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.