Spring was in the air Sunday and the wife and I, sensing May showers, decided to make our Rockport walk a shortie. We had birds in the back of our minds -- birds in the belfry, so to speak. So we headed up the street, bore to the right and skimmered along the cemetery wall into the Southern Woods.
Right on our own street we espied a yard of gold to those who love dandelion greens with vinegar. There they were waiting for the knife--and a lame back, of course. There were nice fat worms pushing their way out of the ground ready for some young angler. The world was full of them.
Into the woods, a bright blue butterfly fluttered before us only to blend into the ground as it closed its colored wings. A robin popped along as if to herald our meanderings. But nothing so commonplace concerned us. We were out for much bigger game in the aviary realm. Kieran wasn't going to top us.
Off in the distance we could hear a flock of hens pushing hard for Johnny Main, retired Navy man turned poultryman, whose good eggs find themselves on the spotless skillets of the Gloucester House, we hear.
It was a fine road for woods walking, nice and wide, and graveled, partly to allow farm vehicles down through it, more to allow progress of gravel pit trucks. Wonder of wonders -- we actually met a family on a hike, we who so many Sundays have been used to walking alone. Except that the man of the house had stooped so low as to carry a cane, that's hardly cricket -- shanks mare permits of no such support.
Charred trees stood stark along the bank where a huge boulder perched precariously on the side of a slope, ready to fall down the incline by a mere touch. A frog piped its discontent over the whole situation.
And then we saw them: birds in the ecstasy of flight, and alert to the world. First, the finches, fast and bewildering, almost too quick for our eyes. Large crows, even larger sea gulls, out of their element, were everywhere and just as clamorous. We yet had to see the unusual types that birders crow about. Looking earthward, we were confronted with large beds of lily of the valley under the pines.
Then we scored. We had come to a thicket in a depression. We heard a tremendous rustling and thought for a moment we might see a forest animal battling his way through -- perhaps a beaver or even a fox. But peering close into the bracken, we could spot a bevy of small birds. Our old eyes were too dimmed to keep pace with their speed. We wished for the eyes and ears of an expert. We were reminded of such an expert, Esther Johnson, Rockport's town clerk, warning us that "the warblers are an amateur birder's despair." We now knew what she meant.
We comforted ourselves by noting that the blueberry bushes were thick with promise and that one of the solaces of Rockport's woods is that gentle but thunderous roar of the ocean in the background. The sea and the forest are cousins in comforting sound.
Wild strawberries and marsh marigolds lined our path. And then into the clearing was the blatant mooing of cows, a fine herd, well kept, belonging to Kenny Rowe, whose barn top sported a starry windmill. And it was a bright red barn, too.
Up through Jerden's Lane past the bright new school, and along South Street where in Mrs. Powers' backyard we saw a prize bird, a real big pheasant, being flushed by, of all critters, her good cat from Hong Kong. He was showing his rich Tartar blood, no less!
The wife and I keep discovering iron fences in Rockport. On this stroll we bumped into one on the Masons' property on Norwood Avenue. 'Tis a beauty, that it is. And still another on Main Street, across from Beach Street. And Paul Dow reminds us that his wrought iron fence once graced the property of Odd Fellows Hall right next to our own property.
The way was fast approaching our own little home, down past Caleb's Lane, Cove Hill, into Dock Square, up good old Broadway and the hidden garden. There's real peace in Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Just a Walk at Twilight - Beach St. to Bandstand
It was a busy but enjoyable Sunday what with the church holding a picnic for all its children, old and young, on the heavenly estate of the former rector, Rev. William F. A. Stride and his wife at Eastern Point through their graciousness.
So the Sabbath stroll had to wait until early evening. The wife and I soon discovered that the twilight hour in Rockport and probably anywhere else can be the tops for meandering. Everything looks different. F'rinstance, that elongated naval ship in Sandy Bay here to honor Motif No. 1 Day which it missed by a full turn of the sun. To the stranger scanning it from the shore, the Thuban presented an impressive sight limned against the approaching grey of the night. If somebody hadn't told us it was a naval ship,we would have mistaken it for a freighter with its mesh of hoists and winches from stem to stern.
Our walk took us from the family estate, all 4,500 square feet, through School into Main Street down Beach headed for Hale Knowlton's Corner, the No Man's land of the feudin' Hatfields and McCoys, Sandy Bay style. Not even 'Squam can boast a more nationalistic loyalty to its territory than does the Cove. It's in the air once you hit that corner.
We gandered at the the 1840 house on Beach Street and saw a fetching home that was originally light colored then shifted to dark, was back again to light through a change of ownership. Must be rough on the 1840 ghost locating his rightful ha'nt on a foggy night, if such there be. To us the change was for the better. A pink painted front door gave it oomph. What seemed strange, were the two ancient chimneys, one skinny, t'other fat.
We wandered down by the only motel in town, that of Herm Erwin's. No wonder a discerning friend of ours from Gloucester said that Rockport always shows good taste in what it creates. Herm's motel is not the drab adobe hacienda type. Instead it is more like a comfortable expansive summer home.
Lilacs in their purple and pure white radiance were all around us. We were reminded of the years that both the wife and I had "covered" Memorial Day processions in Gloucester and Rockport, of how many years, Lew Poole, tall, slim and of military bearing, marshaled the Sandy Bay parade forever starting from Beach Street, and in Gloucester, of the Memorial Day afternoon exercises in the hot and stuffy Grand Army Hall upstairs when the Grand Army held sway. It was a grand day for the grammar school lad who got to recite the Gettysburg Address. We'll never forget that inspiring veteran of the War of '61, William H. Marston, who for years served as commander of Col. Allen Post 45. It almost seemed to us that the city of Gloucester should have made that little hall a shrine to those boys in blue. The sight of them on the march was an inspiration to at least two generations.
Speaking of Memorial Day, it appeared to us that the Legion Bandstand could take a bit of white paint. A lot of folks will be gathered around it come Sunday evenings this summer enjoying the toot-at-toots. It might give the town a better name with its tourists to have the 'stand shipshape.
Twilight proved a great hour for Mollie, the boxer. For all along the way were four-legs of all descriptions and as it developed all were on their best behavior--even the household pet. They seemed to conde-scent to one another.
Another thing we caught was the fact that birds sing their loudest as the night draws its somber curtain. Or maybe our ears are sharper at that hour. We couldn't tell one from the other but that they were full of cheerios no one could doubt.
And if that grueling church picnic hadn't burnt up most of our energy we might have walked a lot farther and seen plenty more but there's a limit to what the legs can do once the half century mark has caught up with you.
Be around next week!
J.P.C., Jr.
So the Sabbath stroll had to wait until early evening. The wife and I soon discovered that the twilight hour in Rockport and probably anywhere else can be the tops for meandering. Everything looks different. F'rinstance, that elongated naval ship in Sandy Bay here to honor Motif No. 1 Day which it missed by a full turn of the sun. To the stranger scanning it from the shore, the Thuban presented an impressive sight limned against the approaching grey of the night. If somebody hadn't told us it was a naval ship,we would have mistaken it for a freighter with its mesh of hoists and winches from stem to stern.
Our walk took us from the family estate, all 4,500 square feet, through School into Main Street down Beach headed for Hale Knowlton's Corner, the No Man's land of the feudin' Hatfields and McCoys, Sandy Bay style. Not even 'Squam can boast a more nationalistic loyalty to its territory than does the Cove. It's in the air once you hit that corner.
We gandered at the the 1840 house on Beach Street and saw a fetching home that was originally light colored then shifted to dark, was back again to light through a change of ownership. Must be rough on the 1840 ghost locating his rightful ha'nt on a foggy night, if such there be. To us the change was for the better. A pink painted front door gave it oomph. What seemed strange, were the two ancient chimneys, one skinny, t'other fat.
We wandered down by the only motel in town, that of Herm Erwin's. No wonder a discerning friend of ours from Gloucester said that Rockport always shows good taste in what it creates. Herm's motel is not the drab adobe hacienda type. Instead it is more like a comfortable expansive summer home.
Lilacs in their purple and pure white radiance were all around us. We were reminded of the years that both the wife and I had "covered" Memorial Day processions in Gloucester and Rockport, of how many years, Lew Poole, tall, slim and of military bearing, marshaled the Sandy Bay parade forever starting from Beach Street, and in Gloucester, of the Memorial Day afternoon exercises in the hot and stuffy Grand Army Hall upstairs when the Grand Army held sway. It was a grand day for the grammar school lad who got to recite the Gettysburg Address. We'll never forget that inspiring veteran of the War of '61, William H. Marston, who for years served as commander of Col. Allen Post 45. It almost seemed to us that the city of Gloucester should have made that little hall a shrine to those boys in blue. The sight of them on the march was an inspiration to at least two generations.
Speaking of Memorial Day, it appeared to us that the Legion Bandstand could take a bit of white paint. A lot of folks will be gathered around it come Sunday evenings this summer enjoying the toot-at-toots. It might give the town a better name with its tourists to have the 'stand shipshape.
Twilight proved a great hour for Mollie, the boxer. For all along the way were four-legs of all descriptions and as it developed all were on their best behavior--even the household pet. They seemed to conde-scent to one another.
Another thing we caught was the fact that birds sing their loudest as the night draws its somber curtain. Or maybe our ears are sharper at that hour. We couldn't tell one from the other but that they were full of cheerios no one could doubt.
And if that grueling church picnic hadn't burnt up most of our energy we might have walked a lot farther and seen plenty more but there's a limit to what the legs can do once the half century mark has caught up with you.
Be around next week!
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk into Space - Pigeon Hill
For years we used to look upon Pigeon Cove as a faint pinpoint on the map into which folks crawled to hide from a world that had disowned them. But since the wife has included the Cove in the Sunday walk schedule into which she lures us and our frivolous four-footer, we have learned the error of our ways. We never realized there was so much heaven on earth as in that tight little neck of granite.
As we bounced around last Sunday in the fast failin' flivver and opened the sealed orders presented by the motor helmsman, we again read that the destination on this between-the-showers stroll was none other than the North Village. In fact, the stopping point was on Pigeon Hill Court where not one but four animated canines came rushing forth from all corners to challenge our bristling boxer.
Rather than let Molly leave behind us a path of strewn bodies, out hustled the leash. For some peculiar reason, there's no challenge to any dog, pedigreed or just alley-born, to one of their kind throttled by a chain. That deterrent just fizzled it into a sniffing bout. So up the paved court we sallied and into a backwoods path alongside the Carl and Eva Johnson well manicured estate.
Yup, you guessed it, the good missus had again decided we needed a bit of alpining just to test our hardening arteries. Ever since our courting days, our frau has persisted in trying to make an athlete out of this flabby form much to our disgust, not to mention our fear of heights any greater than three feet from solid earth.
But orders are orders so up the steep grade we mushroomed, planting down with emphasis one foot after the other to escape sprawling ground-ward. Talk about a seeing-eye dog, that Molly of ours served nobly as a walking-eye dog for this venerable even though the chief reason for her being restrained was so she wouldn't make a dash for Eva's fond tabby who we saw spitting 25 yards away, back arched, ready for combat.
Apple trees were all in bloom, heralders of summer at last, and reminiscent of the miles upon miles of such apple orchards, fields of white purity we had seen a week ago on a drive to South Hadley. We were on the way to the town's standpipe at the top of Pigeon Hill on a road opened up by our water department two years ago through virgin woods. It was the third stout hill we had climbed in as many weeks . To the wife we laid down the law that the next stroll must be on the level in more ways than one. We must think of our sunken arches, no less.
Kitty clear, we unloosed the 65-pounder only to suddenly note she was pawing the sod by the side of the road. That puzzled us until we drew closer only to see that our young lady had come upon her first snake, at least a three-footer, that was doing a rapid shimmy in an effort to slither elsewhere from under the paw that held her captive. Snaky managed, amid yappings by Molly, who stumbled bewildered as she realized her weird prisoner was no longer with her. It couldn't have been a rattler, because the old gal is still enjoying her horse meat in great gulps.
Then we emerged onto exciting Landmark Lane, the very top, where it gives you the feeling of having arrived in space what with the panorama of Rockport and the Cove and the ever thrilling Atlantic spread below you, with the multi-colored late Spring verdure of the woodlands, the thick patches of strawberry blossoms, of blueberry buds on the high bush, of the awakening shad bushes and the exciting array of deep blue violets along the roadway.
We felt rewarded for having been mountain climbers once again as we saw patches of white sails and a slim granite line known as Sandy Bay breakwater, and imagined other New England shores beyond the haze.
As we retraced our steps and got home before the next shower, we could only be thankful in having enjoyed another short Sunday stroll in a village that offers so many delightful walks. We wish you had been with us.
J.P.C., JR.
As we bounced around last Sunday in the fast failin' flivver and opened the sealed orders presented by the motor helmsman, we again read that the destination on this between-the-showers stroll was none other than the North Village. In fact, the stopping point was on Pigeon Hill Court where not one but four animated canines came rushing forth from all corners to challenge our bristling boxer.
Rather than let Molly leave behind us a path of strewn bodies, out hustled the leash. For some peculiar reason, there's no challenge to any dog, pedigreed or just alley-born, to one of their kind throttled by a chain. That deterrent just fizzled it into a sniffing bout. So up the paved court we sallied and into a backwoods path alongside the Carl and Eva Johnson well manicured estate.
Yup, you guessed it, the good missus had again decided we needed a bit of alpining just to test our hardening arteries. Ever since our courting days, our frau has persisted in trying to make an athlete out of this flabby form much to our disgust, not to mention our fear of heights any greater than three feet from solid earth.
But orders are orders so up the steep grade we mushroomed, planting down with emphasis one foot after the other to escape sprawling ground-ward. Talk about a seeing-eye dog, that Molly of ours served nobly as a walking-eye dog for this venerable even though the chief reason for her being restrained was so she wouldn't make a dash for Eva's fond tabby who we saw spitting 25 yards away, back arched, ready for combat.
Apple trees were all in bloom, heralders of summer at last, and reminiscent of the miles upon miles of such apple orchards, fields of white purity we had seen a week ago on a drive to South Hadley. We were on the way to the town's standpipe at the top of Pigeon Hill on a road opened up by our water department two years ago through virgin woods. It was the third stout hill we had climbed in as many weeks . To the wife we laid down the law that the next stroll must be on the level in more ways than one. We must think of our sunken arches, no less.
Kitty clear, we unloosed the 65-pounder only to suddenly note she was pawing the sod by the side of the road. That puzzled us until we drew closer only to see that our young lady had come upon her first snake, at least a three-footer, that was doing a rapid shimmy in an effort to slither elsewhere from under the paw that held her captive. Snaky managed, amid yappings by Molly, who stumbled bewildered as she realized her weird prisoner was no longer with her. It couldn't have been a rattler, because the old gal is still enjoying her horse meat in great gulps.
Then we emerged onto exciting Landmark Lane, the very top, where it gives you the feeling of having arrived in space what with the panorama of Rockport and the Cove and the ever thrilling Atlantic spread below you, with the multi-colored late Spring verdure of the woodlands, the thick patches of strawberry blossoms, of blueberry buds on the high bush, of the awakening shad bushes and the exciting array of deep blue violets along the roadway.
We felt rewarded for having been mountain climbers once again as we saw patches of white sails and a slim granite line known as Sandy Bay breakwater, and imagined other New England shores beyond the haze.
As we retraced our steps and got home before the next shower, we could only be thankful in having enjoyed another short Sunday stroll in a village that offers so many delightful walks. We wish you had been with us.
J.P.C., JR.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
April 19th Patriot's Day on South End
The wife and I found an old friend on our latest stroll about Rockport. It is the footpath along the shore from the Headlands to the Coast Guard station. There wasn't much left of it, but enough to recall previous strolls of a score of years ago just before we became one...many happy strolls of the past.
It was an ideal day for stepping out and we had the world to ourselves except for the whizzing cars, and they didn't really count to us who prefer shanks mare. We were thinking about the glorious weather of Patriot's Day when in Rockport town the only American flag we saw a-fluttering in the center of the village was the one Custodian John Niemi had hoisted over the high school. Maybe that was why the thunder rolled as a protest from the "Spirit of '76".
On the way up Mount Pleasant Street we ambled over the fluttering crazy curved sidewalk from the Windsor House heading toward Pleasant Street. It was an engineering feat of a fluttering hand on the drawing board but it is right up the alley of our artists craving design.
A glance down to the yacht club showed plenty astir as the boating enthusiasts of all ages seemed busy fooling around the docked craft. Whether it needs it or not, a boat gets as much fond attention from the owner as does old Betsey, the family car. If there's nothing else, there's bottom scrapping.
Thence onto Atlantic Avenue and by Star Island, which actually is no island but has been dubbed as such for years beyond recall. It is perhaps one of the most picturesque spots on Sandy Bay. Its old fish shacks and lobster buoys stamp it as particularly reminiscent of what "Adventures of Scott Island" would love to have for background. And sure enough on the tight little isle is a sign burnt in charred wood, hailing "Starring Barry Sullivan." A star on Star Island, no less.
Across the way along the treacherous and ponderous granite blocks of the inner breakwater and beyond, never giving a thought to the menace of the unsteady paving, were young fry of Rockport. We still feel this mass of wobbly granite should be posted and even perhaps wired off to save folks against their own rash actions. We dread seeing a life lost if those big blocks should ever shift.
Continuing along the shoreline a wary eye out for that over-fed police dog that often has threatened to tear us limb from limb on the Old Garden Beach stretch, we came upon the storm-tossed strand itself and for the first time viewed the "big 'ole" that the nor'easter tore into that Morrill wall.
The elements sure had their say with a vim on that one. It ripped the wall from the sands to the road, at least 20 feet diameter. No big bucket could have done as well in a whole day's chawing.
The property owner is going to have it rebuilt even stronger than before, so we hear. And homes along the way will be more secure because of it. Here we were again brought full force to the luxury of living beside the sea. The rich fragrance of the sea smell itself, the sheen of the sea kelp, the music of soft waves over beach stones, all add up to the lure of the seaside to man.
And here as we came to the end of the short strand, we found by scrambling up the dirt and rock-strewn slope that we merged into the forgotten shore path of the past, a section still ungobbled by encroaching landowners. It took the spirit of a mountain goat to do it, but we had keen experience as one of Rogers' Rangers on Dogtown moraine.
The sea's flotsam was in evidence. Gnarled white tree stumps, lobster pots of all conditions, pen boards off fishing craft, a feast for the fireplace collectors. The storm has its bright side for some folks.
Up on the highland again, we passed by Dow's Landing, a residence with an honest-to-goodness wrought iron fence in all its strong beauty. On Marmion Way, it was. And from here you also get the full rich sweep of the Cove. It lends itself to a movie script of old New England.
And then there right in front of us having the time of his Spring-time debut on the Whitehead estate was a pudgy fat-tailed squirrel. His diet for that day we do not know. He didn't look as if he cared.
Cast iron colored statues of lads in jockey costume serving as hitching posts are rare even in New England. We passed one at a Marmion Way yard.
Ahead of us gleamed the silver silo of a farm, one of the very few left on Cape Ann. We decided to pay it a visit, just to see if the lure of the northern Vermont dairy farm was any less thrilling than one on our own Cape. We found 44 contented Elsies scrunching their fodder beneath the rafters. A real clean barn, well kept, is this one of Charlie Lane's. Tended by Louis Buchanon and Robert Martin, a couple of young fellers, all seemed to be ship-shape.
Yes, it was another enjoyable walk within easy range of our own home, and to us far more fun than taking to the gas buggy. Folks would do well to learn more of their own town by walking rather than by riding.
JPC, Jr.
It was an ideal day for stepping out and we had the world to ourselves except for the whizzing cars, and they didn't really count to us who prefer shanks mare. We were thinking about the glorious weather of Patriot's Day when in Rockport town the only American flag we saw a-fluttering in the center of the village was the one Custodian John Niemi had hoisted over the high school. Maybe that was why the thunder rolled as a protest from the "Spirit of '76".
On the way up Mount Pleasant Street we ambled over the fluttering crazy curved sidewalk from the Windsor House heading toward Pleasant Street. It was an engineering feat of a fluttering hand on the drawing board but it is right up the alley of our artists craving design.
A glance down to the yacht club showed plenty astir as the boating enthusiasts of all ages seemed busy fooling around the docked craft. Whether it needs it or not, a boat gets as much fond attention from the owner as does old Betsey, the family car. If there's nothing else, there's bottom scrapping.
Thence onto Atlantic Avenue and by Star Island, which actually is no island but has been dubbed as such for years beyond recall. It is perhaps one of the most picturesque spots on Sandy Bay. Its old fish shacks and lobster buoys stamp it as particularly reminiscent of what "Adventures of Scott Island" would love to have for background. And sure enough on the tight little isle is a sign burnt in charred wood, hailing "Starring Barry Sullivan." A star on Star Island, no less.
Across the way along the treacherous and ponderous granite blocks of the inner breakwater and beyond, never giving a thought to the menace of the unsteady paving, were young fry of Rockport. We still feel this mass of wobbly granite should be posted and even perhaps wired off to save folks against their own rash actions. We dread seeing a life lost if those big blocks should ever shift.
Continuing along the shoreline a wary eye out for that over-fed police dog that often has threatened to tear us limb from limb on the Old Garden Beach stretch, we came upon the storm-tossed strand itself and for the first time viewed the "big 'ole" that the nor'easter tore into that Morrill wall.
The elements sure had their say with a vim on that one. It ripped the wall from the sands to the road, at least 20 feet diameter. No big bucket could have done as well in a whole day's chawing.
The property owner is going to have it rebuilt even stronger than before, so we hear. And homes along the way will be more secure because of it. Here we were again brought full force to the luxury of living beside the sea. The rich fragrance of the sea smell itself, the sheen of the sea kelp, the music of soft waves over beach stones, all add up to the lure of the seaside to man.
And here as we came to the end of the short strand, we found by scrambling up the dirt and rock-strewn slope that we merged into the forgotten shore path of the past, a section still ungobbled by encroaching landowners. It took the spirit of a mountain goat to do it, but we had keen experience as one of Rogers' Rangers on Dogtown moraine.
The sea's flotsam was in evidence. Gnarled white tree stumps, lobster pots of all conditions, pen boards off fishing craft, a feast for the fireplace collectors. The storm has its bright side for some folks.
Up on the highland again, we passed by Dow's Landing, a residence with an honest-to-goodness wrought iron fence in all its strong beauty. On Marmion Way, it was. And from here you also get the full rich sweep of the Cove. It lends itself to a movie script of old New England.
And then there right in front of us having the time of his Spring-time debut on the Whitehead estate was a pudgy fat-tailed squirrel. His diet for that day we do not know. He didn't look as if he cared.
Cast iron colored statues of lads in jockey costume serving as hitching posts are rare even in New England. We passed one at a Marmion Way yard.
Ahead of us gleamed the silver silo of a farm, one of the very few left on Cape Ann. We decided to pay it a visit, just to see if the lure of the northern Vermont dairy farm was any less thrilling than one on our own Cape. We found 44 contented Elsies scrunching their fodder beneath the rafters. A real clean barn, well kept, is this one of Charlie Lane's. Tended by Louis Buchanon and Robert Martin, a couple of young fellers, all seemed to be ship-shape.
Yes, it was another enjoyable walk within easy range of our own home, and to us far more fun than taking to the gas buggy. Folks would do well to learn more of their own town by walking rather than by riding.
JPC, Jr.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Old Hickory Calls --Squam Hill
Nobody else in the world but that cantankerous Old Hickory of the 19th century could have rooted this old fossil out of his easy chair of a Sunday afternoon. But the walkative wife had heard so much about this carving on the brow of Squam Hill, Rockport, that to ward off a talkathon, we had to unsprawl our short limbs and with our four-legged Moll known as a boxer, go ambling up Rockport's ceiling.
A gorgeous blue sky, clouds inviting, wind cooling...as usual, we cheated, the wife and I and rode in the old crate to the first level. At once we were greeted by the lush greens of Spring-blessed trees in the wooded sections. Then we ran into all manner of moistened saplings as we approached the many homes.
We were intrigued by these houses, originally dwellings of Rockport's pioneer quarry workers, who took great pride in shaping stone walls, some rough and inhibitized, others well designed and finished. Across the street, we rejoiced in the sight of two crude swings the nostalgic kind that our youngsters will always enjoy under any "ism." In one yard, a squat trailer sat flaunting a bold pennon, green in color. And all over the area were faded lobster pots waiting to be trucked off to the ocean. Up to now, our 60-pound Molly had been no problem, but all of a sudden, up roared the raucous thunder of a myriad of "woofers" demanding to know what right she had to invade this area. We are happy to report that there was no blood shed.
We passed by several individual playgrounds where folks had taken care of their own children's outdoor fun with swings, climbs and the like without begging their fellow taxpayers' help. Along the way toward the height we came across a modern housing challenge, which we were told was an unfinished symphony in home design where a music lover is enjoying perfection in amateur architecture. Yes, we liked what we saw.
The nearness of Memorial Day came home as we caught the cloying scent of puple lilacs well on their way for children's grubby hands to deposit on the graves of the war veteran dead. Still toiling skyward, we came to the mountain retreat of Town Treasurer-Collector Alvin S. Brown, Jr., who was in holiday attire in summer slacks. He was quick to lead us to Old Hickory staring into space across the street.
The statue of Andrew Jackson of the baleful eye features the well kept grounds of Sam W. Burgess, gunsmith. Sam carved it out of pine, complete to the austere black robes and yellow topper in hand. This Andrew, five foot seven, stands on a large granite slab. To his left is an iron copy of a Civil War howitzer made by Burgess and to his right is a bonafide Mexican mountain howitzer of a century ago. The property is fronted by a long section of wrought iron fence of grapevine design transported here from Bucksport, Maine, on one side and on the other end an equally long section of wrought iron fence of the year 1856 from Portland, Maine. A crooked welded chain supports the mailbox.
Just beyond, we ran into one of Rockport's most beautiful natural rock gardens ablaze in lavender ground phlox on the property of the Bob Cooneys. The setting is directly in front of an abandoned quarry pit on the fringe of the woods. Young Chris and Billy Cooney were on hand to point out their gardening achievements.
From there into Dogtown, Molly reveled in the brush, removed from car and cat cares. A great place for a walk of a near-summer Sunday.
J.P.C., Jr.
A gorgeous blue sky, clouds inviting, wind cooling...as usual, we cheated, the wife and I and rode in the old crate to the first level. At once we were greeted by the lush greens of Spring-blessed trees in the wooded sections. Then we ran into all manner of moistened saplings as we approached the many homes.
We were intrigued by these houses, originally dwellings of Rockport's pioneer quarry workers, who took great pride in shaping stone walls, some rough and inhibitized, others well designed and finished. Across the street, we rejoiced in the sight of two crude swings the nostalgic kind that our youngsters will always enjoy under any "ism." In one yard, a squat trailer sat flaunting a bold pennon, green in color. And all over the area were faded lobster pots waiting to be trucked off to the ocean. Up to now, our 60-pound Molly had been no problem, but all of a sudden, up roared the raucous thunder of a myriad of "woofers" demanding to know what right she had to invade this area. We are happy to report that there was no blood shed.
We passed by several individual playgrounds where folks had taken care of their own children's outdoor fun with swings, climbs and the like without begging their fellow taxpayers' help. Along the way toward the height we came across a modern housing challenge, which we were told was an unfinished symphony in home design where a music lover is enjoying perfection in amateur architecture. Yes, we liked what we saw.
The nearness of Memorial Day came home as we caught the cloying scent of puple lilacs well on their way for children's grubby hands to deposit on the graves of the war veteran dead. Still toiling skyward, we came to the mountain retreat of Town Treasurer-Collector Alvin S. Brown, Jr., who was in holiday attire in summer slacks. He was quick to lead us to Old Hickory staring into space across the street.
The statue of Andrew Jackson of the baleful eye features the well kept grounds of Sam W. Burgess, gunsmith. Sam carved it out of pine, complete to the austere black robes and yellow topper in hand. This Andrew, five foot seven, stands on a large granite slab. To his left is an iron copy of a Civil War howitzer made by Burgess and to his right is a bonafide Mexican mountain howitzer of a century ago. The property is fronted by a long section of wrought iron fence of grapevine design transported here from Bucksport, Maine, on one side and on the other end an equally long section of wrought iron fence of the year 1856 from Portland, Maine. A crooked welded chain supports the mailbox.
Just beyond, we ran into one of Rockport's most beautiful natural rock gardens ablaze in lavender ground phlox on the property of the Bob Cooneys. The setting is directly in front of an abandoned quarry pit on the fringe of the woods. Young Chris and Billy Cooney were on hand to point out their gardening achievements.
From there into Dogtown, Molly reveled in the brush, removed from car and cat cares. A great place for a walk of a near-summer Sunday.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk Along Flat Rocks
Patriots Day means many things to many people. But we fear that to the wife and I it meant just another grand and glorious Sunday to stretch our legs for a walk with the "monster," that 40 pound spayed female Mollie. There's no getting over it, a better day for travelling a-foot couldn't have been found anywhere.
Worse the luck, it had to be shortened because the yard needed a fine tooth massage after the winter's spraying of debris all over the place. And it had to be done before the weatherman made good his promise of wet weather over the holiday weekend. Besides our Spring visitors from down South (of Boston) should be treated to dressed up grounds. That's what they pay their meter money for.
The coin this time came up on a car hop to Pigeon Cove as a time saver, and a short walk back of the tool company, along the shore and the rocks, then up Cathedral Avenue down Balestracci's Boulevard (Green Street) and back to the limousine. No muscle-rippler by any means but it had to do.
We were no strangers to part of this stroll, but we soon learned the old orbs must be dimming for completely missed was the invisible house on the left opposite the foundry. All that can be seen by the naked eye is the stone foundation and the stone pillars out front for the steps to the front door. But no house in sight. Even a pear tree had become a skeleton. That didn't stop a group of happy youngsters enjoying themselvs in the gnarled brush.
Nearby stood the home of someone who must think an extra lot of birds for four little homes were arranged atop a grape arbor. And the well-kept lawn showed brilliant green where Spring has smiled upon the grass. Up the hill loomed a stone wall that must have been 12 foot high. Think of that today in dollars! Only when that was built, it must have been the labor that was enormous.
Molly had a real ball for herself in that neighborhood. Every four-legger proved to be either a yipping or a barking friend. No other spayeds in this territory. In fact the fast slowing down galoot was even taken on a guided tour of the area by one new-found noser.
Up along the bluffs back of the Hotel Edwards to look smack into a heavy haze over the Atlantic. Here's where the wife noted how flat are the rocks along the Pigeon Cove shore, apparently different from most of the rest of the Cape. Even an old-timer finds them easier on the equilibrium.
Around the bend we came upon the sad spectacle of what must have once been tennis courts. Right now the court was knee deep in weeds and such. The enclosing wire fences were shreds dropping form the metal poles. Isn't there any greater call for tennis than this? To us, it seems to be an outdoor sport that should be re-captured by the existing generations in much larger numbers.
The green-eyed monster (not Molly, the boxer) crept within us as we passed a solid stone home on the bluff. It looked so formidable, as if it could withstand the furies of any attack. And what a command of the changing ocean. For the first time in months, we had fellow travelers all around us. We found folks who make us look like pikers when it comes to Sunday walks. There were Archie and Janette MacMasters who left Broadway, New York, to roost on Broadway, Rockport. Long ago they discovered Cape Ann on foot and were upset because their friends elsewhere think the only Cape in the Bay State is named for a fish instead of a queen.
Others hiking toward the Cove were the Alex Marrs and Marjie Norton. We felt real guilty for they caught us in the car on the way home. After all, we are supposed to the walkers, the wife and I!
J.P.C., Jr.
Worse the luck, it had to be shortened because the yard needed a fine tooth massage after the winter's spraying of debris all over the place. And it had to be done before the weatherman made good his promise of wet weather over the holiday weekend. Besides our Spring visitors from down South (of Boston) should be treated to dressed up grounds. That's what they pay their meter money for.
The coin this time came up on a car hop to Pigeon Cove as a time saver, and a short walk back of the tool company, along the shore and the rocks, then up Cathedral Avenue down Balestracci's Boulevard (Green Street) and back to the limousine. No muscle-rippler by any means but it had to do.
We were no strangers to part of this stroll, but we soon learned the old orbs must be dimming for completely missed was the invisible house on the left opposite the foundry. All that can be seen by the naked eye is the stone foundation and the stone pillars out front for the steps to the front door. But no house in sight. Even a pear tree had become a skeleton. That didn't stop a group of happy youngsters enjoying themselvs in the gnarled brush.
Nearby stood the home of someone who must think an extra lot of birds for four little homes were arranged atop a grape arbor. And the well-kept lawn showed brilliant green where Spring has smiled upon the grass. Up the hill loomed a stone wall that must have been 12 foot high. Think of that today in dollars! Only when that was built, it must have been the labor that was enormous.
Molly had a real ball for herself in that neighborhood. Every four-legger proved to be either a yipping or a barking friend. No other spayeds in this territory. In fact the fast slowing down galoot was even taken on a guided tour of the area by one new-found noser.
Up along the bluffs back of the Hotel Edwards to look smack into a heavy haze over the Atlantic. Here's where the wife noted how flat are the rocks along the Pigeon Cove shore, apparently different from most of the rest of the Cape. Even an old-timer finds them easier on the equilibrium.
Around the bend we came upon the sad spectacle of what must have once been tennis courts. Right now the court was knee deep in weeds and such. The enclosing wire fences were shreds dropping form the metal poles. Isn't there any greater call for tennis than this? To us, it seems to be an outdoor sport that should be re-captured by the existing generations in much larger numbers.
The green-eyed monster (not Molly, the boxer) crept within us as we passed a solid stone home on the bluff. It looked so formidable, as if it could withstand the furies of any attack. And what a command of the changing ocean. For the first time in months, we had fellow travelers all around us. We found folks who make us look like pikers when it comes to Sunday walks. There were Archie and Janette MacMasters who left Broadway, New York, to roost on Broadway, Rockport. Long ago they discovered Cape Ann on foot and were upset because their friends elsewhere think the only Cape in the Bay State is named for a fish instead of a queen.
Others hiking toward the Cove were the Alex Marrs and Marjie Norton. We felt real guilty for they caught us in the car on the way home. After all, we are supposed to the walkers, the wife and I!
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk With a Bumbershoot
It was a surly, sour Sunday afternoon for a walk but with the wife there's just no turning now that her head is swelled by having a doting public that swears their week is not complete without "The Wife and I." And of course our four-footed mammoth Mollie isn't worth living with unless we give her the bit through hill and dale in Rockport town of a Sabbath, come tabbies or squirrels.
So off we cheated again in the gasping gas buggy over toward North Village. On the way, we passed the sad sight of a yellow kite caught in a tree at Hale Knowlton's Corner, the sign of the broken heart of some laddie who failed to clear earthen bounds.
And so to roll past the brilliant neatly patterned grounds of school teacher Eleanor C. Burke at the gateway to the Cove with yellow jonquils arrayed in most unusual fashion. We marked it down as a spectacular though small display.
We thrilled to the sight of the well kept grounds of the Old Castle of which the Cove may well be proud, and right next door to the startling scene of forsythia in all its golden glory nestling in terraced rocks, like a Japanese garden, as the wife so aptly phrased it.
It was about time we saved on the gas bill and took to shank's mare. So out we stepped, all three of us to renew our old acquaintance with the picturesque avenues of the Cove. Phillips was our first choice as we ambled past the barricaded Hotel Edward, strolling under the protection of a bumbershoot of questionable vintage.
Through the late Spring drizzle we were delighted with the sight of a colorful spread gold eagle over the entrance to the home of New York Times staff writer Victor Lawn who lives in a house that the wife informs me was once a schoolhouse. We hope that our friend Victor is duly impressed with the lore under his roof.
Our walk took us through the windings of this avenue and into a seashore area out of which yapped a commanding yet genial voice. "Where's your passport?" Selectman Bill Reed had been aroused from his Sabbath siesta by the barks of a boxer challenging his also challenging German shepherd. The wife and I recall a wonderful Cove shore walk on which Bill, his wife and the Walter Johnsons once took us. We look forward to them as guides on an inland Cove tour soon. As for the shepherd dog, our fretsome love child did take an unhealthy lunge but then stopped in mid-air and thought better of it. Mollie just doesn't "sprechen sie Deutsch."
We were most impressed at how trim were the premises along this winding avenue and how there were so many blind lanes that led to the rocky shore. Along with the smell of the ocean, the luxury of well-ordered estates were also the welcome interruptions of woodland copses. We began to understand why the North Villagers are so intensely proud of their particular neighborhood.
On the course of our walk, we came across at least two scarred ruins of summer hotels of the past with only the staunch stone walls standing. And nearby were heaping piles of cordwood close to a whispering brook trying to find its way to the open sea. Awaiting its coming was the grisly groan of a mariner's warning reminding folks of what they already knew that it was a lousy day for anyone to be taking a walk. But us folks just never learn.
A rough-hewn tree house in the woods caught the wife's eye for she recalled a similar one that the youngsters of our neighbors once built and in which they really had a ball day to day. Sometimes that ball hit us much to our dismay especially since it was our own tree. But love thy neighbors, that's us!
For our Mollie, the tree held no charm. Rather she doted on swamp rooting only to come up with four dirty black paws that meant the cleaners for her once we got home. Oh yes, it was a lively walk despite Mollie's discolored paws. You'd love every swamp of it, we know.
J.P.C., Jr.
So off we cheated again in the gasping gas buggy over toward North Village. On the way, we passed the sad sight of a yellow kite caught in a tree at Hale Knowlton's Corner, the sign of the broken heart of some laddie who failed to clear earthen bounds.
And so to roll past the brilliant neatly patterned grounds of school teacher Eleanor C. Burke at the gateway to the Cove with yellow jonquils arrayed in most unusual fashion. We marked it down as a spectacular though small display.
We thrilled to the sight of the well kept grounds of the Old Castle of which the Cove may well be proud, and right next door to the startling scene of forsythia in all its golden glory nestling in terraced rocks, like a Japanese garden, as the wife so aptly phrased it.
It was about time we saved on the gas bill and took to shank's mare. So out we stepped, all three of us to renew our old acquaintance with the picturesque avenues of the Cove. Phillips was our first choice as we ambled past the barricaded Hotel Edward, strolling under the protection of a bumbershoot of questionable vintage.
Through the late Spring drizzle we were delighted with the sight of a colorful spread gold eagle over the entrance to the home of New York Times staff writer Victor Lawn who lives in a house that the wife informs me was once a schoolhouse. We hope that our friend Victor is duly impressed with the lore under his roof.
Our walk took us through the windings of this avenue and into a seashore area out of which yapped a commanding yet genial voice. "Where's your passport?" Selectman Bill Reed had been aroused from his Sabbath siesta by the barks of a boxer challenging his also challenging German shepherd. The wife and I recall a wonderful Cove shore walk on which Bill, his wife and the Walter Johnsons once took us. We look forward to them as guides on an inland Cove tour soon. As for the shepherd dog, our fretsome love child did take an unhealthy lunge but then stopped in mid-air and thought better of it. Mollie just doesn't "sprechen sie Deutsch."
We were most impressed at how trim were the premises along this winding avenue and how there were so many blind lanes that led to the rocky shore. Along with the smell of the ocean, the luxury of well-ordered estates were also the welcome interruptions of woodland copses. We began to understand why the North Villagers are so intensely proud of their particular neighborhood.
On the course of our walk, we came across at least two scarred ruins of summer hotels of the past with only the staunch stone walls standing. And nearby were heaping piles of cordwood close to a whispering brook trying to find its way to the open sea. Awaiting its coming was the grisly groan of a mariner's warning reminding folks of what they already knew that it was a lousy day for anyone to be taking a walk. But us folks just never learn.
A rough-hewn tree house in the woods caught the wife's eye for she recalled a similar one that the youngsters of our neighbors once built and in which they really had a ball day to day. Sometimes that ball hit us much to our dismay especially since it was our own tree. But love thy neighbors, that's us!
For our Mollie, the tree held no charm. Rather she doted on swamp rooting only to come up with four dirty black paws that meant the cleaners for her once we got home. Oh yes, it was a lively walk despite Mollie's discolored paws. You'd love every swamp of it, we know.
J.P.C., Jr.
Prospect to Dock Square - Spring
Ever go church fund canvassing? That's what the wife and I did on Sunday afternoon. We found it simple, relaxing, a chance to make new good friends and renew old acquaintances. And above all, a grand excuse for another pleasing walk around Rockport streets.
This time we were choked up as far as taking our boxer Molly along. After all, we were seeking weekly pledges from good citizens, and we didn't want to frighten them out of their pocketbooks with the rambunctious package of dynamite. Confronting them with Molly could be haled as attempted coercion. And we feared the pastor wouldn't condone it. So the lithe one spent the afternoon chasing squirrels in vain around the neighbors' yards.
They were kind to us at the church -- only gave us four to call on, and in locations that made an ideal stroll, not too long nor too short. It took us first from our School Street home up that street past bared gray trees tossed and shaken by the day's high winds into Pleasant Street, where we noted what is possibly the town's biggest compost mound in the yard of retired teacher Charles Haskell. His is a grand yard for extensive vegetable and flower gardens. Compost is most welcome there.
In Prospect Street we saw that Ed Gracie was building an addition to his house. And that Alice Cox's dachshund seemed to be fattening up, though she insisted instead he was dropping a couple of pounds. Past Poole's twin barns that are still protected from being art studios we walked. Derelict they may be, but true to the past, even to the old farm cart idle in the yard and two nondescript dories without a sea in sight. To us, it's good to have some of old Rockport left in the village.
In our first call, we got the treat of finding a family who loved to collect birds of all colors, besides tropical fish that the wife hailed as goldfish, much to the hostess' disgust. Actually they were guppies. We set her straight right quick. Ambling down Prospect Street we came to South, where on the corner there popped before us a clean white gate in a dry stone wall. But the gate led only into thicket. For Molly it would have been a cinch, but to us that snarl of brush made the gate useless. We gave up that call.
Onto Mount Pleasant Street we came upon a beagle that oozed friendliness once she smelled Molly on our clothes. Funny how one dog feels that anyone who tolerates another pup must be a pal to all the ilk. Took us a half a century to find that out. In another delightful call, soliciting was secondary to visiting. We just talked of mutual friends, past and present.
En route to Dock Square we tried another Rockport lane that was new to us. They call it Star Island Lane. The signpost looked wet behind the ears, but it was poetic, and actually led into Atlantic Avenue and beyond to what was once an isle, tiny as it might be, in Rockport Cove. The lane was actually hot-topped and folks lived beside it; folks we knew. Along much of one side of it ran a spectacular high hedge. We imagined Peter Rabbit and Br'er Cottontail cavorting in and around it, for the hedge bordered the modest estate of artist Harrison Cady.
Thence to Dock Square and an apartment where we saw one of Peter Hamlett's fresh brilliant high surf scenes that a critic was admiring. Art was rewarding, but at the time, we had dollar signs for eyeglasses, all for the church you know, so, our business was with the vivacious young lady of the house. It was a skip and jump to the final call next door. The missus admitted that folks had a habit of using their home for a traveled way from Main Street into the high school yard. But this time it cost her money. All for the church, of course.
Which reminds us, try church fund canvassing if you want to make friends, enjoy the fresh air and take a little exercise walking.
J.P.C., Jr.
This time we were choked up as far as taking our boxer Molly along. After all, we were seeking weekly pledges from good citizens, and we didn't want to frighten them out of their pocketbooks with the rambunctious package of dynamite. Confronting them with Molly could be haled as attempted coercion. And we feared the pastor wouldn't condone it. So the lithe one spent the afternoon chasing squirrels in vain around the neighbors' yards.
They were kind to us at the church -- only gave us four to call on, and in locations that made an ideal stroll, not too long nor too short. It took us first from our School Street home up that street past bared gray trees tossed and shaken by the day's high winds into Pleasant Street, where we noted what is possibly the town's biggest compost mound in the yard of retired teacher Charles Haskell. His is a grand yard for extensive vegetable and flower gardens. Compost is most welcome there.
In Prospect Street we saw that Ed Gracie was building an addition to his house. And that Alice Cox's dachshund seemed to be fattening up, though she insisted instead he was dropping a couple of pounds. Past Poole's twin barns that are still protected from being art studios we walked. Derelict they may be, but true to the past, even to the old farm cart idle in the yard and two nondescript dories without a sea in sight. To us, it's good to have some of old Rockport left in the village.
In our first call, we got the treat of finding a family who loved to collect birds of all colors, besides tropical fish that the wife hailed as goldfish, much to the hostess' disgust. Actually they were guppies. We set her straight right quick. Ambling down Prospect Street we came to South, where on the corner there popped before us a clean white gate in a dry stone wall. But the gate led only into thicket. For Molly it would have been a cinch, but to us that snarl of brush made the gate useless. We gave up that call.
Onto Mount Pleasant Street we came upon a beagle that oozed friendliness once she smelled Molly on our clothes. Funny how one dog feels that anyone who tolerates another pup must be a pal to all the ilk. Took us a half a century to find that out. In another delightful call, soliciting was secondary to visiting. We just talked of mutual friends, past and present.
En route to Dock Square we tried another Rockport lane that was new to us. They call it Star Island Lane. The signpost looked wet behind the ears, but it was poetic, and actually led into Atlantic Avenue and beyond to what was once an isle, tiny as it might be, in Rockport Cove. The lane was actually hot-topped and folks lived beside it; folks we knew. Along much of one side of it ran a spectacular high hedge. We imagined Peter Rabbit and Br'er Cottontail cavorting in and around it, for the hedge bordered the modest estate of artist Harrison Cady.
Thence to Dock Square and an apartment where we saw one of Peter Hamlett's fresh brilliant high surf scenes that a critic was admiring. Art was rewarding, but at the time, we had dollar signs for eyeglasses, all for the church you know, so, our business was with the vivacious young lady of the house. It was a skip and jump to the final call next door. The missus admitted that folks had a habit of using their home for a traveled way from Main Street into the high school yard. But this time it cost her money. All for the church, of course.
Which reminds us, try church fund canvassing if you want to make friends, enjoy the fresh air and take a little exercise walking.
J.P.C., Jr.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Spring on Broadway
Up the Rockport version of Broadway the wife and I walked into an ambitious group of Sea Scouts really doing a job in tidying up the grounds of the new town office building. Why the town can't afford to hire men to do that important chore is beyond us. But it gives the young men a chance to add to their merit badge achievements, we suppose.
Straw boss evident was Shorty Lesch, who incidentally does a grand work with the scouts. He has a habit of winning their confidence and getting the best out of them. 'Tis a pity that more fathers don't try to emulate fellers like Shorty and Skip Brown (Boy Scout fame). Why are so many fathers so willing to set back on their golf clubs and let somebody else take care of their sons! That we'll never know.
More evidence of house cleaning was spotted on the front lawn and side one too of the Methodist Church. They tell us that Roger Smith and his aides gave up a day to tidy up the place of the winter debris. Whoever dun it, dun a bright job.
Across the way you couldn't help but delight in the sensation of the full blossomed magnolia tree in the immaculate yard of the Rockport Post Office where Eben Knowlton does a thorough performance. We doubt if there's another PO around in the nation that looks any better.
That brought us up to the sight of Rockpor's only police dog, a shaggy and shy terrier owned by Patrolman L. Ellsworth Harris, a Broadwayite, Rockport style. Old faithful besides watering our bushes faithfully, also haunts the town gaol. He's a moseyin' kyote with nothing but peace in his heart, and no stomach for crime bustin'.
Ever think how lobster buoys can be so decorative to a garden? Well, Postmaster Ralph Wilson, another Broadwayite in Sandy Bay, must have thought so for he has done a right smart piece of out-door decorating with these colorful buoys mixed with massive junipers. The effect is prizeworthy. And those buoys form an impressive background to the old stone wall. The Wilson grounds gain plenty of strength of character in that quaint wall. The town has many of them. May any historical committee fight hard to retain such walls so us sentimental walkers can continue to revel in our weekly strolls. Let's not ge too darned modern!
Along we swung up onto Main Street and past the Frank Parady yard. Maybe we've mentioned it before but that old-fashioned wooden chair swing rolls up all the nostaglia of the past. Yup, as kids we burned up many an hour a-pushing and a-dreaming the biggest whoppers in such a swing in the backyard. And we had that chair swing a-whooshing high into the air beyond all safety zones. Yet there was nary a mishap. Them were the days when they celebrated the good old Fourth of July with the vang-bang salutes and firecrackers that shot tin cans rocketing into the ozone. In the days before the old ladies sewing circles hamstrung a decent big Fourth toot, American independence was sabotaged along the way by petticoat government, say we.
But what's this? A real old-fashioned merry-go-round nag. And right in Dr. Jack Bloombergh's yard on the main stem. This we had to take a closer look at, so we invaded the premises. Sure enough, it was the real McCoy. It was hard to resist the temptation to jump on the critter's back and even though there was no motor, we could imagine us off on a ride to nowhere but fantasy land of youth!
J.P.C., Jr.
Straw boss evident was Shorty Lesch, who incidentally does a grand work with the scouts. He has a habit of winning their confidence and getting the best out of them. 'Tis a pity that more fathers don't try to emulate fellers like Shorty and Skip Brown (Boy Scout fame). Why are so many fathers so willing to set back on their golf clubs and let somebody else take care of their sons! That we'll never know.
More evidence of house cleaning was spotted on the front lawn and side one too of the Methodist Church. They tell us that Roger Smith and his aides gave up a day to tidy up the place of the winter debris. Whoever dun it, dun a bright job.
Across the way you couldn't help but delight in the sensation of the full blossomed magnolia tree in the immaculate yard of the Rockport Post Office where Eben Knowlton does a thorough performance. We doubt if there's another PO around in the nation that looks any better.
That brought us up to the sight of Rockpor's only police dog, a shaggy and shy terrier owned by Patrolman L. Ellsworth Harris, a Broadwayite, Rockport style. Old faithful besides watering our bushes faithfully, also haunts the town gaol. He's a moseyin' kyote with nothing but peace in his heart, and no stomach for crime bustin'.
Ever think how lobster buoys can be so decorative to a garden? Well, Postmaster Ralph Wilson, another Broadwayite in Sandy Bay, must have thought so for he has done a right smart piece of out-door decorating with these colorful buoys mixed with massive junipers. The effect is prizeworthy. And those buoys form an impressive background to the old stone wall. The Wilson grounds gain plenty of strength of character in that quaint wall. The town has many of them. May any historical committee fight hard to retain such walls so us sentimental walkers can continue to revel in our weekly strolls. Let's not ge too darned modern!
Along we swung up onto Main Street and past the Frank Parady yard. Maybe we've mentioned it before but that old-fashioned wooden chair swing rolls up all the nostaglia of the past. Yup, as kids we burned up many an hour a-pushing and a-dreaming the biggest whoppers in such a swing in the backyard. And we had that chair swing a-whooshing high into the air beyond all safety zones. Yet there was nary a mishap. Them were the days when they celebrated the good old Fourth of July with the vang-bang salutes and firecrackers that shot tin cans rocketing into the ozone. In the days before the old ladies sewing circles hamstrung a decent big Fourth toot, American independence was sabotaged along the way by petticoat government, say we.
But what's this? A real old-fashioned merry-go-round nag. And right in Dr. Jack Bloombergh's yard on the main stem. This we had to take a closer look at, so we invaded the premises. Sure enough, it was the real McCoy. It was hard to resist the temptation to jump on the critter's back and even though there was no motor, we could imagine us off on a ride to nowhere but fantasy land of youth!
J.P.C., Jr.
In Rugged Country of Pigeon Cove - April 7, 1964,
The wife and I and our four-legged brown bomber sallied forth on the first Sunday in April for a stroll through the scrubby hills of Pigeon Cove, the backlands of the Cape. Hillside Road was the starting point. No sooner had Molly the boxer waddled out of the four-door than up bellowed a chain reaction of yowls and growls that echoed and re-echoed through the hills, warning our little innocent that this was not her kingdom and she'd better mind her p's and q's.
On with the leash and up the road we saw a house with a mess of lobster pots, old and new, piled in the yard and a basketball hoop fastened to a gnarled old tree beside a pot-bellied stove that is bound to be due for a church auction sale sooner or later. We soon realized that it took courage to build in this corner of the Cape. Scrub and brush and woodland crowd home sites. Right in a front yard was a boulder that even the grand glacier couldn't stomach, a boulder that weighed more than the sins of the world after sunset.
Yips and yaps materialized in the shape of a mammoth mutt--but mighty good looking! Whoever she or he was, it had plenty of pounds on our 65-pounder. Its bark was soul reaching, but it was secured fore and aft, and though our sweet young thing almost chewed through the leather of her strap, her restrainer held as did our lady bird's control. We sauntered aristocratically though fearsomely past.
Within our gaze was a fanciful contrast of a decaying car nearby a nostalgic sleigh of yesteryear. It became a walk between contrasting generations. Bringing us back to the day that it was the site of a row of homes on Pigeon Hill Street, running parallel to this backwoods road.
For the auto-graveled road on which we started had settled down to a dirt path, hillbound amid brush and brier dotted by abandoned small quarry pits. Pits that could be much more picturesque and alluring if they weren't used for public dumps for empty tomato cans, peach cans, and other rubbish too filthy to mention. Not all the pits were so abused along the way, but too many for our walking pleasure.
As we climbed higher, a look back over our shoulders captured for us what must be one of the big attractions for those whose courage brings them to carve out their homes from this rugged terrain. The broad rich deep blue of the Atlantic could be clearly viewed from the brow of this hill, a view that cannot be surpassed in the whole wide world.
And for Molly we had reached the piece de resistance. For here in comparative solitude we could off with the leash and let her snout the ground and the frozen little pools all she wanted. We did so before we realized that off to starboard was a splendid looking tethered horse. Our Molly has always had a penchant for baiting 'orse's 'ooves, but her attention was given to a mammoth bushy tailed pussy-cat that gave our four-legged baby a run that left her breathing hard. That gal will never learn.
We took a turn that gave us conniption fits fearing we'd spend the night on dreary Dogtown, living on gooseberries, trying to find our way back to God's country. But again the little woman was right direction-wise; we came out to Joe DeGagne's back yard and Pigeon Hill Street.
It was a typical splendid walk of a Sunday. Why not try it, folks?
J.PP.C., Jr.
On with the leash and up the road we saw a house with a mess of lobster pots, old and new, piled in the yard and a basketball hoop fastened to a gnarled old tree beside a pot-bellied stove that is bound to be due for a church auction sale sooner or later. We soon realized that it took courage to build in this corner of the Cape. Scrub and brush and woodland crowd home sites. Right in a front yard was a boulder that even the grand glacier couldn't stomach, a boulder that weighed more than the sins of the world after sunset.
Yips and yaps materialized in the shape of a mammoth mutt--but mighty good looking! Whoever she or he was, it had plenty of pounds on our 65-pounder. Its bark was soul reaching, but it was secured fore and aft, and though our sweet young thing almost chewed through the leather of her strap, her restrainer held as did our lady bird's control. We sauntered aristocratically though fearsomely past.
Within our gaze was a fanciful contrast of a decaying car nearby a nostalgic sleigh of yesteryear. It became a walk between contrasting generations. Bringing us back to the day that it was the site of a row of homes on Pigeon Hill Street, running parallel to this backwoods road.
For the auto-graveled road on which we started had settled down to a dirt path, hillbound amid brush and brier dotted by abandoned small quarry pits. Pits that could be much more picturesque and alluring if they weren't used for public dumps for empty tomato cans, peach cans, and other rubbish too filthy to mention. Not all the pits were so abused along the way, but too many for our walking pleasure.
As we climbed higher, a look back over our shoulders captured for us what must be one of the big attractions for those whose courage brings them to carve out their homes from this rugged terrain. The broad rich deep blue of the Atlantic could be clearly viewed from the brow of this hill, a view that cannot be surpassed in the whole wide world.
And for Molly we had reached the piece de resistance. For here in comparative solitude we could off with the leash and let her snout the ground and the frozen little pools all she wanted. We did so before we realized that off to starboard was a splendid looking tethered horse. Our Molly has always had a penchant for baiting 'orse's 'ooves, but her attention was given to a mammoth bushy tailed pussy-cat that gave our four-legged baby a run that left her breathing hard. That gal will never learn.
We took a turn that gave us conniption fits fearing we'd spend the night on dreary Dogtown, living on gooseberries, trying to find our way back to God's country. But again the little woman was right direction-wise; we came out to Joe DeGagne's back yard and Pigeon Hill Street.
It was a typical splendid walk of a Sunday. Why not try it, folks?
J.PP.C., Jr.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Easter Parade
They told us there was to be an Easter parade, with prizes for the best-dressed, unless the fire alarm sounded "no-parade today".
The wife and I decided to combine our Easter walk with a crack at the parade prizes. The mere fact that a determined April shower was flooding the landscape made no never-mind. She had her umbrella to protect what might have been an Easter bonnet once upon a time. And she was more than glad to have the umbrella cover both tops, hers and his. But down through the years, the thought of hiding beneath a bumbershoot has appeared to us to be bowing to a possible feminine trait within. In short, they told us it was sissified; a soaked felt is preferable.
First off we noted our chances at running off with the biggest awards were mighty high. We were the only ones hiking. Hundreds wee dry riding and probably wondering how primitive could you be walking on such a day. Across the street were quite a few in their new Easter togs making a bee-line from their cars to get inside Spiran Hall where a wedding reception was in progress. We rather pitied them getting those creations soggy.
Up along Broadway we saw that after all these years, Dr. Earl F. Greene was having a fence of shrubbery rim his grounds and a wire fence to give the shrubs a chance to reach some height. It could be OHI (Operation Home Improvement).
Ever try to take notes in the rain? Don't. Pencil marks are apt to be smudged out by the impatient drops from above. Words fast lose their shape and their meaning.
Our attention this time was called to old weathervanes on old barns that once housed horses and carriages, but in these days are used for storage, studios and even garages.
The late Judge York's property on King Street, the big yellow barn with its cupola on top, has a fetching yellow horse, its nose to the weather. It has perched up there for years, letting the neighborhood know which way the wind's a-blowin'. This barn also has two miniature openings side by side near the peak, openings that were the owner's concession to the little birds to let them go in and out of the barn. Garages lack these little considerations to our feathered friends. But whoever said there was as much humaneness in gas buggies as in the old carriages?
Farther along we spied another horse, also gold in color, standing weather guard atop a white barn with a blue top. In the same neighborhood was the barn of the late Louis Rogers. Here the weathervane was a sailing ship heading always right into the wind. These are only a few of the interesting vanes dotting the Cape.
Down on Beach Street at Granite Street we enjoyed the sight of one of the few stone barns, as rugged as the famed rock of Gilbralter...good old Rockport granite! The barn is apt to outlive the town itself.
Here we were hailed by a motoring friend who asked if we wanted a lift home. We didn't. He did tell us that Saturday night he and his wife heard the peepers for the first time. To us that's a most welcome sign of spring's sure arrival. We have yet to hear it this year. But already we had another sure sign of Spring's official presence, Iver Rose, Main Street summer fixture, and a fine artist from Manhattan, was in town over a recent week-end. A perennial for 30 years he dates the season for old-time Rockporters like ourselves.
The clean sharp smell of the sea accompanied us along Back Beach where we saw that the strong nor'easter had littered the grass strip between the sidewalk and the strand with cobbles of all sizes, washed up from the beach. That summer picnic ground may be lost unless the cobbles are cleared.
Seaweed, glistening dark brown, was massed along the entire wall of Front Beach right up to the wall top and was thickly mixed with all manner of debris, driftwood, broken spars and what-have-you. A large stone appeared dislodged from the wall close to the beach at the rest house.
By this time we felt the full force of that drenching. As for the awards from the Easter parade, it finally dawned on us that the parade wass scheduled for Gloucester --not Rockport--and that if the alarm calling it off had been sounded, we would hardly hear it down here. But the walk was good, the baptism helpful. That's award enough for anyone.
J.P.C., Jr.
The wife and I decided to combine our Easter walk with a crack at the parade prizes. The mere fact that a determined April shower was flooding the landscape made no never-mind. She had her umbrella to protect what might have been an Easter bonnet once upon a time. And she was more than glad to have the umbrella cover both tops, hers and his. But down through the years, the thought of hiding beneath a bumbershoot has appeared to us to be bowing to a possible feminine trait within. In short, they told us it was sissified; a soaked felt is preferable.
First off we noted our chances at running off with the biggest awards were mighty high. We were the only ones hiking. Hundreds wee dry riding and probably wondering how primitive could you be walking on such a day. Across the street were quite a few in their new Easter togs making a bee-line from their cars to get inside Spiran Hall where a wedding reception was in progress. We rather pitied them getting those creations soggy.
Up along Broadway we saw that after all these years, Dr. Earl F. Greene was having a fence of shrubbery rim his grounds and a wire fence to give the shrubs a chance to reach some height. It could be OHI (Operation Home Improvement).
Ever try to take notes in the rain? Don't. Pencil marks are apt to be smudged out by the impatient drops from above. Words fast lose their shape and their meaning.
Our attention this time was called to old weathervanes on old barns that once housed horses and carriages, but in these days are used for storage, studios and even garages.
The late Judge York's property on King Street, the big yellow barn with its cupola on top, has a fetching yellow horse, its nose to the weather. It has perched up there for years, letting the neighborhood know which way the wind's a-blowin'. This barn also has two miniature openings side by side near the peak, openings that were the owner's concession to the little birds to let them go in and out of the barn. Garages lack these little considerations to our feathered friends. But whoever said there was as much humaneness in gas buggies as in the old carriages?
Farther along we spied another horse, also gold in color, standing weather guard atop a white barn with a blue top. In the same neighborhood was the barn of the late Louis Rogers. Here the weathervane was a sailing ship heading always right into the wind. These are only a few of the interesting vanes dotting the Cape.
Down on Beach Street at Granite Street we enjoyed the sight of one of the few stone barns, as rugged as the famed rock of Gilbralter...good old Rockport granite! The barn is apt to outlive the town itself.
Here we were hailed by a motoring friend who asked if we wanted a lift home. We didn't. He did tell us that Saturday night he and his wife heard the peepers for the first time. To us that's a most welcome sign of spring's sure arrival. We have yet to hear it this year. But already we had another sure sign of Spring's official presence, Iver Rose, Main Street summer fixture, and a fine artist from Manhattan, was in town over a recent week-end. A perennial for 30 years he dates the season for old-time Rockporters like ourselves.
The clean sharp smell of the sea accompanied us along Back Beach where we saw that the strong nor'easter had littered the grass strip between the sidewalk and the strand with cobbles of all sizes, washed up from the beach. That summer picnic ground may be lost unless the cobbles are cleared.
Seaweed, glistening dark brown, was massed along the entire wall of Front Beach right up to the wall top and was thickly mixed with all manner of debris, driftwood, broken spars and what-have-you. A large stone appeared dislodged from the wall close to the beach at the rest house.
By this time we felt the full force of that drenching. As for the awards from the Easter parade, it finally dawned on us that the parade wass scheduled for Gloucester --not Rockport--and that if the alarm calling it off had been sounded, we would hardly hear it down here. But the walk was good, the baptism helpful. That's award enough for anyone.
J.P.C., Jr.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Walk with the Easter Bunny
Yes, man, Easter was a gorgeous day for a stroll. The wife with her Easter finery that knicked the shrinking bankroll, the boxer Molly with her stub tail glistening in the sun, and poor little me with my shredded clothing braved the lenient elements in a short joust around the center of town. And it was worth every step of it.
Across the way from our unspacious estate in Rockport, we noted that the green was rearing its springy head in the George J. Tarr School yard. And we further noted how well Custodian Walt Poole has kept the greensward clear of trash these days. Looking into the school windows we were again impressed by the cleverness of teachers and pupils alike in portraying the symbolic significance of the season, what with Easter bunnies, chicks and jonquils, all in cut-outs. There's a warmth and wealth of meaning for the wayfarer trying to breathe in the tonic of Eastertide.
Easter and Spring are companions in arms. So the maples in the school yard reflect the season. The trees are blossomed out to herald the reawakening. This too is a welcomed sight. And right in our neighborhood, it gives us a definite lift. And the sidewalks along Broadway are swept of the accumulatioon of winter sand that had to be strewed on them so that folks could walk with safety after the fall of snow. Birds chirping in the trees added the hope "if Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"
Into Dock Square, we were confronted by the unofficial senate gathered for a daily debate that defies weather. Before us were fisherman John Flanders and man-about-town Noble Hodgkins of Bearskin Neck. Others were in the audience listening to verbal solutions to the world's problems. That's what makes a town tick.
At the head of popular T Wharf was a stray easy chair waiting for a customer, looking as out of place as the wrought-iron bed that all winter has reposed in an Upper Main Street yard through snow and sleet and rain. Lobster pots flanked both sides of T Wharf this Easter day as though the compact little power boats were getting ready for another try at their pots hoping to beat the skin divers to the haul.
Along the wharf's edge was Harold Day of Beverly, holding his cunningly clad Easter granddaughter Peggy Murtaugh of Salem, two years, no more to breathe in the nautical tranquility of the placid cove. They had just driven down for the day.
It was like mid-summer on T Wharf. Let us say that hundreds were there enjoying the serenity of it all. A 35-foot power boat to them was a bluewater freighter. The very fact that it floated made it a queen of the seas to these folks from the hinterland. All Rockport welcomes them. Across the cove could be seen a wealth of outlanders roaming the inner breakwater, scampering over the insecure granite boulders and even picknicking on the shelves. The Lord was with them and no mishap was reported.
At the head of T Wharf, a conspicuous sign read "No Swimming - Board of Selectmen". Everyone obeyed the sign to the letter. After all, the thermometer still read under 40. The waters of Sandy Bay hardly lend themselves to frisking in the briny this time of year.
Molly was having a ball for herself, what with so many strange mutts around. But on a leash all she could do was to sniff and sniff again. Easter is no day for frisking, even for canines. And the wife was stern for a change.
Cameras were flashing all over the place. Douglas King of Topsfield was one of these photog hounds. He used Motif No. 1 for a background to flick his mother, Mrs. Donald F. King and his 13-year -old sister, Deanna in a cozy shot. Yeah man. Easter was a grand day for a pedestrian show!
J.P.C., Jr.
Across the way from our unspacious estate in Rockport, we noted that the green was rearing its springy head in the George J. Tarr School yard. And we further noted how well Custodian Walt Poole has kept the greensward clear of trash these days. Looking into the school windows we were again impressed by the cleverness of teachers and pupils alike in portraying the symbolic significance of the season, what with Easter bunnies, chicks and jonquils, all in cut-outs. There's a warmth and wealth of meaning for the wayfarer trying to breathe in the tonic of Eastertide.
Easter and Spring are companions in arms. So the maples in the school yard reflect the season. The trees are blossomed out to herald the reawakening. This too is a welcomed sight. And right in our neighborhood, it gives us a definite lift. And the sidewalks along Broadway are swept of the accumulatioon of winter sand that had to be strewed on them so that folks could walk with safety after the fall of snow. Birds chirping in the trees added the hope "if Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?"
Into Dock Square, we were confronted by the unofficial senate gathered for a daily debate that defies weather. Before us were fisherman John Flanders and man-about-town Noble Hodgkins of Bearskin Neck. Others were in the audience listening to verbal solutions to the world's problems. That's what makes a town tick.
At the head of popular T Wharf was a stray easy chair waiting for a customer, looking as out of place as the wrought-iron bed that all winter has reposed in an Upper Main Street yard through snow and sleet and rain. Lobster pots flanked both sides of T Wharf this Easter day as though the compact little power boats were getting ready for another try at their pots hoping to beat the skin divers to the haul.
Along the wharf's edge was Harold Day of Beverly, holding his cunningly clad Easter granddaughter Peggy Murtaugh of Salem, two years, no more to breathe in the nautical tranquility of the placid cove. They had just driven down for the day.
It was like mid-summer on T Wharf. Let us say that hundreds were there enjoying the serenity of it all. A 35-foot power boat to them was a bluewater freighter. The very fact that it floated made it a queen of the seas to these folks from the hinterland. All Rockport welcomes them. Across the cove could be seen a wealth of outlanders roaming the inner breakwater, scampering over the insecure granite boulders and even picknicking on the shelves. The Lord was with them and no mishap was reported.
At the head of T Wharf, a conspicuous sign read "No Swimming - Board of Selectmen". Everyone obeyed the sign to the letter. After all, the thermometer still read under 40. The waters of Sandy Bay hardly lend themselves to frisking in the briny this time of year.
Molly was having a ball for herself, what with so many strange mutts around. But on a leash all she could do was to sniff and sniff again. Easter is no day for frisking, even for canines. And the wife was stern for a change.
Cameras were flashing all over the place. Douglas King of Topsfield was one of these photog hounds. He used Motif No. 1 for a background to flick his mother, Mrs. Donald F. King and his 13-year -old sister, Deanna in a cozy shot. Yeah man. Easter was a grand day for a pedestrian show!
J.P.C., Jr.
It's Good to Walk Even on Easter
What does anyone do on an Easter afternoon? Walk, of course, even if you have to wear cast-offs. It's traditional in New England at least, and respectable folks leave their gas wagons home for a while. Obedient to our august selectmen's wishes, again we leashed our brown bomber, the quadruped Molly, as we idled fom our home base on School Street into a litter-less Main Street (Gloucester, take notice!).
In the window of the store once owned by Mrs. Jennie Savage we admired an Easter egg tree, gaily colored. So did we like a gnarled old scrub tree in the yard of Betty Bruni on Jewett Street, where colored eggs were implemented by a hen, a duck and a life-like Easter bunny.
Easter finery perched atop Rockport ladies' heads, resembling eye-fetching pancakes, floated past. Style, they call it in some circles. Into Broadway we sailed, our haughty four-footer still prancing on the leash, scoffing at neighborhood hoodlums yapping at her withers. Even our Rockport constabulary noted how well we were keeping the leash edict. At Five Corners we took a left up the hill past Eddie Doyle's future golden garden. Eddie was once a minion of the law in Clamtown (Essex).
Into Poole's Lane we headed for the railroad yard. The wife and I knew this lane well, when it was hardly more than a footpath. Those were the days when our young fry were gaining their feet, the days when there was a piggery owned by the grocers Ketchopoulos, a fount of exploration at that age when every grunt was a challenge; the day when a planked footbridge crossed a rushing gurgling brook another half hour pause of childish diversion. That lane had many lessons for our boy and then our girl that no textbook could ever give. Too bad modern educators couldn't abandon their textbooks and slide rules and take their young charges into the fields and show them the force of nature.
Off the leash, Molly raced down the lane, probing yards on both sides, having a ball. Down past Jim Ketchopoulos' yard, we saw where a horse barn stood and a granite trough still stands, covered with lobster pots. By this time, we were plumb up against the town's first Housing for the Elderly Project, 50 units that to us look crowded, with double-deckers. After 60, who wants to climb stairs?
Into youth's domain we passed Evans Field, where little children were frisking away at bat-the-ball, home-plate-or-bust, and fly the homespun kite down the rugged hill. As we ambled up the cinder path we dropped in for a moment on railroader Spencer Perkins to enjoy the warmth of his Busted and Maine potbellied stove, glowing red.
Onward and upward, we trudged, Railroad Avenue down Broadway and past a third spectuacular Easter egg-colored scrub tree in the well groomed front yard of former Postmaster Ralph Wilson on Broadway. Thence into School Street and our domicle where Molly grunted her way into slumberland, dreaming of the felines she had failed to conquer.
J.P.C., Jr.
In the window of the store once owned by Mrs. Jennie Savage we admired an Easter egg tree, gaily colored. So did we like a gnarled old scrub tree in the yard of Betty Bruni on Jewett Street, where colored eggs were implemented by a hen, a duck and a life-like Easter bunny.
Easter finery perched atop Rockport ladies' heads, resembling eye-fetching pancakes, floated past. Style, they call it in some circles. Into Broadway we sailed, our haughty four-footer still prancing on the leash, scoffing at neighborhood hoodlums yapping at her withers. Even our Rockport constabulary noted how well we were keeping the leash edict. At Five Corners we took a left up the hill past Eddie Doyle's future golden garden. Eddie was once a minion of the law in Clamtown (Essex).
Into Poole's Lane we headed for the railroad yard. The wife and I knew this lane well, when it was hardly more than a footpath. Those were the days when our young fry were gaining their feet, the days when there was a piggery owned by the grocers Ketchopoulos, a fount of exploration at that age when every grunt was a challenge; the day when a planked footbridge crossed a rushing gurgling brook another half hour pause of childish diversion. That lane had many lessons for our boy and then our girl that no textbook could ever give. Too bad modern educators couldn't abandon their textbooks and slide rules and take their young charges into the fields and show them the force of nature.
Off the leash, Molly raced down the lane, probing yards on both sides, having a ball. Down past Jim Ketchopoulos' yard, we saw where a horse barn stood and a granite trough still stands, covered with lobster pots. By this time, we were plumb up against the town's first Housing for the Elderly Project, 50 units that to us look crowded, with double-deckers. After 60, who wants to climb stairs?
Into youth's domain we passed Evans Field, where little children were frisking away at bat-the-ball, home-plate-or-bust, and fly the homespun kite down the rugged hill. As we ambled up the cinder path we dropped in for a moment on railroader Spencer Perkins to enjoy the warmth of his Busted and Maine potbellied stove, glowing red.
Onward and upward, we trudged, Railroad Avenue down Broadway and past a third spectuacular Easter egg-colored scrub tree in the well groomed front yard of former Postmaster Ralph Wilson on Broadway. Thence into School Street and our domicle where Molly grunted her way into slumberland, dreaming of the felines she had failed to conquer.
J.P.C., Jr.
Spring Inspection Tour Bearskin Neck April 1964
For the wife and I to take a Sunday walk without our friendly four-footer Molly is a rarity but on this Sunday morning, it was a "mustie." We were invading "Catland" otherwise known as Bearskin Neck. And to the brown bomber, all friendship ceases when it comes to spitting felines. Us, we'd like to keep our cat-owning friends down there and elsewhere.
The calendar may say that this Spring officially opened on March 21, but in our book the season of hope really opened its big blue eyes wide and beaming on April 12--at least in Rockport.
As we left our house in Rockport on foot all the way the 65 pound old gal sensed what was up for she looked away around the easy chair's starboard quarter, her fawn-colored eyes lifted up to us so soulfully that our resistance came close to breaking. Afterward we heard through the grapevine, that there are some citizens of the Neck who wish a cat-chaser would stalk their preserves for a space. Wonder why?
It was a walk before the sun was over the yard-arm, a walk into several alleys where abided what might be called alley cats of the four-footed variety except the cats were too well bred.
Across the street we passed through the first alley headed by a sign of really peeling words noting to those with imagination that it was not a thoroughfare. A fair-to-middlin' code decipherer might have made it out if he had time.
At the far end we looked over the fence into the back yard of the former House of Rapp. That yard was just coming alive after a bitter winter, its crocuses were out, its tulip bed was pushing upward for the day of blooming.
Into Dock Square to our left was a home with scaffolding for shingling the roof, and down the main stem with a fiery cheroot tipped at an angle in his mouth was a saunterer Ingolff Thompson, Saint Mary's sexton, window gazing.
We came to Bearskin Neck to be greeted by a sign that read, "Entrance to historic Bearskin Neck," only to read a second sign just below it which shouted, "Dead End." Historically dead? Well, hardly. It's just that when you hit the rocks by the bay, you've had it , brother. What's deader than the end of the road.
The wife and I were thinking of another summer stroll, mostly before dark, that we took almost nightly down here as we again saw the railed-in piazza atop the colorful pewter shop, the "millyuns" of new and old lobster pots stacked sky-high back of the shops. A new note in that back space that well might be called Motif Lane, was a wee weather-beaten shack labeled "Harbor Master's Office" whose window boasted the kind of mature "art" that brings sparkles to a grampie's eyes.
One difference in the back of these stores since we started the Neck meanderings a quarter century ago, is the colony inhabiting apartments that have sprung up, overlooking the inner harbor. After one shuddering look at the water-logged old Maine coaster Eva S. Cullison alongside Wendell's Alley wharf, we sauntered up through Dana Vibert's lobster shop into the main drag again where we enjoyed the sight of that mammoth arched window fronting the second floor apartment of artist John Chetcuti.
Down Wendell's (Tuna) Alley we wandered to note the elaborate changes. Ed and Doris Coleman's "House of Glass" moved into where Hedlund's Restaurant was up to a year ago. It was the kind of day that broughtout the real wealth of color from the great assortment.
Contractors King & Lilja of Rockport have built a new structure next it, a coffee house with a top deck from where folks may lunch at leisure and enjoy the yacht races. Eddie Donovan, the lobster king, will remain in his old stand.
To the end of the Neck where the town fathers have built a rotary for autoists to save them from backing up to return to Main Street. The town did a good job on this turn-around.
For the wife and me, it was a comfortable tireless walk of a Sunday morning. Try it yourself sometime before your legs quit.
J.P.C., Jr.
The calendar may say that this Spring officially opened on March 21, but in our book the season of hope really opened its big blue eyes wide and beaming on April 12--at least in Rockport.
As we left our house in Rockport on foot all the way the 65 pound old gal sensed what was up for she looked away around the easy chair's starboard quarter, her fawn-colored eyes lifted up to us so soulfully that our resistance came close to breaking. Afterward we heard through the grapevine, that there are some citizens of the Neck who wish a cat-chaser would stalk their preserves for a space. Wonder why?
It was a walk before the sun was over the yard-arm, a walk into several alleys where abided what might be called alley cats of the four-footed variety except the cats were too well bred.
Across the street we passed through the first alley headed by a sign of really peeling words noting to those with imagination that it was not a thoroughfare. A fair-to-middlin' code decipherer might have made it out if he had time.
At the far end we looked over the fence into the back yard of the former House of Rapp. That yard was just coming alive after a bitter winter, its crocuses were out, its tulip bed was pushing upward for the day of blooming.
Into Dock Square to our left was a home with scaffolding for shingling the roof, and down the main stem with a fiery cheroot tipped at an angle in his mouth was a saunterer Ingolff Thompson, Saint Mary's sexton, window gazing.
We came to Bearskin Neck to be greeted by a sign that read, "Entrance to historic Bearskin Neck," only to read a second sign just below it which shouted, "Dead End." Historically dead? Well, hardly. It's just that when you hit the rocks by the bay, you've had it , brother. What's deader than the end of the road.
The wife and I were thinking of another summer stroll, mostly before dark, that we took almost nightly down here as we again saw the railed-in piazza atop the colorful pewter shop, the "millyuns" of new and old lobster pots stacked sky-high back of the shops. A new note in that back space that well might be called Motif Lane, was a wee weather-beaten shack labeled "Harbor Master's Office" whose window boasted the kind of mature "art" that brings sparkles to a grampie's eyes.
One difference in the back of these stores since we started the Neck meanderings a quarter century ago, is the colony inhabiting apartments that have sprung up, overlooking the inner harbor. After one shuddering look at the water-logged old Maine coaster Eva S. Cullison alongside Wendell's Alley wharf, we sauntered up through Dana Vibert's lobster shop into the main drag again where we enjoyed the sight of that mammoth arched window fronting the second floor apartment of artist John Chetcuti.
Down Wendell's (Tuna) Alley we wandered to note the elaborate changes. Ed and Doris Coleman's "House of Glass" moved into where Hedlund's Restaurant was up to a year ago. It was the kind of day that broughtout the real wealth of color from the great assortment.
Contractors King & Lilja of Rockport have built a new structure next it, a coffee house with a top deck from where folks may lunch at leisure and enjoy the yacht races. Eddie Donovan, the lobster king, will remain in his old stand.
To the end of the Neck where the town fathers have built a rotary for autoists to save them from backing up to return to Main Street. The town did a good job on this turn-around.
For the wife and me, it was a comfortable tireless walk of a Sunday morning. Try it yourself sometime before your legs quit.
J.P.C., Jr.
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