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.