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.
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