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.