 6,000 years. Scientists had said it was that old. But the tides were agin us and the sight denied us. It was a good walk just the same. And what does Molly care about the days before man walked in volume.
J.P.C., Jr.
Ridgewood Road, they called the first one leading off Thacher Road. The wife recalled that hardly more than a dozen years ago, the area was just plain unbroken woods. Before us were at least 20 bright looking homes with cars parked outside and many other signs of folks living there. Rockport has moved out in still another direction.
In the distance could be heard the dismal boom of the fog horn as if we didn't know that winter was still with us, what with the forever falling white flakes. Even the sheer white birches looked winterish amid a background of laurel.
For our lady boxer, it was a new world to conquer. My heart was in my mouth for fear we would meet up with all manner of wild-eyed canines resenting her intrusion into their province. I was walking as I thought on eggs but instead found it was just sheer thick mud.
As it happened only one woofer sounded off and the pride and joy of our family kept up her reputation of being a snob and paid not the slightest bit of attention. Apparently the homer was more than eager to share her realm with others, big or small for he (or was it she?) let it go with a bark.
The sight of lobster pots piled high in a yard gave us notice that this new colony was still Rockport at heart just as did the clear musical sound of a brook in the distance. This the wife recalled from a walk up through there 12 years ago with her den of Cub Scouts. Sure enough, going beyond the settlement, and down a yellow muddy slope we came upon the spirited tumbler on its way from Cape Pond to the ocean. Winter or no, that brook is still glorious to behold. It was worth the trouble. This was Rogers' Ramblers' terrain, and we could just picture him and his scrambling into it, over snow-spilled rocks and tripping vines. The wife remembered a quaint low wooden footbridge that once spanned this pond. It had probably gone the way of civilization. But no one is going to halt that brook, it would seem.
Scars of time were seen farther into these woods as we noted heaps of junked car bodies and also of gravel pits in the making. Ah me, progress is progress, we suppose, but we can take just so much before we choke up and would prefer reversing the picture.
At this point, the wife espied bright red checkerberries amid their green leaves, and promptly ate a berry much to the annoyance of her husband who never takes chances on woodland offerings, though the day may come when he will have to.
As for Molly, her nosy ferreting in the brush showed us where pussy willows had again come to life. That's a sign of something or other, but if it is of Spring then we know that in this Spring at least, all signs fail. However our 60-pounder wasn't concerned about human signs, for her concern in that excited pawing was without doubt a fox scent.
Once more we came onto Thacher Road, where the view of the ocean was fabulous, sparkled by a ridge of lobster pots along the edge of the beach. Continuing on, we came to the beach of Henry's Pond to see what the wife had viewed a few days earlier. It was the yellowed bole of a tree that had emerged from the sands at low tide these past few days and on which by laboratory tests, Harvard had stamped an age. That age was why the wife and I claim to have walked into 6,000 years. Scientists had said it was that old. But the tides were agin us and the sight denied us. It was a good walk just the same. And what does Molly care about the days before man walked in volume.
J.P.C., Jr.
Down a Nameless Lane - Pigeon Cove
The deluge had subsided this Sunday afternoon, and the wife and I and our four-footer decided we could chance a stroll in the North Village. So into the wheezy home cab we tumbled and set off along Beach Street in Rockport past a beach strewn with sea-red kelp, debris of all sorts, and three prone bikes plus a lonesome gull. Winter had left her mark along this shore.
Debarking on Granite Street at the old stone office of the Rockport Granite Company, we found this end of the Cape derelict of snow. The sight was a happy relief to us. We ambled past the cozy home of a lady who bought the house just so she could get an uninterrupted view of the broad Atlantic. There before her this day of days was an unruffled calm blue sea with the gentlest of white foamed surf lapping Salvages. A strong touch of Spring was ruffling through our balding hair. Even our menacing boxer Mollie felt the lure as she fairly whizzed over the terrain, once off the leash.
We came by the little domicle of George Caffrey at 52 Granite Street within which rested the faithful town servant who surrenders many hours of winter to keep our roads open in the heavy snows. No matter what he earns in those hours, we are most thankful he is willing to give up his tranquil hours just to serve us. It's so nice to snooze in bed and hear him shove through our street to breach an auto path. Maybe we don't pay him and his enough.
Nearby through striking blue gates we saw a well arranged array of flush evergreens beautifying 56 Granite Street now owed by an artist from Providence, R.I. Anthony what's his last name? We forget. But we never will forget what a grand job he has done to improve the neighborhood. A good citizen, that man.
And we noted that Hugh Smith had built himself an immense granite wall in front of his property at 103 Granite Street, a massive work that will outlive him and all of his. It would even defy a 20th century Jericho. We saw that the town fathers went beserk in numbering this main drag through the mighty proud North Village. On one side we came across a number 60 and directly across the way was 103. What a jump into space. So we found ourselves bumping against Number 103 with a full grown pilot house smack dab in the middle of a field bordered by a stone wall and a picket fence. The long granite slab atop the sone wall fascinated our penny pinching philosophy. At least we knew that no salty skipper would ever blast his orders from that wheelhouse, here or thereafter.
Here's where our normally friendly boxer met up with two speaking acquaintances, a shepherd and a collie dog. With canine fleet trailing us, we left the hardtop public way to enter a just as hardtopped but private way running between where two single tracks ran down to the sea in the old days, taking cars laden with tons of stone to be loaded onto sloops bound to the big seaports of the eastern seaboard.
We came upon mammoth granite slabs forming the pier, a 19th century setting harboring a mid-20th century low slung bungalow home framed in a natural gurgling brook that rushed in cascade style to the ocean. To its right was a beach of large bright pebbles splashed with weather-bleached driftwood, just aching for a glowing fireplace.
We had come to Professor Roger Hardy's Cove domicile, fronted by a solid granite cookout that is arbored by a Japanese-effected arch and protected by an old-fashioned stone wall that climbed at least 15 foot. By now us folks had reached mud row yielding to a false promise of Spring. For Molly and her rollicking yappers, it was a heaven of Chinese wrestling, growling and just plain sniffing. We were on our way down the un-named road to a grout pile left by the granite men of the past when they decided the gold had left the dust.
The wife and I met up with the next neighbor down the road, Norm Fitts, ex-newsman and fellow Yalesian, and his good wife, two folks who have carved a handsome seaside-terraced villa out of hardscrabble and rubble and a flabby granite business power house, ugly skyscraping black sooty smoke stack and all. Norm showed us a picture of the misery of 1900.
We were told that one of the outlanders settling in this strip of God's Heaven had the idea to christen this hallowed road, Water Margin Road but he failed of a second. Then we merged onto Pigeon Hill Road where the Fitts claim residence.
The Sunday wanderers and their meow chasers had landed plumb into a haven of nine-lifers. And when they spotted the trio of barkers, we could see those cats rush for the niches in the rocks along the shore. Ourselves we found delight in touring through the Fitts' home to see how two happy people could transform that power house into a divine dwelling with expansive fireplaces, rustic shelves, heavy ceiling timbers, and so appointed with staunch antique desks. The wife and I and even our four-footer admired their taste.
JP.C., Jr.
Debarking on Granite Street at the old stone office of the Rockport Granite Company, we found this end of the Cape derelict of snow. The sight was a happy relief to us. We ambled past the cozy home of a lady who bought the house just so she could get an uninterrupted view of the broad Atlantic. There before her this day of days was an unruffled calm blue sea with the gentlest of white foamed surf lapping Salvages. A strong touch of Spring was ruffling through our balding hair. Even our menacing boxer Mollie felt the lure as she fairly whizzed over the terrain, once off the leash.
We came by the little domicle of George Caffrey at 52 Granite Street within which rested the faithful town servant who surrenders many hours of winter to keep our roads open in the heavy snows. No matter what he earns in those hours, we are most thankful he is willing to give up his tranquil hours just to serve us. It's so nice to snooze in bed and hear him shove through our street to breach an auto path. Maybe we don't pay him and his enough.
Nearby through striking blue gates we saw a well arranged array of flush evergreens beautifying 56 Granite Street now owed by an artist from Providence, R.I. Anthony what's his last name? We forget. But we never will forget what a grand job he has done to improve the neighborhood. A good citizen, that man.
And we noted that Hugh Smith had built himself an immense granite wall in front of his property at 103 Granite Street, a massive work that will outlive him and all of his. It would even defy a 20th century Jericho. We saw that the town fathers went beserk in numbering this main drag through the mighty proud North Village. On one side we came across a number 60 and directly across the way was 103. What a jump into space. So we found ourselves bumping against Number 103 with a full grown pilot house smack dab in the middle of a field bordered by a stone wall and a picket fence. The long granite slab atop the sone wall fascinated our penny pinching philosophy. At least we knew that no salty skipper would ever blast his orders from that wheelhouse, here or thereafter.
Here's where our normally friendly boxer met up with two speaking acquaintances, a shepherd and a collie dog. With canine fleet trailing us, we left the hardtop public way to enter a just as hardtopped but private way running between where two single tracks ran down to the sea in the old days, taking cars laden with tons of stone to be loaded onto sloops bound to the big seaports of the eastern seaboard.
We came upon mammoth granite slabs forming the pier, a 19th century setting harboring a mid-20th century low slung bungalow home framed in a natural gurgling brook that rushed in cascade style to the ocean. To its right was a beach of large bright pebbles splashed with weather-bleached driftwood, just aching for a glowing fireplace.
We had come to Professor Roger Hardy's Cove domicile, fronted by a solid granite cookout that is arbored by a Japanese-effected arch and protected by an old-fashioned stone wall that climbed at least 15 foot. By now us folks had reached mud row yielding to a false promise of Spring. For Molly and her rollicking yappers, it was a heaven of Chinese wrestling, growling and just plain sniffing. We were on our way down the un-named road to a grout pile left by the granite men of the past when they decided the gold had left the dust.
The wife and I met up with the next neighbor down the road, Norm Fitts, ex-newsman and fellow Yalesian, and his good wife, two folks who have carved a handsome seaside-terraced villa out of hardscrabble and rubble and a flabby granite business power house, ugly skyscraping black sooty smoke stack and all. Norm showed us a picture of the misery of 1900.
We were told that one of the outlanders settling in this strip of God's Heaven had the idea to christen this hallowed road, Water Margin Road but he failed of a second. Then we merged onto Pigeon Hill Road where the Fitts claim residence.
The Sunday wanderers and their meow chasers had landed plumb into a haven of nine-lifers. And when they spotted the trio of barkers, we could see those cats rush for the niches in the rocks along the shore. Ourselves we found delight in touring through the Fitts' home to see how two happy people could transform that power house into a divine dwelling with expansive fireplaces, rustic shelves, heavy ceiling timbers, and so appointed with staunch antique desks. The wife and I and even our four-footer admired their taste.
JP.C., Jr.
Rowe Avenue to Steel Derrick
We ambled again into Reedland (Selectman Bill Reed's Pigeon Cove) Sunday before last, the wife and I, and again we found a delightful walk. And it wasn't long enough to tire even a confirmed autoist, but it was far more rewarding than a Sunday ride. We cheated to the extent of riding to the start at Granite Street and Rowe Avenue.
From there we set our sights for the farthermost quarry pits in that area. The wife hadn't been on that walk for nearly a score of years. Last time I had seen the early part of it was to report a pit drowning, a tragedy far more frequent in the past when swimmers haunting the water-filled abandoned quarries were more numerous. Private owners were finally forced to discourage swimmers due to the unwarranted actions of some. These owners have done royally in converting the old quarry areas into rugged inspiriting settings for idyllic living.
First thing to hit our eyes was the dark-brown stained house where resides Mrs. Alfred Otis, 89, formerly of Marblehead. We recalled it as having been painted yellow when Abbie Condon had it. The new color gave it the touch of early 17th century. Mrs. Otis bought the house so that she could always have a view of the ocean. She has it all right, the grandest kind of a view.
Right next door we spotted another of those picturesque wrought iron fences skirting the Rowe Avenue property of Elias Newman. As an added decoration, he had a large gold spread-eagle on the side of the house. A high peak to the roof and long windows stand out.
Up ahead was a huge barn made of granite blocks where in the past they say that Police Chief Jacob H. Perkio's father once had cows. And before that, the quarry owners kept oxen used in hauling the quarried granite down to the barges. Beside it was the Rowe House in which several families lived in the past. The years have taken their toll of both places but the granite itself looked little disturbed.
It was like walking along a ridge hearing the echoes of voices from below the keystone bridge hollering, "Hey, where's the elevator!" The man-made cement dam bottling the excess water supply, and the gulls screaming overhead brought us to Rockport's latest water supply, an abandoned quarry put to work fo the common goood.
Returning to the woodland path, we struck out to find the last quarry. Up past Swan's place to Wooditarns bearing the sign "Private property-do not enter" and another "No parking on either side." I began looking for some bellowing mastiff emerging from the bracken to challenge us.
But Rover never showed. Instead we came out upon a rock shelf and there before us spread a most beautiful and tranquil lake bounded by shelf upon shelf of granite. Across the way what apparently were the owners, enjoyed the gentle ease of reading the Sunday papers at the edge of the pit.
Back to the path, we noted about every native berry existing there, and even saw a wild rabbit dart across the path into the brush. What was even more delightful there was no harsh sound of cars, no heavy smell of gas or oil.
Finally we came to Steel Derrick pit, the biggest and the handsomest. Here there were several bathers sunning themselves on the ledges. Swimming seemed to be out of the picture. The water temperature hadn't climbed that high. From the quarry depths arose what looked to be Grout Island, a sizable pile of granite leavings. Ring bolts still showed in the rocks where once big derricks swung to get the blocks out of the quarry.
It's a recommended walk --by us, that is--for a restful pleasant Sunday afternoon, a great chance to renew acquaintance with your feet.
J.P.C., Jr.
From there we set our sights for the farthermost quarry pits in that area. The wife hadn't been on that walk for nearly a score of years. Last time I had seen the early part of it was to report a pit drowning, a tragedy far more frequent in the past when swimmers haunting the water-filled abandoned quarries were more numerous. Private owners were finally forced to discourage swimmers due to the unwarranted actions of some. These owners have done royally in converting the old quarry areas into rugged inspiriting settings for idyllic living.
First thing to hit our eyes was the dark-brown stained house where resides Mrs. Alfred Otis, 89, formerly of Marblehead. We recalled it as having been painted yellow when Abbie Condon had it. The new color gave it the touch of early 17th century. Mrs. Otis bought the house so that she could always have a view of the ocean. She has it all right, the grandest kind of a view.
Right next door we spotted another of those picturesque wrought iron fences skirting the Rowe Avenue property of Elias Newman. As an added decoration, he had a large gold spread-eagle on the side of the house. A high peak to the roof and long windows stand out.
Up ahead was a huge barn made of granite blocks where in the past they say that Police Chief Jacob H. Perkio's father once had cows. And before that, the quarry owners kept oxen used in hauling the quarried granite down to the barges. Beside it was the Rowe House in which several families lived in the past. The years have taken their toll of both places but the granite itself looked little disturbed.
It was like walking along a ridge hearing the echoes of voices from below the keystone bridge hollering, "Hey, where's the elevator!" The man-made cement dam bottling the excess water supply, and the gulls screaming overhead brought us to Rockport's latest water supply, an abandoned quarry put to work fo the common goood.
Returning to the woodland path, we struck out to find the last quarry. Up past Swan's place to Wooditarns bearing the sign "Private property-do not enter" and another "No parking on either side." I began looking for some bellowing mastiff emerging from the bracken to challenge us.
But Rover never showed. Instead we came out upon a rock shelf and there before us spread a most beautiful and tranquil lake bounded by shelf upon shelf of granite. Across the way what apparently were the owners, enjoyed the gentle ease of reading the Sunday papers at the edge of the pit.
Back to the path, we noted about every native berry existing there, and even saw a wild rabbit dart across the path into the brush. What was even more delightful there was no harsh sound of cars, no heavy smell of gas or oil.
Finally we came to Steel Derrick pit, the biggest and the handsomest. Here there were several bathers sunning themselves on the ledges. Swimming seemed to be out of the picture. The water temperature hadn't climbed that high. From the quarry depths arose what looked to be Grout Island, a sizable pile of granite leavings. Ring bolts still showed in the rocks where once big derricks swung to get the blocks out of the quarry.
It's a recommended walk --by us, that is--for a restful pleasant Sunday afternoon, a great chance to renew acquaintance with your feet.
J.P.C., Jr.
Tool Company to Andrews Point - Part II
Here we are again, the wife and I and our four-footer Molly with the Cove's Bill Reeds and Walter Johnsons continuing along the shore path of Pigeon Cove fringing the deep blue Atlantic. If you are like us who thought the town of Rockport had lost all its shore line you should have been there. We must have walked nearly two miles on that shore-skirting stroll without once trespassing.
At one time we were rubbing elbows with a well groomed hedge of the Ingalls estate. Then we passed in front of a spacious backyard occupied by a most attractive lady wrapped in a lawn chair enjoying the late season yachting scene and smiling at her Cove neighbors' greetings -- our guides. Real folksy!
Our selectman was mighty proud of the several town ways to the shore that he and his confreres over the years had been able to rescue for the town. We gained respect for him and his with every telling. This one we came to emerged from Phillips Avenue down through the Pingree property to the rocks. The woodland way merged into the sea. He told us about the Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree and how he gave his life to save others in a drowning tragedy.
Next we passed a common stone where the imprint of what must have been a tablet stood out like a sore thumb. We recalled that this must have been the tablet facing the sea placed in tribute to the late famed American poet, William Rose Benet. But what had become of the tablet? The wife and I recalled him and his wife, Marjorie Flack, as friends, though poetry is as hard for me to take as was castor oil in my tender years.
Ahead was a mass of gulls whitening ocean-swept boulders. What particular morsels attracted the flock to that area was beyond us. But at least we were protected from their unsavory air bombardment especially since I for one sported my Sunday best. Being gulled out from the air is not to this gentle hiker's choosing. Not with the current cleaner's prices.
There's one outstanding quality about four-footers like our 60-pound charge of dynamite. They can put to shame their supposedly more intelligent two-footers when it comes to rock scampering. While we were threading our way with old maidish caution from crag to crag, she was leagues ahead, snorting her way into new adventure. When I say "we" I really mean me because the rest of the party, including the missus, showed Alpine blood.
We passed outgrowths of spruce and pines growing along the shore and came across driftwod that would bring raves from he-men with large fireplaces. Driftwood that was whitened by time and the sea. Gnarled shapes that reflect ages.
Industrialist Walt and Town Leader Bill are not birders in the true sense like law-giver Larry Jodrey, but for the occasion both sported powerful binoculars to scan the horizon, Bill mostly to keep watch over the antics of the skin divers, Walt to bring into the focus the Isles of Shoals. They even let us take an occasional peep and to us, a glimpse at that far off patch of sea-going tug bound for Maine-iac land was much more fetching.
We came along Chapin's Gully, as Bill described it. And to us it looked like a miniature Rafe's Chasm with the sea swirling angrily in. Then to a cookout in the rocks where the Andrews Point folks hold their annual shore spread for the chosen ones.
Beyond was the exotic house of stone built by one George Bray with a companion smaller stone home on the grounds. The rough-faced stone and a wall added to the grimness of the construction.
One of the shore's marvels next faced us. Extensive veins of quartz in the ocean side ledges gleamed in the Fall brilliance. No one could explain it except to blame it on that glacier spree of ages ago. Our "selectman" had to admit he had been assigned before Christmas-times to come and chip off some for presents to amateur geologists in the family. As a good father, he did so. We would, too.
Ambling along a beautifully built stone wall standing seven feet tall we finally made Hoop Pole Cove. Neither guide could tell us why the name. But all of us had to admire its loveliness with its picturesque brown snails tht youngsters of Bill's and others love to color for keepsakes -- even for ear rings.
And finally to the Walter Johnson homestead for good old Svenska java and the richest softest sponge cake you ever tasted. Marie is a grand cook as well as a friendly guide to us of the South Village. The wife and I and the menace can truthfully say it was our best Sunday walk. Now we know why Cover-ers say they have the best. To that we heartily say Amen!
J.P.C., JR.
At one time we were rubbing elbows with a well groomed hedge of the Ingalls estate. Then we passed in front of a spacious backyard occupied by a most attractive lady wrapped in a lawn chair enjoying the late season yachting scene and smiling at her Cove neighbors' greetings -- our guides. Real folksy!
Our selectman was mighty proud of the several town ways to the shore that he and his confreres over the years had been able to rescue for the town. We gained respect for him and his with every telling. This one we came to emerged from Phillips Avenue down through the Pingree property to the rocks. The woodland way merged into the sea. He told us about the Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree and how he gave his life to save others in a drowning tragedy.
Next we passed a common stone where the imprint of what must have been a tablet stood out like a sore thumb. We recalled that this must have been the tablet facing the sea placed in tribute to the late famed American poet, William Rose Benet. But what had become of the tablet? The wife and I recalled him and his wife, Marjorie Flack, as friends, though poetry is as hard for me to take as was castor oil in my tender years.
Ahead was a mass of gulls whitening ocean-swept boulders. What particular morsels attracted the flock to that area was beyond us. But at least we were protected from their unsavory air bombardment especially since I for one sported my Sunday best. Being gulled out from the air is not to this gentle hiker's choosing. Not with the current cleaner's prices.
There's one outstanding quality about four-footers like our 60-pound charge of dynamite. They can put to shame their supposedly more intelligent two-footers when it comes to rock scampering. While we were threading our way with old maidish caution from crag to crag, she was leagues ahead, snorting her way into new adventure. When I say "we" I really mean me because the rest of the party, including the missus, showed Alpine blood.
We passed outgrowths of spruce and pines growing along the shore and came across driftwod that would bring raves from he-men with large fireplaces. Driftwood that was whitened by time and the sea. Gnarled shapes that reflect ages.
Industrialist Walt and Town Leader Bill are not birders in the true sense like law-giver Larry Jodrey, but for the occasion both sported powerful binoculars to scan the horizon, Bill mostly to keep watch over the antics of the skin divers, Walt to bring into the focus the Isles of Shoals. They even let us take an occasional peep and to us, a glimpse at that far off patch of sea-going tug bound for Maine-iac land was much more fetching.
We came along Chapin's Gully, as Bill described it. And to us it looked like a miniature Rafe's Chasm with the sea swirling angrily in. Then to a cookout in the rocks where the Andrews Point folks hold their annual shore spread for the chosen ones.
Beyond was the exotic house of stone built by one George Bray with a companion smaller stone home on the grounds. The rough-faced stone and a wall added to the grimness of the construction.
One of the shore's marvels next faced us. Extensive veins of quartz in the ocean side ledges gleamed in the Fall brilliance. No one could explain it except to blame it on that glacier spree of ages ago. Our "selectman" had to admit he had been assigned before Christmas-times to come and chip off some for presents to amateur geologists in the family. As a good father, he did so. We would, too.
Ambling along a beautifully built stone wall standing seven feet tall we finally made Hoop Pole Cove. Neither guide could tell us why the name. But all of us had to admire its loveliness with its picturesque brown snails tht youngsters of Bill's and others love to color for keepsakes -- even for ear rings.
And finally to the Walter Johnson homestead for good old Svenska java and the richest softest sponge cake you ever tasted. Marie is a grand cook as well as a friendly guide to us of the South Village. The wife and I and the menace can truthfully say it was our best Sunday walk. Now we know why Cover-ers say they have the best. To that we heartily say Amen!
J.P.C., JR.
Tool Company to Andrews Point - Part I
When the wife and I walked along the Pigeon Cove shore we saw so much it takes two installments to tell it all. We were with Rockport's dean of selectmen, Bill Reed and his missus, and the Walter Johnsons of Phillips Avenue.
We soon found out that the most delightful side of the North Village is the back side. The start was from the Tool Company where Walter reigns daytimes. From the uplands we overlooked the active little harbor. Working on his boat we noted the veteran fisherman "Honey" Oman.
On a shed was the lettering, "Sta Out!" done in the good old Svenska colors of blue and yellow. Along the path was a beer keg buoy. Here our 60-pound canine cyclone met her first dog of the day. That event ups heart to mouth wondering if 'tis friend or foe. But it was jolly sniffing, dog-wise, and off they hopped to share explorations. We breathed easier.
Selectman Reed, who has the only house on LaRose Avenue, spoke of the seaweed along the shore that he used for fertilizer and found it paid off. We skirted the shore back of the Hotel Edward, where Bill once bell-hopped and hoisted the flag every morning.
In front of us was the old Pigeon Cove School building where kiddoes went to classes in the first and second and fifth and sixth grades, now the home of Victor Lawn, a recent addition to Sandy Bay.
Walter called our attention to a mass of overgrown pobble stones which he labeled seagull eggs. Sheer white by eternal washing of the seas, they stood out as a waterfront heritage. We were threading our way along a rough hewn path. To the rear was thick brush. Before us was sheer ledge and always the sea. A glorious sea of turquoise blue was dotted with white sails manned by those Rockport yachtsmen who refuse to call it a season.
In advance we warned that under no circumstances would we imitate a mountain goat on this safari. But we just can't never win nohow. That nimble Town Hall savant Bill Reed kept us scampering from one boulder to another. Native pride alone kept us from ker-plopping. Sunday-best shoes were never made for such ramblings.
Weekend skindivers from Lord knows where were noted along the rocks with their red buoy flags, their oxygen tanks and man-from Mars rubber suits, ready to explore the ocean's bottom, maybe for lobsters, maybe for stones, and maybe just for the fun of it. With the temperature falling, none of us envied the venturesome youngsters.
Fascinating was the fact that along this shore path, you would mince over granite slabs that nature dumped there in some age or other, and then fade into a secluded woodland path flanked by brush and briar with bushes sporting pale blueish berries that even a "dawg" shouldn't taste. Nature is all snarled up in Pigeon Cove.
One sure thing, our Molly was not berry-picking. She just loved those high-flying birds that haunt the shore. She had herself a real ball trying to leap high enough to reach the pin feathers of a goose, skimming the shore. But the old gal had finally met her topper. They were miles ahead. The goose in our oven would never hang high because of our Molly. Who cares! I'm a steak hound when the dividends pour in.
We passed the quiet depths of the rock strewn shore where the mothers of the Cove are wont to bring their young'uns summer-times to bathe in a quiet swimming pool of ocean water. That recess is carved by the elements. Even Al Faulk couldn't have done better by it!
Ahead of us that eager beaver selectman started pulling up what to us was just ignoble chick-weed. Reed sounded irked by our ignorance as he exclaimed: "That's ragweed!" I'm just one of those characters that ragweed never harmed so why should I yank it out of existence?
It was a longer hike than the wife and I usually take but worth all the time and effort.
J.P.C., Jr.
We soon found out that the most delightful side of the North Village is the back side. The start was from the Tool Company where Walter reigns daytimes. From the uplands we overlooked the active little harbor. Working on his boat we noted the veteran fisherman "Honey" Oman.
On a shed was the lettering, "Sta Out!" done in the good old Svenska colors of blue and yellow. Along the path was a beer keg buoy. Here our 60-pound canine cyclone met her first dog of the day. That event ups heart to mouth wondering if 'tis friend or foe. But it was jolly sniffing, dog-wise, and off they hopped to share explorations. We breathed easier.
Selectman Reed, who has the only house on LaRose Avenue, spoke of the seaweed along the shore that he used for fertilizer and found it paid off. We skirted the shore back of the Hotel Edward, where Bill once bell-hopped and hoisted the flag every morning.
In front of us was the old Pigeon Cove School building where kiddoes went to classes in the first and second and fifth and sixth grades, now the home of Victor Lawn, a recent addition to Sandy Bay.
Walter called our attention to a mass of overgrown pobble stones which he labeled seagull eggs. Sheer white by eternal washing of the seas, they stood out as a waterfront heritage. We were threading our way along a rough hewn path. To the rear was thick brush. Before us was sheer ledge and always the sea. A glorious sea of turquoise blue was dotted with white sails manned by those Rockport yachtsmen who refuse to call it a season.
In advance we warned that under no circumstances would we imitate a mountain goat on this safari. But we just can't never win nohow. That nimble Town Hall savant Bill Reed kept us scampering from one boulder to another. Native pride alone kept us from ker-plopping. Sunday-best shoes were never made for such ramblings.
Weekend skindivers from Lord knows where were noted along the rocks with their red buoy flags, their oxygen tanks and man-from Mars rubber suits, ready to explore the ocean's bottom, maybe for lobsters, maybe for stones, and maybe just for the fun of it. With the temperature falling, none of us envied the venturesome youngsters.
Fascinating was the fact that along this shore path, you would mince over granite slabs that nature dumped there in some age or other, and then fade into a secluded woodland path flanked by brush and briar with bushes sporting pale blueish berries that even a "dawg" shouldn't taste. Nature is all snarled up in Pigeon Cove.
One sure thing, our Molly was not berry-picking. She just loved those high-flying birds that haunt the shore. She had herself a real ball trying to leap high enough to reach the pin feathers of a goose, skimming the shore. But the old gal had finally met her topper. They were miles ahead. The goose in our oven would never hang high because of our Molly. Who cares! I'm a steak hound when the dividends pour in.
We passed the quiet depths of the rock strewn shore where the mothers of the Cove are wont to bring their young'uns summer-times to bathe in a quiet swimming pool of ocean water. That recess is carved by the elements. Even Al Faulk couldn't have done better by it!
Ahead of us that eager beaver selectman started pulling up what to us was just ignoble chick-weed. Reed sounded irked by our ignorance as he exclaimed: "That's ragweed!" I'm just one of those characters that ragweed never harmed so why should I yank it out of existence?
It was a longer hike than the wife and I usually take but worth all the time and effort.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk in Yap-Land
The wife and I and our Molly with the pointed ears decided to revisit Halibut Point Reservation, Pigeon Cove, Saturday afternoon so that our incognito friend could take color pictures of one of the most beautiful spots on Cape Ann. Because of an out-of-town Sunday excursion that was a "must" we did the hike on Saturday afternoon and soon realized we had picked a perfect day weather-wise, for where it was easterly raw in Rockport proper, it was actually mid-summery in most parts of the Reservation.
As we entered Gott Avenue, we were greeted by the greatest acclaim from "yappers" that we had ever experienced. All had sensed right away that there was a foreign pooch invading their realm, and they let the lady boxer have it. It sounded like a flood of kennels stashed together. But it was all most friendly, hounds, terriers,and just plain mutts. Those folks do well by their canines.
We were in deep country right away for to our left was the sight of wing-flapping geese, the blatant bellowing of a cow in a rustic barn; across the way was the refreshing sight of a hopeful effort of fir tree reforestation. It looked right healthy from where we stood. At this point the east wind was shrill.
We passed the picturesque 17th century Gott House with its sharply pitched roof, one of the oldest on the Cape, and certainly one year older than when we last enjoyed its exterior. Here we left the road and cut through a brambled path, hoping to reach the sea We came to the first dead-end road of our walking career. But it was worth looking at with its ancient stone wall of Concord character on the left and a mass of ouchy green brambles that reached to the top of the trees on the right. Molly had a good time, too.
Backtracking, we picked another promising path down which we had to wade ankle-deep through mushy growth with the sound of the sea drowning out the yappers, only to realize we would need a skin diving suit to complete the ramble. Again we back-tracked.
This time the pilot, after believing she might have espied marigold coming to life in the dankness, decided that a paved road would best fit the leather we sported. Me, I was with her 100 percentum.
On both paths, the temperature was silky warm. We could have picnicked there that day in comfort, far better off than in summer because nary a pesky skeeter was buzzing. We passed by another homey appearing layout where not only geese and hounds were in evidence but also rabbits that took us back to the days when we too had a blown-up bunny that brought tears to our youngsters' eyes when Bunny up and died.
Nearby was what looked like an old-fashioned but much dilapidated lunch cart. It had the appearances of a parlor car on the Toonerville Trolley line but it was a sure-fire subject for an artist's brush. Maybe it has already been discovered and the catch is hanging in some gallery in the land.
Here we entered upon Fire Lane with no explanation from anyone as to how it got its flaming name. We did note that our police recognized what a hot place it must be since they had a bold "No Parking" sign on it. At our age, we didn't think the police would be distturbed by our invading it on foot.
From there we came onto the paved highway that leads to the sea. That Saturday all involved put on a great show for us. The raucous sounds of the suburban yards were replaced by an amazing change of pace. It was like entering a chapel with the doleful peal of a bell on a rocking buoy at sea, the deep-throated roar of the sickly green surf smashing onto the rocks.
For Molly, who worries little over any other sounds than those of fellow four-footers, it was Paradise as she raced up and down the macadam and scoured through the brush on either side.
For us and our lens-rapt guest it was an afternoon well spent. Halibut Point, come winter or summer, is worth your walking attention. It will ease the ulcers. That, the wife and I will assure you.
J.P.C., Jr.
As we entered Gott Avenue, we were greeted by the greatest acclaim from "yappers" that we had ever experienced. All had sensed right away that there was a foreign pooch invading their realm, and they let the lady boxer have it. It sounded like a flood of kennels stashed together. But it was all most friendly, hounds, terriers,and just plain mutts. Those folks do well by their canines.
We were in deep country right away for to our left was the sight of wing-flapping geese, the blatant bellowing of a cow in a rustic barn; across the way was the refreshing sight of a hopeful effort of fir tree reforestation. It looked right healthy from where we stood. At this point the east wind was shrill.
We passed the picturesque 17th century Gott House with its sharply pitched roof, one of the oldest on the Cape, and certainly one year older than when we last enjoyed its exterior. Here we left the road and cut through a brambled path, hoping to reach the sea We came to the first dead-end road of our walking career. But it was worth looking at with its ancient stone wall of Concord character on the left and a mass of ouchy green brambles that reached to the top of the trees on the right. Molly had a good time, too.
Backtracking, we picked another promising path down which we had to wade ankle-deep through mushy growth with the sound of the sea drowning out the yappers, only to realize we would need a skin diving suit to complete the ramble. Again we back-tracked.
This time the pilot, after believing she might have espied marigold coming to life in the dankness, decided that a paved road would best fit the leather we sported. Me, I was with her 100 percentum.
On both paths, the temperature was silky warm. We could have picnicked there that day in comfort, far better off than in summer because nary a pesky skeeter was buzzing. We passed by another homey appearing layout where not only geese and hounds were in evidence but also rabbits that took us back to the days when we too had a blown-up bunny that brought tears to our youngsters' eyes when Bunny up and died.
Nearby was what looked like an old-fashioned but much dilapidated lunch cart. It had the appearances of a parlor car on the Toonerville Trolley line but it was a sure-fire subject for an artist's brush. Maybe it has already been discovered and the catch is hanging in some gallery in the land.
Here we entered upon Fire Lane with no explanation from anyone as to how it got its flaming name. We did note that our police recognized what a hot place it must be since they had a bold "No Parking" sign on it. At our age, we didn't think the police would be distturbed by our invading it on foot.
From there we came onto the paved highway that leads to the sea. That Saturday all involved put on a great show for us. The raucous sounds of the suburban yards were replaced by an amazing change of pace. It was like entering a chapel with the doleful peal of a bell on a rocking buoy at sea, the deep-throated roar of the sickly green surf smashing onto the rocks.
For Molly, who worries little over any other sounds than those of fellow four-footers, it was Paradise as she raced up and down the macadam and scoured through the brush on either side.
For us and our lens-rapt guest it was an afternoon well spent. Halibut Point, come winter or summer, is worth your walking attention. It will ease the ulcers. That, the wife and I will assure you.
J.P.C., Jr.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Around the Loop
It was the Sunday before town meeting when the wife and I decided to take a walk around the block in Sandy Bay without our two-ton boxer in tow. Our Molly was still stuck with her tomato juice anti-skunk treatment and who are we to share such a scent with the world. Molly is at an age when she should be more choosey of her friends.
The air was brittle but the March sun was bright and it was no pain to be afoot. Round School, up Broadway past many a familiar scene and home we went, knowing that within many walls along the way were friends who chose to browse over what might be the last Boston Sunday papers for awhile. Which made us unhappy to think of our Boston newspaper friends who would be minus that friendly weekly check in the interim through no doing of their own. As we passed St. Mary's from our irreverent lips of long standing, we dropped a prayer for an early end to that workless period. But who hears a heathen?
We recall that old saying by Lord knows who, "If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" We seemed to recall it was the title of a book popular in the flush Twenties. A glance along the roadside indicated Spring was awhistling for attention. All the snow was practically gone--not that Salty Owens of Public Works and his gang would let it linger. The little left was hardly fit to drink. Instead there were puddles, puddles, puddles, which if consolidated could mount up to several days' supply of usable water, that is if you are a puddle drinker. We're not, even though Molly is an avid guzzler of such surface supplies.
As we approached the town parking lot, we realized it was the time for the pause that refreshes, that is for a defogging of the extra pair of eyes if we expected to stay on course. As much as we deny advancing years, there are times when we get it right between the eyes, as our old TV pal Gunsmoke might snarl.
On our street we had seen few parked cars this Sunday afternoon, which surprised us because of the clear weather but on our far from gay Broadway, the car traffic flow was tremenjus, which convinced us that our town constabulary, top gun Jake, must get our vote come the next night for his radar. Our neighbors agreed and he got. Says the song, what Lulu wants, Lulu gets (or is it Lola)? In our town that song goes what Jake wants (police-wise, that is) Jake gets. That's why we can sleep nights, peace-wise.
But to get back to the bunyon beating, again we admired how well policed are the grounds of the post office and the town office building, showing that those custodians, once known as humble janitors, have a real pride in their work.
Up past the Methodist Church, a massive edifice in sheer white with an architectural design including a great circle within a triangle. It is part of the Rockport scene.
We reached the third prominent church on this pristine Broadway (cleansed as never was that Manhattan path to perdition). It is St. Joachim's, that we view with its hot-topped strip marked "Clergy,"which means that only the car of the good Father can rest there as he in church tries to pull the sinners away from that ol' devil.
Never meeting a fellow soul on foot on this short walk around the so-called Rockport Loop, we passed the stately old home of our late family doctor, Ezra Eames Cleaves, a great country practitioner, who laughed at us when in the '40's we were knocked out by the mumps an ailment that males should never get at that age. Medicos like our Dr. Cleaves, and our Dr. Earl Greene are (unhappily to us) fading from the scene. They only die rich in the worship of us common folk. And don't you forget there are still some of us common folk still breathing.
Down Main St. we eyed a sign on a barn in old English lettering, "Antiques Etc." Only a school teacher like Gert Abbott Hutchings could have thought up such a sign. Cute is the word.
But the piece de resistance was the Al Remick house on this Main St. with its Christmas wreath and its string of colored Yuletide lights on the front door proving that our Al or his good wife, or both, believe that Christmas is 365 days in the year, not one day or week. We buy that, and the sight of it gave us a joyful lift as we continued our amble to home and the nasty leering look from a Molly we had rudely snubbed because of nose trouble.
Anyway we had fun of a Sabbath matinee, why not you to trim that waistline?
J.P.C., Jr.
The air was brittle but the March sun was bright and it was no pain to be afoot. Round School, up Broadway past many a familiar scene and home we went, knowing that within many walls along the way were friends who chose to browse over what might be the last Boston Sunday papers for awhile. Which made us unhappy to think of our Boston newspaper friends who would be minus that friendly weekly check in the interim through no doing of their own. As we passed St. Mary's from our irreverent lips of long standing, we dropped a prayer for an early end to that workless period. But who hears a heathen?
We recall that old saying by Lord knows who, "If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" We seemed to recall it was the title of a book popular in the flush Twenties. A glance along the roadside indicated Spring was awhistling for attention. All the snow was practically gone--not that Salty Owens of Public Works and his gang would let it linger. The little left was hardly fit to drink. Instead there were puddles, puddles, puddles, which if consolidated could mount up to several days' supply of usable water, that is if you are a puddle drinker. We're not, even though Molly is an avid guzzler of such surface supplies.
As we approached the town parking lot, we realized it was the time for the pause that refreshes, that is for a defogging of the extra pair of eyes if we expected to stay on course. As much as we deny advancing years, there are times when we get it right between the eyes, as our old TV pal Gunsmoke might snarl.
On our street we had seen few parked cars this Sunday afternoon, which surprised us because of the clear weather but on our far from gay Broadway, the car traffic flow was tremenjus, which convinced us that our town constabulary, top gun Jake, must get our vote come the next night for his radar. Our neighbors agreed and he got. Says the song, what Lulu wants, Lulu gets (or is it Lola)? In our town that song goes what Jake wants (police-wise, that is) Jake gets. That's why we can sleep nights, peace-wise.
But to get back to the bunyon beating, again we admired how well policed are the grounds of the post office and the town office building, showing that those custodians, once known as humble janitors, have a real pride in their work.
Up past the Methodist Church, a massive edifice in sheer white with an architectural design including a great circle within a triangle. It is part of the Rockport scene.
We reached the third prominent church on this pristine Broadway (cleansed as never was that Manhattan path to perdition). It is St. Joachim's, that we view with its hot-topped strip marked "Clergy,"which means that only the car of the good Father can rest there as he in church tries to pull the sinners away from that ol' devil.
Never meeting a fellow soul on foot on this short walk around the so-called Rockport Loop, we passed the stately old home of our late family doctor, Ezra Eames Cleaves, a great country practitioner, who laughed at us when in the '40's we were knocked out by the mumps an ailment that males should never get at that age. Medicos like our Dr. Cleaves, and our Dr. Earl Greene are (unhappily to us) fading from the scene. They only die rich in the worship of us common folk. And don't you forget there are still some of us common folk still breathing.
Down Main St. we eyed a sign on a barn in old English lettering, "Antiques Etc." Only a school teacher like Gert Abbott Hutchings could have thought up such a sign. Cute is the word.
But the piece de resistance was the Al Remick house on this Main St. with its Christmas wreath and its string of colored Yuletide lights on the front door proving that our Al or his good wife, or both, believe that Christmas is 365 days in the year, not one day or week. We buy that, and the sight of it gave us a joyful lift as we continued our amble to home and the nasty leering look from a Molly we had rudely snubbed because of nose trouble.
Anyway we had fun of a Sabbath matinee, why not you to trim that waistline?
J.P.C., Jr.
Walk With A View In Mind
Sunday seemed to miss the feel of Spring somehow. It was dull and sleepy, probably because of the lost hour. But a Sunday stroll, long or short, has become an order of the day in this house for the wife and I. And of course she does the pickin', however weird that may be. This time she defied the weather by searching for a view. And a view means back in the mountain goat routine.
This time it was Drumlin Road in Pigeon Cove. Before we ran out of that stock of breath, we found why folks have built on the side of this hill. Our valley dwelling took on the atmosphere of a hole in the ground.
Just above the growing ruins of the staunch stone barn, we came upon what could pass for a quiet small lake to one side of the road. It is another rain-filled abandoned quarry pit that Molly fell in love with right away. The old gal was cute. She four-legged it out a few feet until she sensed there was nothing but space one step ahead. The boxer didn't mind a bit of a dousing but hardly a full bath. Back she came to us to shower the Sunday suit with her shaking.
Up ahead of us bearing the mien of post-card scenes of the terraced dwellings of Italy, was a sweep of comparatively new homes of the "close to earth" style pioneered by the late famed architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. What a change from the last time we hit that trail a score of years ago. Odd as they look to a conventional home owner, there's appeal to the way they hug the ground, and stay on the first floor.
It wasn't only the pipe we were puffing on that climb. Anybody that admits to the half century mark would be puffing like ol' Peppersass of Mount Washington's cog railroad. Bu every huff brough us nearer to that view we were after.
We envied these folks who awake to scan a panorama second to none on the Cape. Smokey as the day was, dropping a filmy curtain on the horizon, the eye swept around from Sandy Bay Breakwater over to the Great Hill water standpipe. And nearer to us could be seen swirling in the sky, thousands of white wings, gulls who were enjoying the lake-like quarry pits including the town's reserve water supply.
The gulls were much too high to bother Molly, the distant view fell dead upon her. Only the near-at-hand is her world and by this time, that came in the form of three chummy dogs, one a itty-bitty fellah, the others, twins of a handsome variety. Their home is the hill-top. We breathed a sigh of relief. All four made friends in a matter of seconds and scampered all over the lot. 'Tis nice to know that Mollie was a lady.
One fine home that might have been called "Last Breath" because it sure took ours to reach it, even sported a greenhouse attached to it. The RFD mail box that must get its deposits by whirleybird had the name of Wentworth on it. Furthermore, it was the only home along the way where there was a sign of folks busy on the grounds. But every property looked spic and span.
Coming onto Landmark Lane we continued the short distance to the Pigeon Cove standpipe to guess at some of the myriads of carved initial combinations noting that love had passed this way more often than elsewhere. We never were the initial carving type. We did recall how our younger used to enjoy pelting this standpipe to hear the pings and pongs.
It was good to see that someone has installed benches in a field just below the standpipe, for they provide seats for those who want to view the compact village below them emphaszed by the tool company's chimney and the Hotel Edwards with its shelves of granite lining the shore. Of course, summer adds the appeal of the yacht races. A grandstand seat free for the climbing. Spring may have escaped the air, but it can never escape that hill and its command of the Rockport scene. Try it sometime. Great for the varicose veins!
J.P.C., Jr.
This time it was Drumlin Road in Pigeon Cove. Before we ran out of that stock of breath, we found why folks have built on the side of this hill. Our valley dwelling took on the atmosphere of a hole in the ground.
Just above the growing ruins of the staunch stone barn, we came upon what could pass for a quiet small lake to one side of the road. It is another rain-filled abandoned quarry pit that Molly fell in love with right away. The old gal was cute. She four-legged it out a few feet until she sensed there was nothing but space one step ahead. The boxer didn't mind a bit of a dousing but hardly a full bath. Back she came to us to shower the Sunday suit with her shaking.
Up ahead of us bearing the mien of post-card scenes of the terraced dwellings of Italy, was a sweep of comparatively new homes of the "close to earth" style pioneered by the late famed architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. What a change from the last time we hit that trail a score of years ago. Odd as they look to a conventional home owner, there's appeal to the way they hug the ground, and stay on the first floor.
It wasn't only the pipe we were puffing on that climb. Anybody that admits to the half century mark would be puffing like ol' Peppersass of Mount Washington's cog railroad. Bu every huff brough us nearer to that view we were after.
We envied these folks who awake to scan a panorama second to none on the Cape. Smokey as the day was, dropping a filmy curtain on the horizon, the eye swept around from Sandy Bay Breakwater over to the Great Hill water standpipe. And nearer to us could be seen swirling in the sky, thousands of white wings, gulls who were enjoying the lake-like quarry pits including the town's reserve water supply.
The gulls were much too high to bother Molly, the distant view fell dead upon her. Only the near-at-hand is her world and by this time, that came in the form of three chummy dogs, one a itty-bitty fellah, the others, twins of a handsome variety. Their home is the hill-top. We breathed a sigh of relief. All four made friends in a matter of seconds and scampered all over the lot. 'Tis nice to know that Mollie was a lady.
One fine home that might have been called "Last Breath" because it sure took ours to reach it, even sported a greenhouse attached to it. The RFD mail box that must get its deposits by whirleybird had the name of Wentworth on it. Furthermore, it was the only home along the way where there was a sign of folks busy on the grounds. But every property looked spic and span.
Coming onto Landmark Lane we continued the short distance to the Pigeon Cove standpipe to guess at some of the myriads of carved initial combinations noting that love had passed this way more often than elsewhere. We never were the initial carving type. We did recall how our younger used to enjoy pelting this standpipe to hear the pings and pongs.
It was good to see that someone has installed benches in a field just below the standpipe, for they provide seats for those who want to view the compact village below them emphaszed by the tool company's chimney and the Hotel Edwards with its shelves of granite lining the shore. Of course, summer adds the appeal of the yacht races. A grandstand seat free for the climbing. Spring may have escaped the air, but it can never escape that hill and its command of the Rockport scene. Try it sometime. Great for the varicose veins!
J.P.C., Jr.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Don't Fence Me In
Young enough to remember that old favorite "Don't Fence Me In?" Thinking about it caused us to take notice on a recent village stroll around Rockport just what people today considered as fences for their properties. Have to admit we hadn't taken as much care in this regard on previous walks; just seemed to take the boundary protectors for granted whether there or not.
The pencil recorded all manner of fences. It seemed as if some types dated the property in several instances, and punctuated the social standing of the owner. On High Street, smack dab in front of us, was a window out of the past, of 20 panes of glass in a tumbledown structure that once served as a neighborhood store with coffee grinder, penny candy, and the like. But no fence of any sort.
Then before us was an old-fashioned picket fence. A peek over it revealed a bush that must have been all of 20 feet high topped with heaven-sent pussywillows, tips almost as high as the eaves of the house.
Fences or no fences, we had to stop right there to breathe in the glory of crocuses in bloom despite the sharp tang of winter in spring-time. Right by we noted the spanking new home of one-time Rockport police chief Dick ("Squizzle") Manson on the same street, with no need of a fence. It brought back memories of real Rockport people, like Capt. Ralph Nelson whose brand new lobster boat that he built in his backyard down on Old Garden Road has been dunked in the briny ready for Fipennies or Jeffreys.
Back to fences...we were eager to see at least one wrought iron fence. We recalled one that bordered the old Town Hall, and went to the dump when modernists after a real struggle tore down the formidable three-story structure and the fence.
On High Street we passed the Caleb Norwood House circa 1806 and saw old iron foot scrapers on both sides of granite slabs, a red-brick walk leading up to the door, and in front to the street, a huge granite slab. In those days, ladies and gentlemen would never think of entering a house without scraping the dirt from their shoes on the iron scrapers.
Along Main Street were varied fences. In front of the brick building housing the telephone dial system was a rough stone wall that might have graced the Lexington line of resistance to the Redcoats; just plain boulders without a dab of cement.
Aha! At last we found our iron fence, in front of the old George Ira Tarr house on Main Street, the house of a Rockport commercial baron of that day; a man whose sounds were not musical, but extremely fishy. These seemingly iron pickets were spaced by impressive granite pillars. Only a closer look and feel revealed that all is not iron that is stained brown. Wood, that's what it was, but a good facsimile.
Back along Broadway Avenue, we found a modern picket fence along the Catholic parish house where Father Donald Whalen resides. This fence with its arched sweep is respectfully aged yet current.
As we came along Pleasant Street we struck oil. There in front of us was a real wrought iron fence of the past, complete even to the iron statue of a cute little darkie ready to serve as a hitching post if perchance you had a nag to tether. We really had stepped into another generation.
As for stone walls. Along that stretch there were all manner of such, from boulder on boulder to polished granite slabs cement-welded, enjoyed only by the well-to-do. Rockport is blessed by these boulder walls and fences. They have characters not enjoyed by any other type of fence in our book.
Fence-looking brought the wife and us up one of Rockport's quaintest lanes. We have always known it as Dishwater Lane. Others of a more recent generation tell us it is known as Cusick's Lane. At any rate, it winds from Main Street through to Cleaves Street, and today they honor it with the title Highland Street. At least it has a steep but short hill that provides good coasting.
And here we saw that hedges could be proper for any generation. Rockport has countless hedges, attractive, perhaps economical--and think of the daily exercises experienced by daddies come summertime clipping.
"Don't fence me in?" Bosh! The best-looking grounds are those that are fenced in,whether by Minute Men stonewall, or iron, or granite slabs, or pickets or privet.
J.P.C., Jr.
The pencil recorded all manner of fences. It seemed as if some types dated the property in several instances, and punctuated the social standing of the owner. On High Street, smack dab in front of us, was a window out of the past, of 20 panes of glass in a tumbledown structure that once served as a neighborhood store with coffee grinder, penny candy, and the like. But no fence of any sort.
Then before us was an old-fashioned picket fence. A peek over it revealed a bush that must have been all of 20 feet high topped with heaven-sent pussywillows, tips almost as high as the eaves of the house.
Fences or no fences, we had to stop right there to breathe in the glory of crocuses in bloom despite the sharp tang of winter in spring-time. Right by we noted the spanking new home of one-time Rockport police chief Dick ("Squizzle") Manson on the same street, with no need of a fence. It brought back memories of real Rockport people, like Capt. Ralph Nelson whose brand new lobster boat that he built in his backyard down on Old Garden Road has been dunked in the briny ready for Fipennies or Jeffreys.
Back to fences...we were eager to see at least one wrought iron fence. We recalled one that bordered the old Town Hall, and went to the dump when modernists after a real struggle tore down the formidable three-story structure and the fence.
On High Street we passed the Caleb Norwood House circa 1806 and saw old iron foot scrapers on both sides of granite slabs, a red-brick walk leading up to the door, and in front to the street, a huge granite slab. In those days, ladies and gentlemen would never think of entering a house without scraping the dirt from their shoes on the iron scrapers.
Along Main Street were varied fences. In front of the brick building housing the telephone dial system was a rough stone wall that might have graced the Lexington line of resistance to the Redcoats; just plain boulders without a dab of cement.
Aha! At last we found our iron fence, in front of the old George Ira Tarr house on Main Street, the house of a Rockport commercial baron of that day; a man whose sounds were not musical, but extremely fishy. These seemingly iron pickets were spaced by impressive granite pillars. Only a closer look and feel revealed that all is not iron that is stained brown. Wood, that's what it was, but a good facsimile.
Back along Broadway Avenue, we found a modern picket fence along the Catholic parish house where Father Donald Whalen resides. This fence with its arched sweep is respectfully aged yet current.
As we came along Pleasant Street we struck oil. There in front of us was a real wrought iron fence of the past, complete even to the iron statue of a cute little darkie ready to serve as a hitching post if perchance you had a nag to tether. We really had stepped into another generation.
As for stone walls. Along that stretch there were all manner of such, from boulder on boulder to polished granite slabs cement-welded, enjoyed only by the well-to-do. Rockport is blessed by these boulder walls and fences. They have characters not enjoyed by any other type of fence in our book.
Fence-looking brought the wife and us up one of Rockport's quaintest lanes. We have always known it as Dishwater Lane. Others of a more recent generation tell us it is known as Cusick's Lane. At any rate, it winds from Main Street through to Cleaves Street, and today they honor it with the title Highland Street. At least it has a steep but short hill that provides good coasting.
And here we saw that hedges could be proper for any generation. Rockport has countless hedges, attractive, perhaps economical--and think of the daily exercises experienced by daddies come summertime clipping.
"Don't fence me in?" Bosh! The best-looking grounds are those that are fenced in,whether by Minute Men stonewall, or iron, or granite slabs, or pickets or privet.
J.P.C., Jr.
Long Beach Spring
The sun smiled warmly upon us -- the wife, Molly, the boxer, and me -- as we shortened our Sunday stroll to walk the length of Long Beach and return to the family chariot. An engagement prevented a longer hike.
There is nothing more barren looking than a summer resort area early in Spring. With buds a-popping, grass beginning to green, and a perfectly mild day, the boarded-up cottages with no sign of life within resemble tombs. What a contrast to the sparkle of midsummer!
There were signs of life as we approached the beach. Off in a parking lot were dads and sons opening the baseball season. It was the kind of fraternizing that keeps the sons' confidence through the years. And it's a great cure for juvenile delinquency.
What interested us, as it must have more than 50 others noted along the beach lanes, was the status of the brand new seawall that Builder Joseph Perry and his men from New Bedford are constructing. We can report that they are making grand progress. Large sections of it are already done. The section near Gloucester is all done except for replacing the metal rails and stairways. Yet to be done are sections toward the Rockport end.
They tell us that two Gloucestermen, Curtis Clark and Louis Houle, came close to death last Thursday while working on the wall construction. The 36-foot wooden form, eight feet high and four feet wide, into which the concrete is poured, fell over on them. Fortunately it pinned them into yielding sand instead of onto ledge. A large gang of workers rushed over and by sheer brute strength succeeded in lifting the form enough so the two could wriggle out. There wasn't time to get the hoist alongside. Only injury reported was a bruised arm for Clark.
The wife recalled that a half century ago her folks had a cottage at this beach and observed that some of the places hadn't changed a bit. There are fewer weathervanes and flagpoles displayed than in the past. The "architecture" is the same helter-skelter type, just as the summer folks drop clothes fashions once they come through the toll gate road.
The tide was low, the surf foamy but musical. The sand was that hardness that horses love. One young man was giving his horse a gallop up and down the entire strand. That was right up Molly's alley. She tried her speed with that of the horse, and darned if she didn't overtake the fine looking equine and stay with her for quite a distance. But it sure winded that boxer.
We used to cuss people who let their dogs run on the beaches. But now we see it from the other side of the fence. Of course we know that the old gal can't have her freedom in the bathing season, but during the winter and spring what better place to let 'em streak? She was quick to rub noses, or whatever dogs do to get acquainted, with at least five other gallopers, dogs even we'd like to know, they were so friendly.
In the distance Gloucester and Boston draggers chugged by apparently on their way to the fishing grounds for a chance at that valuable haddock. A sail apeared toward the horizon. And Thacher's twin lights took a breather. Yes, it was a beautiful place to be.
Missing was the picturesque gnarled oak timber sticking out from the sand a year ago, the ribs of some ill-fated fishing boat of a half century ago. We saw that the seas had restored much sand to the beach. After that terrific blow of April 1958 that felled two huge sections of the seawall, the beach was gouged out in some areas.
Great piles of grout lining the beach as riprap for the wall, young America discovered, made a real playland for climbing and hide-and-seek. Danger of the heavy granite sliding from beneath them didn't seem to bother them one bit.
J.P.C., Jr.
There is nothing more barren looking than a summer resort area early in Spring. With buds a-popping, grass beginning to green, and a perfectly mild day, the boarded-up cottages with no sign of life within resemble tombs. What a contrast to the sparkle of midsummer!
There were signs of life as we approached the beach. Off in a parking lot were dads and sons opening the baseball season. It was the kind of fraternizing that keeps the sons' confidence through the years. And it's a great cure for juvenile delinquency.
What interested us, as it must have more than 50 others noted along the beach lanes, was the status of the brand new seawall that Builder Joseph Perry and his men from New Bedford are constructing. We can report that they are making grand progress. Large sections of it are already done. The section near Gloucester is all done except for replacing the metal rails and stairways. Yet to be done are sections toward the Rockport end.
They tell us that two Gloucestermen, Curtis Clark and Louis Houle, came close to death last Thursday while working on the wall construction. The 36-foot wooden form, eight feet high and four feet wide, into which the concrete is poured, fell over on them. Fortunately it pinned them into yielding sand instead of onto ledge. A large gang of workers rushed over and by sheer brute strength succeeded in lifting the form enough so the two could wriggle out. There wasn't time to get the hoist alongside. Only injury reported was a bruised arm for Clark.
The wife recalled that a half century ago her folks had a cottage at this beach and observed that some of the places hadn't changed a bit. There are fewer weathervanes and flagpoles displayed than in the past. The "architecture" is the same helter-skelter type, just as the summer folks drop clothes fashions once they come through the toll gate road.
The tide was low, the surf foamy but musical. The sand was that hardness that horses love. One young man was giving his horse a gallop up and down the entire strand. That was right up Molly's alley. She tried her speed with that of the horse, and darned if she didn't overtake the fine looking equine and stay with her for quite a distance. But it sure winded that boxer.
We used to cuss people who let their dogs run on the beaches. But now we see it from the other side of the fence. Of course we know that the old gal can't have her freedom in the bathing season, but during the winter and spring what better place to let 'em streak? She was quick to rub noses, or whatever dogs do to get acquainted, with at least five other gallopers, dogs even we'd like to know, they were so friendly.
In the distance Gloucester and Boston draggers chugged by apparently on their way to the fishing grounds for a chance at that valuable haddock. A sail apeared toward the horizon. And Thacher's twin lights took a breather. Yes, it was a beautiful place to be.
Missing was the picturesque gnarled oak timber sticking out from the sand a year ago, the ribs of some ill-fated fishing boat of a half century ago. We saw that the seas had restored much sand to the beach. After that terrific blow of April 1958 that felled two huge sections of the seawall, the beach was gouged out in some areas.
Great piles of grout lining the beach as riprap for the wall, young America discovered, made a real playland for climbing and hide-and-seek. Danger of the heavy granite sliding from beneath them didn't seem to bother them one bit.
J.P.C., Jr.
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