Remember the time in Rockport when you could walk the length and breadth of the shore from the Headlands to Land's End without committing the crime of trespassing? Well, the wife and I recall such a day in the past. And we are minded that it was the shore path followed by the Coast Guardsmen at Straitsmouth Lifeboat Station when they nightly patroled the waterfront through winter wind and snow.
So on perhaps the finest October Sunday in years, weather-wise, the three of us, Molly, the spayed female boxer, the "missus" and myself decided to try to find a stretch of that path. And in the bargain we'd take a peep at the Whale Cove development.
We cheated a bit by riding as far as that spot on South Street where a sign to the left, decorated by an impressive black whale, read "The Smiths." It marked the home of Mrs. J. Raymond Smith and her son, Ray. Close by was another whale-decorated sign, reading: Whale Cove Lane, dead end, pass at your own risk." The daredevils in us took over as we chose to risk whatever was ahead. The Wife spoke of a flourishing brook that ran down alongside this lane.
The brook, however, had disappeared! Molly nosed out that fact, as she snooped along the bracken that had grown over the gully. As ancient as the brook that was, appeared drooping willows. In a neighboring pasture that swept down to the sea, a lone cow was blatting a mile a minute, maybe trying to attract the boxer's attention. But Molly is no cow dog, and though she looked, she must have decided against chancing the hooves of a something a lot bigger than she is.
Off to the starboard was a scene of the present. Modern homes, low and with long slightly sloping roof, are in such numbers to almost make up a village of its own, "Whale Cove Village."
Reaching the shoreline, we thought we might meander right to Land's End. We were advised by one of the neighbors that we could go a short distance, but through growth of high brush, and then by walking through somebody's backyard to get onto another lane that led back to South Street. That shore line walk amounted to no more than a couple of hundred feet. In the other direction, a public path is just as absent.
The view was the best. A couple miles offshore, what looked like a nautical hen with her brood following behind was apparently a fishing dragger towing a string of eight engine-less lobster boats down the coast. They tell us that hulls are bought this way and engines installed aat the home port. Something about the law somewhere. But it was no day to be listening to law.
Back to the car and a bit more walk-gypping as we decided to hit for the beach so the four-footer could have a real run The strand in front of Henry's Pond in South End, struck our fancy. The way that Molly ran from one end of the beach to the other and through the roaring surf, it seemed as if she had whippet blood, though they (who gave her to us) insist she has a pedigree.
The beach was far from deserted. At least four skindivers showed up. One of them said he was interested in collecting shells, that he had a big collection from the Hawaiian sea bottom, where he had done a great deal of diving. Even a charming swimmer appeared in a summery blue bathing suit. And she actually swam, though the water felt to our bare feet to be at the zero level.
We couldn't help but think what an enviable chance the town once had for a boulevard from the Headlands to Land's End! The path was there, and nobody ever figured the time would come when it would be lost to the public.
Anyway, it was a joyous day for strolling and as good a one for sunning on the beach It was Rockport at its best.
J.P.C., Jr.
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Avenues of Pigeon Cove
For a long time, the wife had been hearing about "The Avenues" of Pigeon Cove. She wanted to stroll them of a Sunday with me. It promised to be a quiet pastoral and easy walk that wouldn't keep us afoot for more than an hour so we'be home in time see the Number One Son off for his winter stay in Cambridge nearer to his office.
If the truth was known, we'd have preferred our WPA project of leaf-raking and burning, and said as much to neighbor Bruni over the fence. But when the missus speaks, the tenth of an acre of ours has to go unprunned. As usual we cheated by bussing it to the outskirts of Haven Avenue.
That avenue is lined with oaks, full branched, just waiting for the fall to transform them into a fair share of color. It's an avenue of individualistic houses like the one with the quaint gingerbread borders of the porch and around the eaves. All the rage in the 19th century, it has even a greater appeal today. The house is modest in size and could easily have emerged from a Grimm's fairy tale.
Next door loomed a squashed-in construction of an appealing home, with arched windows and a full-length door leading onto a porch roof, like an escape hatch. Two sentinels stood stiffly in front, as close together as two tall elms could get. The lure of The Avenues of the Cove soon caught up with us. A carved horse weathervane, a barn with holes under the eaves as if they were for the convenience of our feathered friends, the sight of Ocean Avenue heading straight for a deep blue sea, all of it was taking us out of a traffic-jammed Rockport on a Sunday afternoon.
That sea! White sails galore dotted it from Andrew's Point to the Gap. Amateurs and pros were having the time of their lives making the most of one of the final days afloat. Not that we envied them, because sail bores us no end. But each to his own poop deck, say we.
First thing we knew, we had come into a Haven Avenue of woodland escaping from its cluster of homes. As we approached its sylvan wonders, our hefty boxer Mollie bid up with a blasting bow-wow defending her own domain. But that four-footer of ours bound to enjoy the woods her own way, snubbed her pugnacious compatriot. For us, we breathed a sigh of relief that could be heard on Thacher's
The barberry bushes were heavy laden. On both sides, the redness gleamed forth and back to us came memories of being served them at supper with molasses thickened among them on the plate. Just a kid, we loved the serving which although it meant nothing to us at the time saved the budget no end.
A brilliant red pung decorated the lawn of a yard as we came upon the second section of Haven Avenue that was populated. Always an ample supply of stone in house construction greeted us. Staunch stone shafts for entry ways, stone foundations sturdy enough to support a skyscraper. As if the Cove prides itself on endurance in structure as well as character.
We had turned into Phillips Avenue, where we were impressed by the fact that here is a bonafide "Scenic Shore Drive," unheralded but very much alive. The highway job is magnificent, the ocean view without compare. And the folks living along it seem to take particular pride in their holdings. Like the property of the Walter E. Johnsons, where a wrought iron turnstile marks the entrance on beautifully landscaped grounds facing the broad Atlantic. The wife tried the stile for luck. Maybe she made a wish, for all we know.
Whatever hocus-pocus she might have uttered, only a bare minute later out blatted that ungodly cow-croak of a Pigeon Cove fire alarm sounding 534 and our pastoral stroll went galley west. In less time thaan it takes to cry Benton Story, down he came with all his fire wagons and laddies hunting for a blaze that never was. It was just that the McLeod estate, whose grounds we had admired, puffed out more smoke than a passerby thought was within the code. Said the missus, not knowing it was just an imaginary box, "I wonder if I pulled that alarm when I moved the stile?" She didn't!
But it was all in good stead. The boys of Central and the Cove barn had a swell Sunday outing and a chance to polish up the brass afterward, besides a chance to chew the fat.
Through all the clanging, busting up the Cove serenity, Molly proved her superiority over the two-leggers by being no respecter of the Johnsons' beautiful hedge, and again a forthright disdain of a belligerent lady boxer. It just warn't her fighting day.
As for us, "The Avenues of the Cove" had proved a mite too exciting, so into the car and home we headed, only to be caught in a bumper-to-bumper crush because of a wedding of a popular couple, plus the alarm for a fire that just wasn't there.
But we'll be back to the Cove. It's a grand country!
J.P.C., Jr.
If the truth was known, we'd have preferred our WPA project of leaf-raking and burning, and said as much to neighbor Bruni over the fence. But when the missus speaks, the tenth of an acre of ours has to go unprunned. As usual we cheated by bussing it to the outskirts of Haven Avenue.
That avenue is lined with oaks, full branched, just waiting for the fall to transform them into a fair share of color. It's an avenue of individualistic houses like the one with the quaint gingerbread borders of the porch and around the eaves. All the rage in the 19th century, it has even a greater appeal today. The house is modest in size and could easily have emerged from a Grimm's fairy tale.
Next door loomed a squashed-in construction of an appealing home, with arched windows and a full-length door leading onto a porch roof, like an escape hatch. Two sentinels stood stiffly in front, as close together as two tall elms could get. The lure of The Avenues of the Cove soon caught up with us. A carved horse weathervane, a barn with holes under the eaves as if they were for the convenience of our feathered friends, the sight of Ocean Avenue heading straight for a deep blue sea, all of it was taking us out of a traffic-jammed Rockport on a Sunday afternoon.
That sea! White sails galore dotted it from Andrew's Point to the Gap. Amateurs and pros were having the time of their lives making the most of one of the final days afloat. Not that we envied them, because sail bores us no end. But each to his own poop deck, say we.
First thing we knew, we had come into a Haven Avenue of woodland escaping from its cluster of homes. As we approached its sylvan wonders, our hefty boxer Mollie bid up with a blasting bow-wow defending her own domain. But that four-footer of ours bound to enjoy the woods her own way, snubbed her pugnacious compatriot. For us, we breathed a sigh of relief that could be heard on Thacher's
The barberry bushes were heavy laden. On both sides, the redness gleamed forth and back to us came memories of being served them at supper with molasses thickened among them on the plate. Just a kid, we loved the serving which although it meant nothing to us at the time saved the budget no end.
A brilliant red pung decorated the lawn of a yard as we came upon the second section of Haven Avenue that was populated. Always an ample supply of stone in house construction greeted us. Staunch stone shafts for entry ways, stone foundations sturdy enough to support a skyscraper. As if the Cove prides itself on endurance in structure as well as character.
We had turned into Phillips Avenue, where we were impressed by the fact that here is a bonafide "Scenic Shore Drive," unheralded but very much alive. The highway job is magnificent, the ocean view without compare. And the folks living along it seem to take particular pride in their holdings. Like the property of the Walter E. Johnsons, where a wrought iron turnstile marks the entrance on beautifully landscaped grounds facing the broad Atlantic. The wife tried the stile for luck. Maybe she made a wish, for all we know.
Whatever hocus-pocus she might have uttered, only a bare minute later out blatted that ungodly cow-croak of a Pigeon Cove fire alarm sounding 534 and our pastoral stroll went galley west. In less time thaan it takes to cry Benton Story, down he came with all his fire wagons and laddies hunting for a blaze that never was. It was just that the McLeod estate, whose grounds we had admired, puffed out more smoke than a passerby thought was within the code. Said the missus, not knowing it was just an imaginary box, "I wonder if I pulled that alarm when I moved the stile?" She didn't!
But it was all in good stead. The boys of Central and the Cove barn had a swell Sunday outing and a chance to polish up the brass afterward, besides a chance to chew the fat.
Through all the clanging, busting up the Cove serenity, Molly proved her superiority over the two-leggers by being no respecter of the Johnsons' beautiful hedge, and again a forthright disdain of a belligerent lady boxer. It just warn't her fighting day.
As for us, "The Avenues of the Cove" had proved a mite too exciting, so into the car and home we headed, only to be caught in a bumper-to-bumper crush because of a wedding of a popular couple, plus the alarm for a fire that just wasn't there.
But we'll be back to the Cove. It's a grand country!
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk Past 700 Cats
Even usually fresh cool Rockport was steaming Sunday when the wife and I and our boxer Molly took a new course on our Sabbath stroll. We left the four-wheeler in the backyard as we ambled up School Street to cross Broadway. They try to tell us, some businessmen, that fewer folks are in town this summer, but that steady line going both ways didn't say so. We ran out of cuss words waiting for a break in that line to span 30 feet in safety.
Up the street we saw a novel sign advertising Tuck-Inn Lodge with the MacKenzie tartan for a soft background (not that the MacKenzies were soft, mind you) and featuring the Tuck coat-of-arms with its three stars and three mystery animals. The sign directs you to the summer places of Albert Tuck. The tartan is the proud plaid of Albert's father, the dentist who was of the Scottish clan of MacKenzie.
Shooting into High Street, we noted again the arbor that full-leaved tall trees made to arch the highway to provide a setting that made the cozy little homes as well as the more ample dwellings more liveable and fetching. At this juncture old four-footer darted straight ahead like a bolt of lightning. "What did she see?" I pipes.
"Never mind!" pipes the missus, "She goes past here every night."
A second later, a pleasant but surely disturbed settler directed us to a high limb of one of her trees where poor l'il kitty had scooted post haste to escape the brown terror. Some day we look forward to a similar l'il kitty chasing that overgrown moose up the same tall tree. It could happen, you know.
In the yard of Preston Wass, in full bloom was a wealth of rich red color, but don't ask us the name. And who wants to know just so long as they were so glorious. Along the same street someone camouflaged an old well sweep with a growth of brilliant colored flowers.
From here into another of Rockport's alluring lanes, this time High Street Court. We came upon an early 19th century home with four fireplaces, owned and occupied by Miss Berthe LaVigueur, whose enormous and stately weeping willow tree stood guard. An impressive old poplar added to the establishment's glory. For Molly, a fetching little mixed-up dog favoring a Pekingese proved of much more interest than the home and grounds.
A neighbor had smartly put a tree to work. He had encircled the tree with a wooden fence, a low one, and inside it, had a play-pen for his youngsters. It made his place look better as well as keeping the kiddoes happy. Farther along on the meandering court we came across the Eddie Abell home where the wife enhanced the entrance with flowered window boxes and an impressive porch. Then by the snug cottage of Gloucester's retired fire fighter, Joe Vierra and his -- or his wife's - petunia and tomato garden, as friendly a living set-up as you'd ever want to see. Joe is one of the striper champs of the Cape. As we merged onto Pleasant Street, we passed by the House of Hodgkins where a novel hide-out for a cookout setup was a matted fence. Smart idea, it seemed to us
The wife in her sealed orders for this Sunday stroll noted a rich growth near the cemetery, so that's where we headed. She ws right, for there was a wide path of brilliant red foliage which the book later told us were actually purple loosestrife, seen from Maine to Delaware in swamps such as this. Nearby were bright hollyhocks in full glory and bracing that same dull swamp.
The sizzle was getting us down, so back we tracked down Pleasant Street toward our School Street. On the way we noted running Molly stop short all of a sudden and stiffen, ears erect, and start to bark her fool head off. Coming up to her we saw we were in front of the home of Orren Smith. Lined in the windows were fanciful images of all kinds of cats. His wife has over 700 of them. To Molly, the likenesses wee sure confoosin', to say the least. And so to home and the beach.
J.P.C., Jr.
Up the street we saw a novel sign advertising Tuck-Inn Lodge with the MacKenzie tartan for a soft background (not that the MacKenzies were soft, mind you) and featuring the Tuck coat-of-arms with its three stars and three mystery animals. The sign directs you to the summer places of Albert Tuck. The tartan is the proud plaid of Albert's father, the dentist who was of the Scottish clan of MacKenzie.
Shooting into High Street, we noted again the arbor that full-leaved tall trees made to arch the highway to provide a setting that made the cozy little homes as well as the more ample dwellings more liveable and fetching. At this juncture old four-footer darted straight ahead like a bolt of lightning. "What did she see?" I pipes.
"Never mind!" pipes the missus, "She goes past here every night."
A second later, a pleasant but surely disturbed settler directed us to a high limb of one of her trees where poor l'il kitty had scooted post haste to escape the brown terror. Some day we look forward to a similar l'il kitty chasing that overgrown moose up the same tall tree. It could happen, you know.
In the yard of Preston Wass, in full bloom was a wealth of rich red color, but don't ask us the name. And who wants to know just so long as they were so glorious. Along the same street someone camouflaged an old well sweep with a growth of brilliant colored flowers.
From here into another of Rockport's alluring lanes, this time High Street Court. We came upon an early 19th century home with four fireplaces, owned and occupied by Miss Berthe LaVigueur, whose enormous and stately weeping willow tree stood guard. An impressive old poplar added to the establishment's glory. For Molly, a fetching little mixed-up dog favoring a Pekingese proved of much more interest than the home and grounds.
A neighbor had smartly put a tree to work. He had encircled the tree with a wooden fence, a low one, and inside it, had a play-pen for his youngsters. It made his place look better as well as keeping the kiddoes happy. Farther along on the meandering court we came across the Eddie Abell home where the wife enhanced the entrance with flowered window boxes and an impressive porch. Then by the snug cottage of Gloucester's retired fire fighter, Joe Vierra and his -- or his wife's - petunia and tomato garden, as friendly a living set-up as you'd ever want to see. Joe is one of the striper champs of the Cape. As we merged onto Pleasant Street, we passed by the House of Hodgkins where a novel hide-out for a cookout setup was a matted fence. Smart idea, it seemed to us
The wife in her sealed orders for this Sunday stroll noted a rich growth near the cemetery, so that's where we headed. She ws right, for there was a wide path of brilliant red foliage which the book later told us were actually purple loosestrife, seen from Maine to Delaware in swamps such as this. Nearby were bright hollyhocks in full glory and bracing that same dull swamp.
The sizzle was getting us down, so back we tracked down Pleasant Street toward our School Street. On the way we noted running Molly stop short all of a sudden and stiffen, ears erect, and start to bark her fool head off. Coming up to her we saw we were in front of the home of Orren Smith. Lined in the windows were fanciful images of all kinds of cats. His wife has over 700 of them. To Molly, the likenesses wee sure confoosin', to say the least. And so to home and the beach.
J.P.C., Jr.
Bits for a Telephone Share - Pigeon Cove
We cheated again. The ancient wagon was used to cart us and the female monster Molly down to the Cape Ann Tool Company to reach our objective. The day was fine, the air brisk. We were set for a bout with adventure, knowing that with us was a sportive quadruped that had the temper of a prima donna that might look upon our limbs as prey, as well as those of people who never fed her. A fearer of canines for years, we were on tenterhooks every inch of the brief promenade.
But first there was none but delight to greet us. A row of old-time lobster shacks with vari-colored buoys plastering all of them, and lobster pots stacked high before them all. Then we came to a door of a small shack where a sign read "Please do not park in front of windows or doors." Our reportorial sense was aroused and spotting a native, fast becoming a rarity, we inquired the wherewithals. It seems that the one occupant, Emil Hietala, nearing 80, broke his hip a couple of years ago, and has not poked his nose out of the modest establishment in that time, so naturally he wants to look out. How can he do it if the view is blocked by a car? His son, who works next door in the Cape Ann Tool Col, visits him daily.
A pleasing sight to one who loves the old-time waterfront was tubs of trawl lines, the trawl buoys that dotted the lane. The lobstermen also try their hand at trawling along the shore. Theirs is a year-round enterprise and they risk their lives battling the angry seas.
That cove that Pigeon Covers insist is a harbor was bristling with activity. Lobster boats sporting trawl gear right down to the tubs filled the compact harbor with its rock-strewn shore--rocks greened by time, and too much decked with rubbish spilled by the non-civic minded. Its breakwater was impressive. An unfinished job. The original was apparent. So was what looked like a new part. But that only emphasized the stark gap where it seemed as if some of Uncle Sam's loose change would come in handy to close that gap and give this industrial small fleet the protecting it deserves.
We weren't exactly off the beaten path on this pocket-size jaunt. There appeared to be enough gas-buggy traffic to warrant a traffic cop to protect the pedestrians. Not only fishermen, but plain nosey folks like ourselves were a-visiting. And then we came across Rockport's veteran lobster dealer, Roy Moore, who can only be called the elder, to distinguish him from his High school-teaching son bearing the same name. As we chatted, he pointed across the cove to say that it was there that Alexander Graham Bell lived while he was experimenting with the telephone. "He would come down to the cove here and try to sell telephone stock to the fishermen for 25 cents a share," said Moore. "And they all laughed at him."
Roy said Eli Morgan, onetime selectman, used to tell him that story. And Eli would always chuckle that many of those fishermen later rued the day that they didn't dig up even a tenner and buy that paper. The Cove would have had several millionaires if they had followed through. Moore also recalled that even he could see the vast change in that same Wharf Road area. "It's a lot different than 50 years ago," he remarked. "There used to railroad tracks right from the quarries to the wharf. There'd be two-masted and three-masted schooners waiting to load stone for the big cities. And George Frost had big coal barges coming in here to supply him."
Also a fact we didn't know, Roy looked across the Cove at the array of sultry gray buildings that make up the active Cape Ann Tool Co., part of Cape Ann's thriving industry. "See that smallest black building on the end?" he asked. One story, hardly more than a baby shed, uninviting. "Well, that's the original Cape Ann Tool Company!" From that the Deans moved onward and upward to their own benefit, and also to the benefit of hundreds of Cape Anners. And all without fuss and fanfare.
Looking across to the opposite shore, we spotted the former home of our editor and envied him for the choice view he had of a quaint waterfront panorama. before him was a bit of 19th century excitement inhabited by people who remain down-to-earth despite the inroads of progress.
Our musings were rudely interrupted by the ructious female. Off the leash, she had run afoul of a weird looking hunk of offal that may have at one time resembled a half loaf of bread. By now it must have been attaining an age beyond good health. But like all four-footers, Molly is a scavenger at heart. A wee bit of disciplining was in order, accompanied with a tug to wrest the clump from her fangs without losing a hand. The deed was done. A few seconds and she never missed it. A neighborhood pooch gave her the welcoming yowl; she yapped back. They both tail wig-wagged "top of the day," and the visit to the Cove was as successful to our Molly as to ourselves. Why not include it in YOUR strolls too? We promise you enjoyment.
J.P.C., Jr.
But first there was none but delight to greet us. A row of old-time lobster shacks with vari-colored buoys plastering all of them, and lobster pots stacked high before them all. Then we came to a door of a small shack where a sign read "Please do not park in front of windows or doors." Our reportorial sense was aroused and spotting a native, fast becoming a rarity, we inquired the wherewithals. It seems that the one occupant, Emil Hietala, nearing 80, broke his hip a couple of years ago, and has not poked his nose out of the modest establishment in that time, so naturally he wants to look out. How can he do it if the view is blocked by a car? His son, who works next door in the Cape Ann Tool Col, visits him daily.
A pleasing sight to one who loves the old-time waterfront was tubs of trawl lines, the trawl buoys that dotted the lane. The lobstermen also try their hand at trawling along the shore. Theirs is a year-round enterprise and they risk their lives battling the angry seas.
That cove that Pigeon Covers insist is a harbor was bristling with activity. Lobster boats sporting trawl gear right down to the tubs filled the compact harbor with its rock-strewn shore--rocks greened by time, and too much decked with rubbish spilled by the non-civic minded. Its breakwater was impressive. An unfinished job. The original was apparent. So was what looked like a new part. But that only emphasized the stark gap where it seemed as if some of Uncle Sam's loose change would come in handy to close that gap and give this industrial small fleet the protecting it deserves.
We weren't exactly off the beaten path on this pocket-size jaunt. There appeared to be enough gas-buggy traffic to warrant a traffic cop to protect the pedestrians. Not only fishermen, but plain nosey folks like ourselves were a-visiting. And then we came across Rockport's veteran lobster dealer, Roy Moore, who can only be called the elder, to distinguish him from his High school-teaching son bearing the same name. As we chatted, he pointed across the cove to say that it was there that Alexander Graham Bell lived while he was experimenting with the telephone. "He would come down to the cove here and try to sell telephone stock to the fishermen for 25 cents a share," said Moore. "And they all laughed at him."
Roy said Eli Morgan, onetime selectman, used to tell him that story. And Eli would always chuckle that many of those fishermen later rued the day that they didn't dig up even a tenner and buy that paper. The Cove would have had several millionaires if they had followed through. Moore also recalled that even he could see the vast change in that same Wharf Road area. "It's a lot different than 50 years ago," he remarked. "There used to railroad tracks right from the quarries to the wharf. There'd be two-masted and three-masted schooners waiting to load stone for the big cities. And George Frost had big coal barges coming in here to supply him."
Also a fact we didn't know, Roy looked across the Cove at the array of sultry gray buildings that make up the active Cape Ann Tool Co., part of Cape Ann's thriving industry. "See that smallest black building on the end?" he asked. One story, hardly more than a baby shed, uninviting. "Well, that's the original Cape Ann Tool Company!" From that the Deans moved onward and upward to their own benefit, and also to the benefit of hundreds of Cape Anners. And all without fuss and fanfare.
Looking across to the opposite shore, we spotted the former home of our editor and envied him for the choice view he had of a quaint waterfront panorama. before him was a bit of 19th century excitement inhabited by people who remain down-to-earth despite the inroads of progress.
Our musings were rudely interrupted by the ructious female. Off the leash, she had run afoul of a weird looking hunk of offal that may have at one time resembled a half loaf of bread. By now it must have been attaining an age beyond good health. But like all four-footers, Molly is a scavenger at heart. A wee bit of disciplining was in order, accompanied with a tug to wrest the clump from her fangs without losing a hand. The deed was done. A few seconds and she never missed it. A neighborhood pooch gave her the welcoming yowl; she yapped back. They both tail wig-wagged "top of the day," and the visit to the Cove was as successful to our Molly as to ourselves. Why not include it in YOUR strolls too? We promise you enjoyment.
J.P.C., Jr.
Sunday Stroll to Pigeon Cove's Granite Wharf
Sometimes a short walk can contain many interesting little things to write about. The wife and I found this to be true Sunday afternoon in a venture to Pigeon Cove, an important part of Rockport. We were forced to make it a brief stroll because of the length of time it took to make out one of those scholarship forms where the parents are obliged to provide a welter of figures abouft their finances. We knew ours were badly bent but we had to prove it. And that can be hair-tearing if you have that much to spare.
So we both cheated -- on the walk, I mean. We gapped the distance from home to the gate of the North Village by taking to the family chariot. Our objective, the old granite company wharf that the town so wisely bought. The activity there was tremendous. It was a joy to see so many, even if they were all strangers, having so wonderful a time.
Parking across from the entrance on Granite Street, we descended the sharp hill to the pier. The view of the Rockport shoreline is tremendous. It gives a brand new and striking picture of the glories of the South Village's shoreline, its background of church steeples and towers, its beaches.
Making the descent, we felt it would be wise for the town to invest in a protective rail on the south side all the way down before some motorist misjudges and goes tumbling over what is rather a deep fall onto the pier below. Or some youngster walking down could also suffer a nasty fall by going too close to the edge and striking some soft dirt.
It amazed us that although there was nary a sign to note this was town-owned or a public park in any way, yet everyone and his grandmother--and there were several of that age present, just took it for granted that the place belonged to him and his family for fishing along the pier, or for skin diving, or just plain picnicking.
Half-way down we looked back up the hill and around the slopes and realized that here at least remained a part of that old Rockport that on our introduction to the town a score of years ago, we loved so much. Most of the homes had held out against going mid-20th century. Off to one side, a short stretch of beach glistened white with what, from the distance, looked like real beach stones. It was our first sight of it. Already we were won over to that part of town that a dyed-in-the-wool "Cover" of distinction had insisted we must include in our Sunday strolls.
Instead of descending at once to the pier level, we continued along the wide top of the bluff to the sea itself where across the Bay, Straitsmouth Coast Guard Station loomed as did Straitsmouth Inn. A rakish freighter was coming into view as it moved up the coast.
Resembling monoliths out of the days of the Druids, stood massive granite blocks, the last vestiges of the sky-soaring derricks that for years hoisted huge granite blocks from the quarry cars onto the ponderous stone sloops bound for breakwater building in New York, Charleston, oh, anywhere.
Up on that ridge, it was downright raw. The difference in temperature was noticeable as we got off it and onto the pier itself. Here was the most life. A whole squad of skin divers with their families had taken over. Clad in their skin-tight black suits, with the inevitable air tank strapped on back and the Martian masks, they were all over the place, having a real ball of it. They remind us of marathoners. Wherever they go, there go their wives and kids.
Also along the pier edge were amateur anglers from nine to ninety, male and female, patiently sitting it out. Flounders were the principal unwary fish for the day. A lady with four for her catch laughed as she said her hubby would not have to go for fish for the Monday supper. It made her the bread winner for the day.
That lobstermen use the pier is evident by the stacks of pots along one side. But one of the greatest attractions lacked even one visitor until we decided to see how far we could penetrate without getting our shoes wet. We followed the trail of the quarry railroad where only the slimmest remnants of old ties showed through the earth vying with the fresh wild strawberries for attention. That ws the best part of the short walk.
You amble between two sharp bluffs of sheer darkened granite, moist from the spillings of Spring rains. Before you is the stirring sight of the keystone bridge over which thousands of tons of cars used to roll day in and day out. Beneath that bridge your voice sounds even louder. You admire the builders for the successful arch. Continuing you come out onto the scene of a water-filled abandoned quarry to the right, and the sound of a gurgling brook fed by two slim but attractively noisy waterfalls to the left. You try to trace this brook only to find it sneaks underground before your eyes.
An eerie place with its wildness of nature, its strange backdrops that could be the setting for a prehistoric animal show. And then right smack in your face looms a creation of modern man, the dam that helps contain Rockport's surplus water supply.
We must learn more of the Cove and what if offers to the Sunday stroller.
J.P.C., Jr.
So we both cheated -- on the walk, I mean. We gapped the distance from home to the gate of the North Village by taking to the family chariot. Our objective, the old granite company wharf that the town so wisely bought. The activity there was tremendous. It was a joy to see so many, even if they were all strangers, having so wonderful a time.
Parking across from the entrance on Granite Street, we descended the sharp hill to the pier. The view of the Rockport shoreline is tremendous. It gives a brand new and striking picture of the glories of the South Village's shoreline, its background of church steeples and towers, its beaches.
Making the descent, we felt it would be wise for the town to invest in a protective rail on the south side all the way down before some motorist misjudges and goes tumbling over what is rather a deep fall onto the pier below. Or some youngster walking down could also suffer a nasty fall by going too close to the edge and striking some soft dirt.
It amazed us that although there was nary a sign to note this was town-owned or a public park in any way, yet everyone and his grandmother--and there were several of that age present, just took it for granted that the place belonged to him and his family for fishing along the pier, or for skin diving, or just plain picnicking.
Half-way down we looked back up the hill and around the slopes and realized that here at least remained a part of that old Rockport that on our introduction to the town a score of years ago, we loved so much. Most of the homes had held out against going mid-20th century. Off to one side, a short stretch of beach glistened white with what, from the distance, looked like real beach stones. It was our first sight of it. Already we were won over to that part of town that a dyed-in-the-wool "Cover" of distinction had insisted we must include in our Sunday strolls.
Instead of descending at once to the pier level, we continued along the wide top of the bluff to the sea itself where across the Bay, Straitsmouth Coast Guard Station loomed as did Straitsmouth Inn. A rakish freighter was coming into view as it moved up the coast.
Resembling monoliths out of the days of the Druids, stood massive granite blocks, the last vestiges of the sky-soaring derricks that for years hoisted huge granite blocks from the quarry cars onto the ponderous stone sloops bound for breakwater building in New York, Charleston, oh, anywhere.
Up on that ridge, it was downright raw. The difference in temperature was noticeable as we got off it and onto the pier itself. Here was the most life. A whole squad of skin divers with their families had taken over. Clad in their skin-tight black suits, with the inevitable air tank strapped on back and the Martian masks, they were all over the place, having a real ball of it. They remind us of marathoners. Wherever they go, there go their wives and kids.
Also along the pier edge were amateur anglers from nine to ninety, male and female, patiently sitting it out. Flounders were the principal unwary fish for the day. A lady with four for her catch laughed as she said her hubby would not have to go for fish for the Monday supper. It made her the bread winner for the day.
That lobstermen use the pier is evident by the stacks of pots along one side. But one of the greatest attractions lacked even one visitor until we decided to see how far we could penetrate without getting our shoes wet. We followed the trail of the quarry railroad where only the slimmest remnants of old ties showed through the earth vying with the fresh wild strawberries for attention. That ws the best part of the short walk.
You amble between two sharp bluffs of sheer darkened granite, moist from the spillings of Spring rains. Before you is the stirring sight of the keystone bridge over which thousands of tons of cars used to roll day in and day out. Beneath that bridge your voice sounds even louder. You admire the builders for the successful arch. Continuing you come out onto the scene of a water-filled abandoned quarry to the right, and the sound of a gurgling brook fed by two slim but attractively noisy waterfalls to the left. You try to trace this brook only to find it sneaks underground before your eyes.
An eerie place with its wildness of nature, its strange backdrops that could be the setting for a prehistoric animal show. And then right smack in your face looms a creation of modern man, the dam that helps contain Rockport's surplus water supply.
We must learn more of the Cove and what if offers to the Sunday stroller.
J.P.C., Jr.
Walk Into Sea Lanes
Sundays can even be busy days with us old Rockporters to the point where sandwiching in time enough for a stroll may be difficult. Such was last Sunday, one of the most ideal, weather-wise. So it was not until approaching twilight that the wife and I and our fast fading four-footer could find moments to meander along new lanes. This time the wife chose a walk into sea lanes close by.
At Patch's Corner, it looked as if the seats were taken over by the summer folks in garish array, easing out the local characters. For all, the sky offered a glorious twilight show of rare clouds, pink tinged. On a door in the square a nameplate reading Frank Jordan reminded us of his old native Rockport saying about the "mess of green corn...the summer's gone." The old call fire department missed a lot with his passing.
Up the Main Street we poked through the tide of trippers on their way back to 128 and the cities, and in no time we escaped into the first of our sea lanes. On Pier Avenue, we enjoyed the last vestiges of the rampantly beautiful rose garden of Mrs. Edwin N. Kent. Staying on for the summer were her colorful petunias and geraniums. By the way, this has been a rose garden since 1936.
From there to the shore where a forbidding sign screamed "positively No Trespassing" and the signature was S.H. Pool whom many know and respect as Sterling H. Pool, Rockport's sanitary engineer. His is a modest private beach hemmed in by grim stone walls, but we felt he wouldn't mind Molly scratching up a bit of its sand or madly dashing after an unwary gull. Molly has yet to catch one.
Across the way to invade the rose bowered white picket fence of our long time friends, the Parker Eldridges. Their patio overlooks the bay with its colorful boating and swimmng activity. Visiting them was Oscar Benson, who was painting the Methodist Church in a rich white, and whose son-in-law is the church pastor, Rev. Robert Mezoff. Next door is the home of Mary Velanti, a physical education teacher of Greater Boston. The structure by the sea was formerly occupied by artist Yarnall Abbott and before that was a barn used by the same Frank Jordan for his delivery wagon.
Back on the Main Street, it was worth noticing the old Grand Army Hall, a college frat initiation type structure, changed from grim red brick to sheer white. Its quaint small windows mark it here in Sandy Bay. It's the worship hall for the Christian Scientists. Onto another sea lane, leading down to "Blue Gates," where Edith Lowell lived: an old house and a picturesque one overlooking the bay, ivy enclustered and worthy of an artist's brush; a wonderful lawn and a yellow cat for decoration. What more could an author want for a background?
Maybe you wonder why all this time the "monster' has been so peaceful. A walk to our sea lanes forbids us take this canine atomic bomb off the leash. We have too much respect for our summer kinsfolk and their fanciful leash-bound pets.
Finally into the choicest sea lane of them all, that of Ivar Rose and his wife. She has converted an alley into an irrestible flowery retreat. Candy tuft geraniums and purple petunias are the words the "botanist" wife used in describing what artist Ivar and the missus had growing there. Plus religious figurines and striking stone work, it is no wonder that both summer and year-around folks pause to look down the alley in admiration.
And as we again stopped at the head of that alley, we couldn't help but again look at the little long shop wherein for years, Jennie Savage once presided as counsellor-philosopher to Rockporters of all ages, regardless of religion, color or party, native or carpet bagger.
Even the main stem with its side lanes to the sea offer a quiet walk of a Sunday to all of us.
J.P.C., Jr.
At Patch's Corner, it looked as if the seats were taken over by the summer folks in garish array, easing out the local characters. For all, the sky offered a glorious twilight show of rare clouds, pink tinged. On a door in the square a nameplate reading Frank Jordan reminded us of his old native Rockport saying about the "mess of green corn...the summer's gone." The old call fire department missed a lot with his passing.
Up the Main Street we poked through the tide of trippers on their way back to 128 and the cities, and in no time we escaped into the first of our sea lanes. On Pier Avenue, we enjoyed the last vestiges of the rampantly beautiful rose garden of Mrs. Edwin N. Kent. Staying on for the summer were her colorful petunias and geraniums. By the way, this has been a rose garden since 1936.
From there to the shore where a forbidding sign screamed "positively No Trespassing" and the signature was S.H. Pool whom many know and respect as Sterling H. Pool, Rockport's sanitary engineer. His is a modest private beach hemmed in by grim stone walls, but we felt he wouldn't mind Molly scratching up a bit of its sand or madly dashing after an unwary gull. Molly has yet to catch one.
Across the way to invade the rose bowered white picket fence of our long time friends, the Parker Eldridges. Their patio overlooks the bay with its colorful boating and swimmng activity. Visiting them was Oscar Benson, who was painting the Methodist Church in a rich white, and whose son-in-law is the church pastor, Rev. Robert Mezoff. Next door is the home of Mary Velanti, a physical education teacher of Greater Boston. The structure by the sea was formerly occupied by artist Yarnall Abbott and before that was a barn used by the same Frank Jordan for his delivery wagon.
Back on the Main Street, it was worth noticing the old Grand Army Hall, a college frat initiation type structure, changed from grim red brick to sheer white. Its quaint small windows mark it here in Sandy Bay. It's the worship hall for the Christian Scientists. Onto another sea lane, leading down to "Blue Gates," where Edith Lowell lived: an old house and a picturesque one overlooking the bay, ivy enclustered and worthy of an artist's brush; a wonderful lawn and a yellow cat for decoration. What more could an author want for a background?
Maybe you wonder why all this time the "monster' has been so peaceful. A walk to our sea lanes forbids us take this canine atomic bomb off the leash. We have too much respect for our summer kinsfolk and their fanciful leash-bound pets.
Finally into the choicest sea lane of them all, that of Ivar Rose and his wife. She has converted an alley into an irrestible flowery retreat. Candy tuft geraniums and purple petunias are the words the "botanist" wife used in describing what artist Ivar and the missus had growing there. Plus religious figurines and striking stone work, it is no wonder that both summer and year-around folks pause to look down the alley in admiration.
And as we again stopped at the head of that alley, we couldn't help but again look at the little long shop wherein for years, Jennie Savage once presided as counsellor-philosopher to Rockporters of all ages, regardless of religion, color or party, native or carpet bagger.
Even the main stem with its side lanes to the sea offer a quiet walk of a Sunday to all of us.
J.P.C., Jr.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
A Cedar for Remembrance
The two Sunday walks were as unalike as chalk and cheese but both had their own individual charm as soothing as cheese to one so minded. One was in the northern Vermont hills; the other in the Rockport that the wife and I will always love.
Before us as we stepped out the front door were vivid green remembrances of that Vermont walk. They were the two spruces and a cedar, bravely reaching to two feet high, that we had our farmer friend uproot in his sugar woods. The wife figured that Vermont and Sandy Bay should get it together. That Sunday walk in Vermont took us along the main highway where five cars in a line meant a traffic jam. Before us were two rugged tree-coated mountains, Pisgah and Hoar taken from Biblical names, dipping toward each other into spring-fed seven-mile long Lake Willoughby. Full flowing brooks off the roadside halted us to watch trout darting in and around cobbles. Strangely enough, there wasn't a fish pole within a country mile. A chipmunk scooted from around a tree. We looked for bear and deer. We had to settle for the chipmunk.
Even tamer was our stroll through Rockport streets this past Sunday. Except that you were mighty glad your insurance was paid up as you tried to duck the ungodly stream of traffic on every way. Greater Boston must have looked like Appleknocker Corners that day There sure couldn't have been any cars south of 128.
One thing we both noted. There wasn't a trace of Fall on the trees. Some contrast to up-state Vermont where large clumps of leaves on trees had already turned to brilliant Fall colors. Our farmer host read into that too early a winter. To him and his came the grim reminder of a four-foot snow level in his bailiwick last winter, with drifts up to 20 foot and more. He showed us colored stills of the farm and nearby town to prove it.
Moseying up School Street, the quiet air was blasted by "Ball Two!" pouring out the window of an old home. We knew only one inside was listening. Venerable Hosea Tufts was enjoying the Bosox shellacking the Baltimore Orioles. His plus 90 years haven't dulled his loyalty.
Summer Street greeted us with another array of fences for which Rockport has the right to be justly proud. Dick and Kitty Recchia have probably one of the most attractive of fences. Wooden pickets cut out like the silhouettes of men forming a strong front for a landscaped yard in which are his priceless pieces of sculpture.
With us again was our four-footed family member, Mollie, the disdainful Boxer. Her nose was high in the air as she ignored littler Scotties and terriers but woofed heartily at just as proud an overgrown poodle. We've found Molly to be a grade A snob. The wife and I are yearning for the day when that snobbishness will include cats.
Before us were stately cedars towering over the newly acquired home of our GHS classmate Marion MacLean on Summer Street. Couldn't help but wonder when our Vermont cedar, now 18 inches high, will get that big. Down Prospect Street, we thought of all the attractive signs that dot Rockport streets. As far as we know there is no dictum on signs but it just seems that the natives and the Johnny-come-lately's all have mighty good taste when it comes to signs. We note that of The Coach House as an example. This is in front of the fetching home that has a 16-pane window.
Two old barns that never should be torn down are on this Prospect Street. The missus tells me they belonged to the Pooles. But they're the real McCoy, even to the rustic horseshoe for luck over the barn door on one of them. Weatherbeaten wood structures they breathe Rockport atmosphere down deep. They are more valuable than Motif No.1! J.P.C., Jr.
Before us as we stepped out the front door were vivid green remembrances of that Vermont walk. They were the two spruces and a cedar, bravely reaching to two feet high, that we had our farmer friend uproot in his sugar woods. The wife figured that Vermont and Sandy Bay should get it together. That Sunday walk in Vermont took us along the main highway where five cars in a line meant a traffic jam. Before us were two rugged tree-coated mountains, Pisgah and Hoar taken from Biblical names, dipping toward each other into spring-fed seven-mile long Lake Willoughby. Full flowing brooks off the roadside halted us to watch trout darting in and around cobbles. Strangely enough, there wasn't a fish pole within a country mile. A chipmunk scooted from around a tree. We looked for bear and deer. We had to settle for the chipmunk.
Even tamer was our stroll through Rockport streets this past Sunday. Except that you were mighty glad your insurance was paid up as you tried to duck the ungodly stream of traffic on every way. Greater Boston must have looked like Appleknocker Corners that day There sure couldn't have been any cars south of 128.
One thing we both noted. There wasn't a trace of Fall on the trees. Some contrast to up-state Vermont where large clumps of leaves on trees had already turned to brilliant Fall colors. Our farmer host read into that too early a winter. To him and his came the grim reminder of a four-foot snow level in his bailiwick last winter, with drifts up to 20 foot and more. He showed us colored stills of the farm and nearby town to prove it.
Moseying up School Street, the quiet air was blasted by "Ball Two!" pouring out the window of an old home. We knew only one inside was listening. Venerable Hosea Tufts was enjoying the Bosox shellacking the Baltimore Orioles. His plus 90 years haven't dulled his loyalty.
Summer Street greeted us with another array of fences for which Rockport has the right to be justly proud. Dick and Kitty Recchia have probably one of the most attractive of fences. Wooden pickets cut out like the silhouettes of men forming a strong front for a landscaped yard in which are his priceless pieces of sculpture.
With us again was our four-footed family member, Mollie, the disdainful Boxer. Her nose was high in the air as she ignored littler Scotties and terriers but woofed heartily at just as proud an overgrown poodle. We've found Molly to be a grade A snob. The wife and I are yearning for the day when that snobbishness will include cats.
Before us were stately cedars towering over the newly acquired home of our GHS classmate Marion MacLean on Summer Street. Couldn't help but wonder when our Vermont cedar, now 18 inches high, will get that big. Down Prospect Street, we thought of all the attractive signs that dot Rockport streets. As far as we know there is no dictum on signs but it just seems that the natives and the Johnny-come-lately's all have mighty good taste when it comes to signs. We note that of The Coach House as an example. This is in front of the fetching home that has a 16-pane window.
Two old barns that never should be torn down are on this Prospect Street. The missus tells me they belonged to the Pooles. But they're the real McCoy, even to the rustic horseshoe for luck over the barn door on one of them. Weatherbeaten wood structures they breathe Rockport atmosphere down deep. They are more valuable than Motif No.1! J.P.C., Jr.
A Rockport Fence Viewer Takes a Stroll
The wife and I had plans for off-islanding to Worcester last Sunday so with our decrepit cat-hazer Mollie we re-timed the usual Sunday stroll to a Saturday Shanks-mare saunter through Rockport's ways.
This time the sailing orders read the shoreline of the former Harvey development along Marmion Way, an area that a thinker named George W. Harvey did much to breathe life into land.
The sun was setting in the rich colors it can only set in Rockport town. The air was crisp and so were we. For Molly, it was like old home week for here was her neighborhood of the good old days when her tiring bones were more virile and her snorting had more oompth or "it" or whatever you below twenty call that sort of thing today.
The wife and I have always been unpaid amateur fence viewers but not in the official sense of a viewer concerned with the barrier trespassing a half inch on the other feller's land. So again we had the joy of noting several varieties of inspiring fences all gathered closely as if they were trying to fence in our sunset so it would always be around to contain happiness on this patch of earth.
First we noted a wrought iron fence bordering Paul Dow's grounds 'Rockport Hammocks.' He makes them, you know, here and in his winter home in Sarasota, Fla. What's more, he uses them to prove to you how restful they can be. Just a plug at sunset!
Right next door we collided with a formal and impressive granite fence, old Rockport as can be, and across the street is the Alice O. Tarr property with a boulder fence that also had the strength of Gibraltar. The wife and I noted that our hefty boxer (65 pounds on the paws) took an entirely opposite reaction to these fences. There was no segregation in her mind when it came to what to do upon meeting a fence -- or a post. A dog's life isn't so bad after all -- if you're a dog.
Then at 44 Marmion Way was a particularly beautiful fence of cobbles set in cement and close by a rustic wooden fence with a blue gate setting off the Tod property. We found ourselves in the land of the late Sam Williamson, the remarkable author who discovered Rockport as a precinct of his "Salt Harbor" stories that graced the pages of the New York Times Sunday magazine, the stories that put so many good Rockporters in Manhattan, like the Tucks and "Doc" Greene among others. Sam's widow Cora, who won fame as a grand opera singer, presides over their shore estate.
As the sun blazed up more and more in the riotous colors of the sun bowing out for the night, we ambled up past the one-time Harvey home later occupied by our high school classmate, Lawyer Dan Harris with its expansive grounds that we felt must have broken somebody's back trying to keep mowed but grounds which our sweet (?) li'l Molly just loved to show how fleet of foot she wasn't The way she sniffed and snorted, we felt she was trying for gophers.
Ahead of us the sea was tranquil, gentle, so different from other seas of Sandy Bay that have torn strong vessels apart and brought Coast Guardsment on their knees in rescue efforts of fishermen and yachtsmen alike. The wife and I looked with longing at the shore and recalled the days of our early courtship gone almost 30 years away when we were able to walk that coast line from the Headlands to the old Coast Guard Base at Straitsmouth. Town short-sightedness let that coastline fall into private hands.
Private or no private, didn't stop our four-footer from making one big dash for that exclusive area when she got wind of something important to her. As usual, her foray ended up with just another huff and a puff. And on that note we wound up in the family antique and off to home and TV land. It was a good soft walk, one on which you too should have been along. J.P.C., Jr.
This time the sailing orders read the shoreline of the former Harvey development along Marmion Way, an area that a thinker named George W. Harvey did much to breathe life into land.
The sun was setting in the rich colors it can only set in Rockport town. The air was crisp and so were we. For Molly, it was like old home week for here was her neighborhood of the good old days when her tiring bones were more virile and her snorting had more oompth or "it" or whatever you below twenty call that sort of thing today.
The wife and I have always been unpaid amateur fence viewers but not in the official sense of a viewer concerned with the barrier trespassing a half inch on the other feller's land. So again we had the joy of noting several varieties of inspiring fences all gathered closely as if they were trying to fence in our sunset so it would always be around to contain happiness on this patch of earth.
First we noted a wrought iron fence bordering Paul Dow's grounds 'Rockport Hammocks.' He makes them, you know, here and in his winter home in Sarasota, Fla. What's more, he uses them to prove to you how restful they can be. Just a plug at sunset!
Right next door we collided with a formal and impressive granite fence, old Rockport as can be, and across the street is the Alice O. Tarr property with a boulder fence that also had the strength of Gibraltar. The wife and I noted that our hefty boxer (65 pounds on the paws) took an entirely opposite reaction to these fences. There was no segregation in her mind when it came to what to do upon meeting a fence -- or a post. A dog's life isn't so bad after all -- if you're a dog.
Then at 44 Marmion Way was a particularly beautiful fence of cobbles set in cement and close by a rustic wooden fence with a blue gate setting off the Tod property. We found ourselves in the land of the late Sam Williamson, the remarkable author who discovered Rockport as a precinct of his "Salt Harbor" stories that graced the pages of the New York Times Sunday magazine, the stories that put so many good Rockporters in Manhattan, like the Tucks and "Doc" Greene among others. Sam's widow Cora, who won fame as a grand opera singer, presides over their shore estate.
As the sun blazed up more and more in the riotous colors of the sun bowing out for the night, we ambled up past the one-time Harvey home later occupied by our high school classmate, Lawyer Dan Harris with its expansive grounds that we felt must have broken somebody's back trying to keep mowed but grounds which our sweet (?) li'l Molly just loved to show how fleet of foot she wasn't The way she sniffed and snorted, we felt she was trying for gophers.
Ahead of us the sea was tranquil, gentle, so different from other seas of Sandy Bay that have torn strong vessels apart and brought Coast Guardsment on their knees in rescue efforts of fishermen and yachtsmen alike. The wife and I looked with longing at the shore and recalled the days of our early courtship gone almost 30 years away when we were able to walk that coast line from the Headlands to the old Coast Guard Base at Straitsmouth. Town short-sightedness let that coastline fall into private hands.
Private or no private, didn't stop our four-footer from making one big dash for that exclusive area when she got wind of something important to her. As usual, her foray ended up with just another huff and a puff. And on that note we wound up in the family antique and off to home and TV land. It was a good soft walk, one on which you too should have been along. J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk to Caleb's Lane
The leaves were turning and the weather was, too, back to the Fourth of July kind, as the wife and I with our boxer Mollie set out Sunday to walk again the lane to the sea.
Not that I particularly cared to go a-laning when the Braves, my favorite ball club, and the Dodgers were in the home stretch for the Nats' pennant. We'd even suffer through a Bosox spasm just to catch the flashes from the two real battles.
But the wife had other ideas, single track of course, and that was to inhale more of the Rockport atmosphere while the weather lasted. All along the way, announcers were blatting the score, so we had no real gripe coming. Even the good husbands who stayed home and raked up leaves had portables at hand tuned to the right spot.
There are those who say that Labor Day ends the summer on-slaught on Sandy Bay. They should have been here the 27th trying to straddle Broadway. It would take Brigitte herself to stop that double line long enough to reach the other side in safety. Even wary Mollie, the four-footer, almost found herself climbing the hoods to escape automotive vivisection in broad daylight.
Up School Street, down Pleasant, we came up against one of the most spectacular Fall-tinted maples we've seen anywhere in New England. It was directly across from that oddball three-storied structure that thrills outsiders...but not us. Along the way we collided with a sure sign of torrid weather. a gentleman stripped to his waist while he worked on his bright red little car. He had the right idea for comfort. And that car looked swell. We envied him his saving on gas.
From here onto Cove Hill and the sharp climb that Labor Day marathoners shudder at, we noted that the Boy Scout grounds, once the school house's, sported a long spar apparently ready for a spot in the earth to become a flag pole.
Passing Selectman Ernie Poole's homestead we saw cedars growing neat and proper to a degree that made us jealous. Us who are doing our darndest to breather life into the handful we brought down from West Burke, in far north Vermont, out of our farmer host's west pasture. Maybe it's adrenalin, they need.
We'll never get over the weird naming of Rockport streets. All in one straight line, Main Street became Dock Square, begat Mount Pleasant Street, begat South Street, begat Thacher Road, to bounce into Gloucester. we got only into South Street, where we both loved an old-hat stone wall at Number 10 that was the real McCoy. Just plain stones, laid one on top of the other. Real native, no less.
And then we hit the lane to the sea, Caleb's Lane, and read the sign, though there was no explanation if it once belonged to 17th century Caleb Norwood or equally as 17th century Caleb Poole. Both were dominant squires of the period. Rockport Historian Everett Sanborn could probably recite plenty about both.
It's a narrow dirt road flanked at its start by a real old home sporting a white chimney. A road lined for a charming spell with gleaming red barberry bushes on the port side, poignant blue elderberry bushes on the starboard. Those bushes were loaded to the gun'ls. That's why the birds came to them a-chirping their sweetest.
A hidden-old country style barn with rusty horseshoes for decorations over the wide door and across from it, a new home made to look ancient formed an inviting contrast.
Then it came! We began a slight descent, only to be joyously hit by the sight of the sea in the distance, a lone sail showing on a soft blue tranquil expanse. It was moments later as we emerged from the lane that we saw that one sail multipled tenfold and more for this was a day made for marine small fry.
A lane of thick goldenrod and brilliant blue asters, a lane with the new and the old, and with nothing but nature in between, that's 17th century Caleb's Lane. May it forever stay that way for us Sunday walkers. J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: Boston Braves and Brooklyn Dodgers then.
Not that I particularly cared to go a-laning when the Braves, my favorite ball club, and the Dodgers were in the home stretch for the Nats' pennant. We'd even suffer through a Bosox spasm just to catch the flashes from the two real battles.
But the wife had other ideas, single track of course, and that was to inhale more of the Rockport atmosphere while the weather lasted. All along the way, announcers were blatting the score, so we had no real gripe coming. Even the good husbands who stayed home and raked up leaves had portables at hand tuned to the right spot.
There are those who say that Labor Day ends the summer on-slaught on Sandy Bay. They should have been here the 27th trying to straddle Broadway. It would take Brigitte herself to stop that double line long enough to reach the other side in safety. Even wary Mollie, the four-footer, almost found herself climbing the hoods to escape automotive vivisection in broad daylight.
Up School Street, down Pleasant, we came up against one of the most spectacular Fall-tinted maples we've seen anywhere in New England. It was directly across from that oddball three-storied structure that thrills outsiders...but not us. Along the way we collided with a sure sign of torrid weather. a gentleman stripped to his waist while he worked on his bright red little car. He had the right idea for comfort. And that car looked swell. We envied him his saving on gas.
From here onto Cove Hill and the sharp climb that Labor Day marathoners shudder at, we noted that the Boy Scout grounds, once the school house's, sported a long spar apparently ready for a spot in the earth to become a flag pole.
Passing Selectman Ernie Poole's homestead we saw cedars growing neat and proper to a degree that made us jealous. Us who are doing our darndest to breather life into the handful we brought down from West Burke, in far north Vermont, out of our farmer host's west pasture. Maybe it's adrenalin, they need.
We'll never get over the weird naming of Rockport streets. All in one straight line, Main Street became Dock Square, begat Mount Pleasant Street, begat South Street, begat Thacher Road, to bounce into Gloucester. we got only into South Street, where we both loved an old-hat stone wall at Number 10 that was the real McCoy. Just plain stones, laid one on top of the other. Real native, no less.
And then we hit the lane to the sea, Caleb's Lane, and read the sign, though there was no explanation if it once belonged to 17th century Caleb Norwood or equally as 17th century Caleb Poole. Both were dominant squires of the period. Rockport Historian Everett Sanborn could probably recite plenty about both.
It's a narrow dirt road flanked at its start by a real old home sporting a white chimney. A road lined for a charming spell with gleaming red barberry bushes on the port side, poignant blue elderberry bushes on the starboard. Those bushes were loaded to the gun'ls. That's why the birds came to them a-chirping their sweetest.
A hidden-old country style barn with rusty horseshoes for decorations over the wide door and across from it, a new home made to look ancient formed an inviting contrast.
Then it came! We began a slight descent, only to be joyously hit by the sight of the sea in the distance, a lone sail showing on a soft blue tranquil expanse. It was moments later as we emerged from the lane that we saw that one sail multipled tenfold and more for this was a day made for marine small fry.
A lane of thick goldenrod and brilliant blue asters, a lane with the new and the old, and with nothing but nature in between, that's 17th century Caleb's Lane. May it forever stay that way for us Sunday walkers. J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: Boston Braves and Brooklyn Dodgers then.
Walk by the Ex-Hospital
The sky was noticeably leaking as the wife and I and our hefty boxer set out for our Sunday stroll in Rockport. It could be raining buckets and it wouldn't stop the missus from this weekly walk. And how rash can a husband be to argue with the determination of the so-called weaker sex. The soaking is easier to stand than a woman's wrath, we say.
This time the destination was the old Leander Haskins Hospital grounds atop Summit Avenue. For years in selectmen's sessions and in town meetings we had heard officials vocally wrestling as to how to get rid of what had become a town drag. For awhile the Air Force used it for barracks for their sky-spy tower.
The town fathers cleared the way, finally, to bring it to earth so as to create a town park for all to enjoy. Their judgment is excellent. As we reached the site with all traces of the architectural monstrosity removed, it was easy to see what a glorious park the site can be. The view is magnificent.
In fact, a short climb into the fire tower must afford even a richer view of the ocean and countryside if it weren't for the forbidding sign that orders stay below. The town would help us all by erecting a companion tower with safe steps and railing to allow people to reach a height where the panorama could be relished.
Always the good right hand, the wife stayed close with her garish bumbershoot held over me so that the heavy dew couldn't wash out the scribbled notes I was taking. The galloping boxer, however, paid no attention to the weather but probed new spots of mystery in the brush, around the tower, and in the open spaces.
An old-time electric car bench intrigued her, as it did us. Maybe we sat on that same seat when a kid bouncing over the tracks that spanned the spillway at the end of the Goose Cove bridge. The hospital stable, still standing, was even more impressive with its spectacular bay window, perhaps the only barn that ever had one.
A peek inside a window revealing a motley array of junk that only a New England barn can collect, plus a weird assortment of tools and whatnots. Evidences that the town park department appreciated the area were shown in the gathering of freshly navy-grey painted park benches and also gangplanks for town floats. They looked mighty shipshape, typical of this department.
That road to the fire tower is wide enough for cars, although unless you need to, we would advise staying a-foot. It's probably meant to get the woods fire kit through so as to get at the heart of any blaze on that end of Dogtown or vicinity. But the path is also girded by signs of Spring such as the soft green foliage of trees, the stately white birches.
By this time we were in the area once beloved by the native Rockporters at Third Pines. The wife, who remembered many a Sunday School picnic beneath the cooling trees on a hot summer's day, looked in vain for the pines that gave the place its name. They seemed to have vanished with the years.
Lilies-of-the-valley were over-running the place, blueberry blossoms were rampant indicating that the crop ought to be real lush this year. Shad bushes were rich in their sheer white splendor. The walk was still worth it.
Birds of all kinds could be spotted through the woodland growth, could be heard where there was no sight of them. Molly almost had conniption fits trying to nuzzle out just one for a haze. The wife and I rejoiced at her defeat. As much as the sleek skinned monster means to us, how could we ever forgive her catching even one bird.
We were on the road to the Common, that we knew. And someday we will chase that road to its destination. But on this rain-swept day we had too much else on our minds, including a date at the home of a friend.
All three of us agree that our town fathers have done much for the hill and its environs by laying low the Haskins ghost structure that ruled so many years. Out of the ashes can spring a thing of beauty like a mountain park for all Rockport and her visiting friends from everywhere to enjoy as we did on this sprinkled Sabbath. - J.P.C., Jr.
This time the destination was the old Leander Haskins Hospital grounds atop Summit Avenue. For years in selectmen's sessions and in town meetings we had heard officials vocally wrestling as to how to get rid of what had become a town drag. For awhile the Air Force used it for barracks for their sky-spy tower.
The town fathers cleared the way, finally, to bring it to earth so as to create a town park for all to enjoy. Their judgment is excellent. As we reached the site with all traces of the architectural monstrosity removed, it was easy to see what a glorious park the site can be. The view is magnificent.
In fact, a short climb into the fire tower must afford even a richer view of the ocean and countryside if it weren't for the forbidding sign that orders stay below. The town would help us all by erecting a companion tower with safe steps and railing to allow people to reach a height where the panorama could be relished.
Always the good right hand, the wife stayed close with her garish bumbershoot held over me so that the heavy dew couldn't wash out the scribbled notes I was taking. The galloping boxer, however, paid no attention to the weather but probed new spots of mystery in the brush, around the tower, and in the open spaces.
An old-time electric car bench intrigued her, as it did us. Maybe we sat on that same seat when a kid bouncing over the tracks that spanned the spillway at the end of the Goose Cove bridge. The hospital stable, still standing, was even more impressive with its spectacular bay window, perhaps the only barn that ever had one.
A peek inside a window revealing a motley array of junk that only a New England barn can collect, plus a weird assortment of tools and whatnots. Evidences that the town park department appreciated the area were shown in the gathering of freshly navy-grey painted park benches and also gangplanks for town floats. They looked mighty shipshape, typical of this department.
That road to the fire tower is wide enough for cars, although unless you need to, we would advise staying a-foot. It's probably meant to get the woods fire kit through so as to get at the heart of any blaze on that end of Dogtown or vicinity. But the path is also girded by signs of Spring such as the soft green foliage of trees, the stately white birches.
By this time we were in the area once beloved by the native Rockporters at Third Pines. The wife, who remembered many a Sunday School picnic beneath the cooling trees on a hot summer's day, looked in vain for the pines that gave the place its name. They seemed to have vanished with the years.
Lilies-of-the-valley were over-running the place, blueberry blossoms were rampant indicating that the crop ought to be real lush this year. Shad bushes were rich in their sheer white splendor. The walk was still worth it.
Birds of all kinds could be spotted through the woodland growth, could be heard where there was no sight of them. Molly almost had conniption fits trying to nuzzle out just one for a haze. The wife and I rejoiced at her defeat. As much as the sleek skinned monster means to us, how could we ever forgive her catching even one bird.
We were on the road to the Common, that we knew. And someday we will chase that road to its destination. But on this rain-swept day we had too much else on our minds, including a date at the home of a friend.
All three of us agree that our town fathers have done much for the hill and its environs by laying low the Haskins ghost structure that ruled so many years. Out of the ashes can spring a thing of beauty like a mountain park for all Rockport and her visiting friends from everywhere to enjoy as we did on this sprinkled Sabbath. - J.P.C., Jr.
Walk Around the Fourth
The town was panicked on the stillest Fourth in our history. Not a cracker sputtered but the streets were jammed bumper to bumper with day trippers and the like down to catch a glimpse of the lobster shacks and fish huts. The wife and I and our good four-footer decided that even the sidewalks weren't safe for us pedestrians on the only day of the week we had to stroll.
So we decided to walk around the Fourth by sticking to the safety lanes in the neighborhood and see what our closest friends had succeeded to woo out of the late Spring elements and questionable soil.
Crossing our home street we ventured down Moody Lane that lacked a name until we decided our most recent inhabitant ought to be so honored. 'Tis a private path used most frequently connecting School Street in our Rockport with Dock Square. Information Please sponsored by our Board of Trade is at the other end. It was fitting that the first feller we should bump into in a car from Alexandria, Va., was Johnny Day who used to live next door and who got his sandlot baseball know-how in the adjacent school yard.
Just like Johny, the kiddoes were still in that playground despite the fact that town decree had crowded the swings and jungle gym with a hot-topped auto parking lot.
Down past the backyard of Alex Marr, where hollyhocks lent joy to the day bolstered by the gracious sight of petunias, marguerites and roses along the alleyway. across the road, clinging green ivy climbed up a stately chimney on a Bob Rapp summer home.
Just ahead was the sight of a slinking yellow furry critter whose breed held nothing but contempt from our Molly but fortunately the old gal was on a leash and could only dream of downing her first feline. It was a day when the leash was a must if we were to bring her back alive. Car wheels can be so impressive on a careless Boxer.
It was crowds, crowds, crowds in Dock Square that Fourth of July day, what with long distance passenger busses parked all over the lot. New England seemed to have come to Rockport for the day. They came in all shapes and sizes and in all stages of dress and undress but every mother's son of them looked happy and comfortable. It made us feel good they were all with us.
On the Neck we veered off along Middle Road to escape the press of folks for a space. Off to the left we saw one whole bank of deep red roses along the Frank Kenny property and opposite was an equally deep bank of sheer creamy white roses on the Sail Loft property.
On Middle Road outstanding was the done-over property of Heinrich Scottoni who transformed a building into an early American with overhanging floor and leaded small-paned windows. Dark stained, the structure took us back into the 17th century, a touch of old Deerfield dropped down onto Sandy Bay. It's too bad more people don't see it.
The road itself is one continuous bower of red and white roses in all their June fullness. But we were the sole wayfarers bothering to breathe in its luxury. The masses were gawking along bauble row to the south'ard.
Another home here boasted screens reveling in scenes of Rockport's Motif No. 1, and a lighthouse picture that could be anywhere in New England. And overhead was a ship's wheel.
Rambler roses sprayed all over The Rudder as we wound our way back onto the main drag of the Neck. Through an opening we could glimpse the town's Front Beach, really jumping this hot summer day with summer and year-around folks bravely battling near freezing waters.
Off to the right were the century old stone walls along the shore where we recalled our own young'uns would scamper as the old man's heart was literally in his mouth, and the good wife had nary a worry. She knew the powers of kiddoes far better than did her spouse.
Once again on the Neck's main stem, again we found the traffic afoot and on wheels was too much for us and our Molly straining on the leash. It was home again to await a quiet day before we venture forth again.
J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: "Moody Lane" has now been named StoneBarn Lane for the stone barn which once stood there.
So we decided to walk around the Fourth by sticking to the safety lanes in the neighborhood and see what our closest friends had succeeded to woo out of the late Spring elements and questionable soil.
Crossing our home street we ventured down Moody Lane that lacked a name until we decided our most recent inhabitant ought to be so honored. 'Tis a private path used most frequently connecting School Street in our Rockport with Dock Square. Information Please sponsored by our Board of Trade is at the other end. It was fitting that the first feller we should bump into in a car from Alexandria, Va., was Johnny Day who used to live next door and who got his sandlot baseball know-how in the adjacent school yard.
Just like Johny, the kiddoes were still in that playground despite the fact that town decree had crowded the swings and jungle gym with a hot-topped auto parking lot.
Down past the backyard of Alex Marr, where hollyhocks lent joy to the day bolstered by the gracious sight of petunias, marguerites and roses along the alleyway. across the road, clinging green ivy climbed up a stately chimney on a Bob Rapp summer home.
Just ahead was the sight of a slinking yellow furry critter whose breed held nothing but contempt from our Molly but fortunately the old gal was on a leash and could only dream of downing her first feline. It was a day when the leash was a must if we were to bring her back alive. Car wheels can be so impressive on a careless Boxer.
It was crowds, crowds, crowds in Dock Square that Fourth of July day, what with long distance passenger busses parked all over the lot. New England seemed to have come to Rockport for the day. They came in all shapes and sizes and in all stages of dress and undress but every mother's son of them looked happy and comfortable. It made us feel good they were all with us.
On the Neck we veered off along Middle Road to escape the press of folks for a space. Off to the left we saw one whole bank of deep red roses along the Frank Kenny property and opposite was an equally deep bank of sheer creamy white roses on the Sail Loft property.
On Middle Road outstanding was the done-over property of Heinrich Scottoni who transformed a building into an early American with overhanging floor and leaded small-paned windows. Dark stained, the structure took us back into the 17th century, a touch of old Deerfield dropped down onto Sandy Bay. It's too bad more people don't see it.
The road itself is one continuous bower of red and white roses in all their June fullness. But we were the sole wayfarers bothering to breathe in its luxury. The masses were gawking along bauble row to the south'ard.
Another home here boasted screens reveling in scenes of Rockport's Motif No. 1, and a lighthouse picture that could be anywhere in New England. And overhead was a ship's wheel.
Rambler roses sprayed all over The Rudder as we wound our way back onto the main drag of the Neck. Through an opening we could glimpse the town's Front Beach, really jumping this hot summer day with summer and year-around folks bravely battling near freezing waters.
Off to the right were the century old stone walls along the shore where we recalled our own young'uns would scamper as the old man's heart was literally in his mouth, and the good wife had nary a worry. She knew the powers of kiddoes far better than did her spouse.
Once again on the Neck's main stem, again we found the traffic afoot and on wheels was too much for us and our Molly straining on the leash. It was home again to await a quiet day before we venture forth again.
J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: "Moody Lane" has now been named StoneBarn Lane for the stone barn which once stood there.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Along the Big Pit - Granite Company Barn
Pigeon Cove again called to us that rare perfect Sunday, we gassed it over to the starting point, Quarry Road. We got to the entrance but never set foot on the road itself. That walk will have to wait. For when we spied the "No Trespassing" sign, we decided to be real proper and ask permission, for to the left of us, we spotted the land owner, Dr. Douglas T. Davidson, whose home was across the way. The good Doctor --we've known him these past score of years -- arrived from Delaware with his physician wife the night before and was getting things shipshape.
He was working around an ancient barn boasting windows with 80 small panes of glass. Within was a suite of fetching rooms which he labeled Quarry Motor Lodge, the type of summer hostelry repeated over and over again through Sandy Bay that have built up for this locale as the place in which to spend a summer by the seashore. The barn was once the stable for the old Rockport Granite Company where the stalls for oxen could still be seen, stalls later housing stalwart horses to haul granite slabs. In fact, the stable even prided itself upon a real sick stall for horses down with fever or whatnot. They called it a box stall in those days. That barn was solidly built with massive timbers capable of supporting a skyscraper and mighty well pegged.
We saw big quarried stone done with a chisel to make flat wedges rather than the conventional round wedges. That barn was built to withstand the ages. It sure outlived the granite company that was finally floored by higher operating costs and changing type of building construction.
But it was time to do some leg shuffling, so up the road went the good missus and our adopted mutt Molly into a glorious white clouded sky and the fairest of weather. We were at Big Pit, an abandoned quarry filled with the clearest of water, 400 feet long, 100 feet across and at least 20 feet deep, where kiddoes used to go swimming and got spanked for it. Tree-lined it was worked for scores of years and then as it filled after being abandoned, it furnished drinking water for the tugboats that came into the Cove to haul the granite-laden barges. Those were the days of a busy Pigeon Cove. Industry was really jumping all over the terrain.
All this gaze into the past had no lure for our thundering gal. For Molly the fun was in the Hell-bent-for-leather racing through the brush and the briar, nuzzling for excitement, birds to flush out of the heather, strange wild animals to cover. Yup, she was ready for anything, ears cocked, nostrils quivering, fangs bared. But well we knew that if she ever came face to face with a quavering victim, she would wilt as a lady should wilt. Molly's a baby at heart.
We found ourselves in wild flowerland at its best, nostalgic buttercups, lavender geraniums, bluegrass in all its austerity, strawberry and blackberry blossoms, wild lilies of the valley that rimmed the edge of the Big Pit, soothing star flowers, wilder cherry blossoms, all bringing the reverence of Spring closer to us.
By this time the inevitable woofing dog in the distance brought us back to grim reality and the fear of another major skirmish between Molly and"it." Again we saw visions of losing another good Cove friend. This we can ill afford. But it never happened. It was just another voice, aeons away for which the wife and I were so relieved.
The three of us had relished another perfect walk into Sabbath land in Sandy Bay, renewing old friends and old beaten paths. Try them yourselves some day to know how good your feet can treat you, if you will but treat your feet of a Sunday afternoon in Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
He was working around an ancient barn boasting windows with 80 small panes of glass. Within was a suite of fetching rooms which he labeled Quarry Motor Lodge, the type of summer hostelry repeated over and over again through Sandy Bay that have built up for this locale as the place in which to spend a summer by the seashore. The barn was once the stable for the old Rockport Granite Company where the stalls for oxen could still be seen, stalls later housing stalwart horses to haul granite slabs. In fact, the stable even prided itself upon a real sick stall for horses down with fever or whatnot. They called it a box stall in those days. That barn was solidly built with massive timbers capable of supporting a skyscraper and mighty well pegged.
We saw big quarried stone done with a chisel to make flat wedges rather than the conventional round wedges. That barn was built to withstand the ages. It sure outlived the granite company that was finally floored by higher operating costs and changing type of building construction.
But it was time to do some leg shuffling, so up the road went the good missus and our adopted mutt Molly into a glorious white clouded sky and the fairest of weather. We were at Big Pit, an abandoned quarry filled with the clearest of water, 400 feet long, 100 feet across and at least 20 feet deep, where kiddoes used to go swimming and got spanked for it. Tree-lined it was worked for scores of years and then as it filled after being abandoned, it furnished drinking water for the tugboats that came into the Cove to haul the granite-laden barges. Those were the days of a busy Pigeon Cove. Industry was really jumping all over the terrain.
All this gaze into the past had no lure for our thundering gal. For Molly the fun was in the Hell-bent-for-leather racing through the brush and the briar, nuzzling for excitement, birds to flush out of the heather, strange wild animals to cover. Yup, she was ready for anything, ears cocked, nostrils quivering, fangs bared. But well we knew that if she ever came face to face with a quavering victim, she would wilt as a lady should wilt. Molly's a baby at heart.
We found ourselves in wild flowerland at its best, nostalgic buttercups, lavender geraniums, bluegrass in all its austerity, strawberry and blackberry blossoms, wild lilies of the valley that rimmed the edge of the Big Pit, soothing star flowers, wilder cherry blossoms, all bringing the reverence of Spring closer to us.
By this time the inevitable woofing dog in the distance brought us back to grim reality and the fear of another major skirmish between Molly and"it." Again we saw visions of losing another good Cove friend. This we can ill afford. But it never happened. It was just another voice, aeons away for which the wife and I were so relieved.
The three of us had relished another perfect walk into Sabbath land in Sandy Bay, renewing old friends and old beaten paths. Try them yourselves some day to know how good your feet can treat you, if you will but treat your feet of a Sunday afternoon in Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
Nugent's Stretch To Cape Pond
A rainy Sunday afternoon seldom lends itself for a pleasure jaunt except that the wife and I refuse to let the weather stand in the way of giving the lower limbs a workout. We decided to recheck a path choked with memories.
First stop was at the old Bass Rocks Railroad Station, or rather the site of that wee wooden ginger-breaded structure that squatted down at Beaver Dam flush with the main road to Rockport. A one-car Budd rumbled past as we viewed the mess that picnickers planted. Nothing short of a town dump it was, with paper bagfuls of beer cans, swill and the like, rusted parts of engines, melting remnants of ice cakes, blotting out the beauty of austere oaks and stirring pines. And also it was dimming the beauty of the nearly historic stone structure that is the Babson shrine, a museum visited by hundreds from all over the world every summer. Of course our Rockport could at least place a waste barrel inviting to wayfarers to leave their rubbish inside it. But maybe the wayfarers can't read.
Speaking of the Babson museum, once a cooper shop in the 17th century, this later became the summer kitchen of the Nugents' house where their 14 children were raised, including George and Jim, Catherine and Jenny, all of whom had to traipse at least two miles, spring, fall, and winter, to school in Rockport. They were sure a hardy lot.
Memories were blasted at this point by the phwat-phwat of model planes in the neighboring field. Their zooming reminded us that there must be safer zones on the stretch, so all three of us ducked the Sunday traffic whiz of the open road to the other side of the street to enter the road to Cape Pond. We failed to see a "No Trespassing" sign until we emerged a half hour later. This is the rustic woodland path where years ago, we took our youngsters for Sunday walks and where they found a wealth of adventure and gave us countless seconds of anxiety as they braved what at least the old man felt was human peril.
We saw the old ball field, Webster's I think they called it, now a mass of scrub pines and firs for an outfield that would even stump Roger Edwards. Here's where the baseball greats of Cape Ann used to strut. Mighties like Duffy Blatchford, Grover and others of their ilk had their big innings on this sward.
Since folks are ordinarily too lazy to stroll through the woods, there was no filthy rubble along the way. Instead there was the welcome sight of blue and white violets in the center aisle all along the way, splattered with bright bluets poking up their heads. And again we were intrigued by an ancient rough-hewn stone wall bordering the entire way. Our son used to persist in trying to walk its length years ago as the family chief had conniption fits.
Molly the boxer held no nostalgic thoughts as she tore through the brush and sloshed through a lazy brook that disappeared beneath the path. Her failing eyesight missed a scared wild rabbit that took to the brush in a hurry, but she was quick to spot a pheasant whose loud squawk could be heard a mile as she gave Molly a fast fair-thee-well into the ether. Licking her chops at the base of a tree did no good for our drooling bone-chopper.
Thence onto Cape Pond itself, bathed this day in shrouded fog, lending an air of mystery to all of us and to the ghosts of ice-houses long dead with only their cement foundations left to mark their burial. Life sprang into view with the scene of a cluster of jack-in-the-pulpit geting ready to preach "Spring is really here."
J.P.C., Jr.
First stop was at the old Bass Rocks Railroad Station, or rather the site of that wee wooden ginger-breaded structure that squatted down at Beaver Dam flush with the main road to Rockport. A one-car Budd rumbled past as we viewed the mess that picnickers planted. Nothing short of a town dump it was, with paper bagfuls of beer cans, swill and the like, rusted parts of engines, melting remnants of ice cakes, blotting out the beauty of austere oaks and stirring pines. And also it was dimming the beauty of the nearly historic stone structure that is the Babson shrine, a museum visited by hundreds from all over the world every summer. Of course our Rockport could at least place a waste barrel inviting to wayfarers to leave their rubbish inside it. But maybe the wayfarers can't read.
Speaking of the Babson museum, once a cooper shop in the 17th century, this later became the summer kitchen of the Nugents' house where their 14 children were raised, including George and Jim, Catherine and Jenny, all of whom had to traipse at least two miles, spring, fall, and winter, to school in Rockport. They were sure a hardy lot.
Memories were blasted at this point by the phwat-phwat of model planes in the neighboring field. Their zooming reminded us that there must be safer zones on the stretch, so all three of us ducked the Sunday traffic whiz of the open road to the other side of the street to enter the road to Cape Pond. We failed to see a "No Trespassing" sign until we emerged a half hour later. This is the rustic woodland path where years ago, we took our youngsters for Sunday walks and where they found a wealth of adventure and gave us countless seconds of anxiety as they braved what at least the old man felt was human peril.
We saw the old ball field, Webster's I think they called it, now a mass of scrub pines and firs for an outfield that would even stump Roger Edwards. Here's where the baseball greats of Cape Ann used to strut. Mighties like Duffy Blatchford, Grover and others of their ilk had their big innings on this sward.
Since folks are ordinarily too lazy to stroll through the woods, there was no filthy rubble along the way. Instead there was the welcome sight of blue and white violets in the center aisle all along the way, splattered with bright bluets poking up their heads. And again we were intrigued by an ancient rough-hewn stone wall bordering the entire way. Our son used to persist in trying to walk its length years ago as the family chief had conniption fits.
Molly the boxer held no nostalgic thoughts as she tore through the brush and sloshed through a lazy brook that disappeared beneath the path. Her failing eyesight missed a scared wild rabbit that took to the brush in a hurry, but she was quick to spot a pheasant whose loud squawk could be heard a mile as she gave Molly a fast fair-thee-well into the ether. Licking her chops at the base of a tree did no good for our drooling bone-chopper.
Thence onto Cape Pond itself, bathed this day in shrouded fog, lending an air of mystery to all of us and to the ghosts of ice-houses long dead with only their cement foundations left to mark their burial. Life sprang into view with the scene of a cluster of jack-in-the-pulpit geting ready to preach "Spring is really here."
J.P.C., Jr.
South Street To Normanstone Drive
A walk along South Street on a fair late Spring Sunday afternoon, with the distaff's sealed orders opened by me at the starting line stipulating: "A walk to Normanstone."
To a carpetbagger of 24 years standing, that order might as well have read, "A walk to Mars," we are that well acquainted with both. But the missus came through in the clutch and dumped us all right in front of 50 South Street, where we parked the bus, leashed the bomb, Molly, and noted a galaxy of the season's beauty in white and purple violets and ferns amid an 18th century stone wall. 'Tis where we bumped into top-deck citizen, Charles G. "Brud" Burbank, surrounded by three ice cream-splattered young mouths about to enter the Burbank estate at No. 52.
We found walking a most unhealthy exercise as streams of cars zoomed this-a-way and that-a-way but we clung to the roadside bush and prayed that no driver dozed at the wheel. We were comforted with the sweet smell of flowers.
In the distant fields of the Country Club were the golf bugs, also walkers, who put us to shame as they trek the 18 holes and relax at the 19th, except that we thought we caught sight of at least one who did the course in a motor go-cart, standing only to whiff away at the pellet. Maybe it was a mirage. The glasses were home on the shelf.
We were impressed by the well kept lawns along the way by a field filled with what looked like rough-hewn crosses. Certain sure it was no cemetery up this way. We could only think that the crossed staves were for bushes. The strong warming scent of apple trees filled the air this day. Weeds were almost up to our knees as we moseyed along. But this was offset by the spectacular display of wild geraniums leaving a swath of lavender along our trail.
Only again, Nature's stirring beauty was jarred by the sight of discarded empties, beer bottles thrust among them. Beer bottles may have their their place in our society but not at the side of our road.
The wife and I were again appeased as we came across a barberry bush and honeysuckle all in bloom on South Street, undisturbed by the stench of exhausts and gas fumes from four-wheelers.
We had come onto an historic sign noting that we should bow to an historic shrine because 'twas here that no less than Samuel de Champlain on July 16, 1605 had come ashore at this port to puff the suds from his Normandy beer on soil that today is the summer habitat of John V "Jigger" Sutari, Cape Ann business man.
Handy to this sign was the replica of an old well with hand-sweep and all plus a section of jet black wrought-iron gate, all on the property of Mrs. J. Raymond Smith. We were in the picturesque area of Whale Cove with the inviting Atlantic for'ard of us.
Thence we came to what they call Normanstone Drive, a grand road, boasting a bevy of fine substantial homes down to a very dead end, and boggy fields we attempted to cross, only to get soaked to the ankles because of the late rains. For our Molly it was fun as she was freed from her leash and sloshed around to unearth the smallest of field critters.
We were intrigued by the name. Inquiry revealed that the late Mrs. Galen J. Perrett built a residence similar to a Normandy farmhouse as in France of Norman stone. Her father was an architect. Today the property is that of Richard Bryant, son of Mrs. Walter J. Kendall. He is an attorney. We like the name of the drive. We liked the stroll and rejoice we escaped becoming mince-meated by the gas buggies. And we missed all of you that robust Sunday.
J.P.C., Jr.
To a carpetbagger of 24 years standing, that order might as well have read, "A walk to Mars," we are that well acquainted with both. But the missus came through in the clutch and dumped us all right in front of 50 South Street, where we parked the bus, leashed the bomb, Molly, and noted a galaxy of the season's beauty in white and purple violets and ferns amid an 18th century stone wall. 'Tis where we bumped into top-deck citizen, Charles G. "Brud" Burbank, surrounded by three ice cream-splattered young mouths about to enter the Burbank estate at No. 52.
We found walking a most unhealthy exercise as streams of cars zoomed this-a-way and that-a-way but we clung to the roadside bush and prayed that no driver dozed at the wheel. We were comforted with the sweet smell of flowers.
In the distant fields of the Country Club were the golf bugs, also walkers, who put us to shame as they trek the 18 holes and relax at the 19th, except that we thought we caught sight of at least one who did the course in a motor go-cart, standing only to whiff away at the pellet. Maybe it was a mirage. The glasses were home on the shelf.
We were impressed by the well kept lawns along the way by a field filled with what looked like rough-hewn crosses. Certain sure it was no cemetery up this way. We could only think that the crossed staves were for bushes. The strong warming scent of apple trees filled the air this day. Weeds were almost up to our knees as we moseyed along. But this was offset by the spectacular display of wild geraniums leaving a swath of lavender along our trail.
Only again, Nature's stirring beauty was jarred by the sight of discarded empties, beer bottles thrust among them. Beer bottles may have their their place in our society but not at the side of our road.
The wife and I were again appeased as we came across a barberry bush and honeysuckle all in bloom on South Street, undisturbed by the stench of exhausts and gas fumes from four-wheelers.
We had come onto an historic sign noting that we should bow to an historic shrine because 'twas here that no less than Samuel de Champlain on July 16, 1605 had come ashore at this port to puff the suds from his Normandy beer on soil that today is the summer habitat of John V "Jigger" Sutari, Cape Ann business man.
Handy to this sign was the replica of an old well with hand-sweep and all plus a section of jet black wrought-iron gate, all on the property of Mrs. J. Raymond Smith. We were in the picturesque area of Whale Cove with the inviting Atlantic for'ard of us.
Thence we came to what they call Normanstone Drive, a grand road, boasting a bevy of fine substantial homes down to a very dead end, and boggy fields we attempted to cross, only to get soaked to the ankles because of the late rains. For our Molly it was fun as she was freed from her leash and sloshed around to unearth the smallest of field critters.
We were intrigued by the name. Inquiry revealed that the late Mrs. Galen J. Perrett built a residence similar to a Normandy farmhouse as in France of Norman stone. Her father was an architect. Today the property is that of Richard Bryant, son of Mrs. Walter J. Kendall. He is an attorney. We like the name of the drive. We liked the stroll and rejoice we escaped becoming mince-meated by the gas buggies. And we missed all of you that robust Sunday.
J.P.C., Jr.
To the Rock of Ages - School St. to Country Club Rd
It was Spring in bloom in Rockport town again after our longest winter in years, so the wife and I and our lively boxer decided to chance a stroll through the center of town and into our favorite domain skirting the town's main cemetery where wildlife forever abounds.
Only on this occasion we were honored to have with us, a favorite sister, Carrie, a birder of no mean repute. After plastering the "Be Back in Two Hours" sign on the front door, we "sashayed" from our domicile up School Street past the home of Rev. Mr. Nutting and his family. Here we delighted in the display of brilliant large red tulips and blue and pink hyacinths, convincing signs that Spring has kissed our shores.
Next door on High Street we collided with the grounds of a new Rockport selectman, former police chief Dick Manson, whose yard sported spreading yews and more blazing tulips fronting an ancient stone wall. And basking in the glory was a goldfinch that caught our birder's alert eye as did the first romping squirrel of the season. Luckily Molly, our cherubic four-footed innocent, failed to spot her.
It was a mild matinee dampened somewhat by a clouded sky but old Sol came a-peeking out at times enough to solace the "visiting firemen".
Another step and we reveled in the sight on an old wrought-iron fence on Raymond Manson's property, a fence that once belonged to Dr.Charles Haskell. 'Tis a fence dating back a century. A part of it bordered the property at Beach and Main Streets. It was here we saw a cherry tree in the next yard, sporting an old white picket fence around it.
Our reveries of the Golden Age were shattered by the unearthly canine yowls of our darling Molly as she hot-footed it after a "meeyow" up Marshall Street.
May the saints be praised that her four-wheeled drive was choked to a standstill as good old Tommy escaped int the hills unscathed. the neighbor probably still loves us.
But maybe another good friendly neighbor next door has lost her friendship for us. For her petite canine came leaping out at our beloved, jealously guarding her domain only to have Molly completely ignore her as hshe snouted in the bracken and the swapmpland nosing what to heris more importnant game which she never found.
Again into our favorite cemetery. Here we found the brook full flowing tumbling ofer the rcks and singing its joyous song to the dead and the living. Herw we saw our good friend El Harris of the Rockport police force and his family on their Sunday stroll.
It was here that our sister Carrie identified the redwing blackbirds cavorting around the withered cat-o-nine-tails. We in our "learned" birdlore identified them as the sacred bleue heron. After all, it did have spindly legs and a penchant for fish of any size.
Up we went into the pasture over the sile fences, though we had to become cortortionists as we wiffled through fence openings. We had come to the site of Bottle o' Rum Rock, the ex-"rock of ages" which has been succeeded by a pond, teeming with geese including some of the Canadian variety.
Just beyond a short cut through a grael pit left a muddy yellow imprint on the boots of this trespasser, an imprint that stayed for the day. It was worth it for seconds later we came upo a swamp in which marsh marigolds and cowslips were in full bloom. Spring was really with us for that day at least.
Up the road past the Country Club we continued our stroll, spotting some dogtooth violets along the way. For the four-footer, such signs of Nature held no interest, but every little swamp had a meaning all its own to her as her probing snout tried to get the bottom of them.
From there to home, all contented to call it a day, a most enjoyable Sunday stroll. Try it sometime.
J.P.C., Jr.
Only on this occasion we were honored to have with us, a favorite sister, Carrie, a birder of no mean repute. After plastering the "Be Back in Two Hours" sign on the front door, we "sashayed" from our domicile up School Street past the home of Rev. Mr. Nutting and his family. Here we delighted in the display of brilliant large red tulips and blue and pink hyacinths, convincing signs that Spring has kissed our shores.
Next door on High Street we collided with the grounds of a new Rockport selectman, former police chief Dick Manson, whose yard sported spreading yews and more blazing tulips fronting an ancient stone wall. And basking in the glory was a goldfinch that caught our birder's alert eye as did the first romping squirrel of the season. Luckily Molly, our cherubic four-footed innocent, failed to spot her.
It was a mild matinee dampened somewhat by a clouded sky but old Sol came a-peeking out at times enough to solace the "visiting firemen".
Another step and we reveled in the sight on an old wrought-iron fence on Raymond Manson's property, a fence that once belonged to Dr.Charles Haskell. 'Tis a fence dating back a century. A part of it bordered the property at Beach and Main Streets. It was here we saw a cherry tree in the next yard, sporting an old white picket fence around it.
Our reveries of the Golden Age were shattered by the unearthly canine yowls of our darling Molly as she hot-footed it after a "meeyow" up Marshall Street.
May the saints be praised that her four-wheeled drive was choked to a standstill as good old Tommy escaped int the hills unscathed. the neighbor probably still loves us.
But maybe another good friendly neighbor next door has lost her friendship for us. For her petite canine came leaping out at our beloved, jealously guarding her domain only to have Molly completely ignore her as hshe snouted in the bracken and the swapmpland nosing what to heris more importnant game which she never found.
Again into our favorite cemetery. Here we found the brook full flowing tumbling ofer the rcks and singing its joyous song to the dead and the living. Herw we saw our good friend El Harris of the Rockport police force and his family on their Sunday stroll.
It was here that our sister Carrie identified the redwing blackbirds cavorting around the withered cat-o-nine-tails. We in our "learned" birdlore identified them as the sacred bleue heron. After all, it did have spindly legs and a penchant for fish of any size.
Up we went into the pasture over the sile fences, though we had to become cortortionists as we wiffled through fence openings. We had come to the site of Bottle o' Rum Rock, the ex-"rock of ages" which has been succeeded by a pond, teeming with geese including some of the Canadian variety.
Just beyond a short cut through a grael pit left a muddy yellow imprint on the boots of this trespasser, an imprint that stayed for the day. It was worth it for seconds later we came upo a swamp in which marsh marigolds and cowslips were in full bloom. Spring was really with us for that day at least.
Up the road past the Country Club we continued our stroll, spotting some dogtooth violets along the way. For the four-footer, such signs of Nature held no interest, but every little swamp had a meaning all its own to her as her probing snout tried to get the bottom of them.
From there to home, all contented to call it a day, a most enjoyable Sunday stroll. Try it sometime.
J.P.C., Jr.
Down The Cinder Path - The Railroad Station
In the dear dim past, the wife and I used to take our young 'uns for a stroll down to the Rockport railroad yards to thrill to the sight of what our Number One Son gurgled as the "Gee-Gee's" because the noise of the steam engines struck him that way. When our daughter came along four years later, those Gee-Gees had graduated to quieter Diesels, but the thrill was still there.
So without son or daughter but now with a 65 pound rip-snorting female boxer we decided this Sunday afternoon to revisit these precincts in the hope of recapturing a bit of that happy past.
The railroad yard we saw was a much changed one. First to greet us was what must be a 30-foot swath along the siding occupied by a string of single poles with a humble cross-tree supporting three strands denoting that more power is headed our way once the Merrimack-Essex Electric Company gets the green light from the State Department of Public Utilities.
Along with the installations was a wire-fenced enclosure of a power station plastered with warnings of "don't touch unless you want a short circuit to perdition." This is one juice that is not body building.
Impressive to us was the Anadama bread making plant. It looks good to see live industry in our town with folks at work earning a living and yet in a factory that is a credit to the surroundings.
The Railroad Station itself is a desolate sight. A rundown station, miserable grounds, the absence of the two water towers that always excited our kiddoes as the towers let down a flood of aqua pura into the bowels of the steam engines. Unromantic Diesels benched those towers to the woodpile.
The day was raw and cold, a day that belied the season and forced us to be cloaked in rubber. The walk, because of it, could have been dreary but for the nostalgia of a walk along the cinder path with the vision of our youngsters by our side. This is where we came abreast of the rough-hewn wooden foot bridge that led to the water pumping station and from there up the lane to civilization.
In fact that's what we were hearing all along the way. Civilization represented by a flock of squawking hens up the terrace a piece yapped at the approaching of our four-footer. But our Molly's ears are not as keen as that snub nose, so the fowl were safe. Instead she made a wild stab for a mite of bird that she hadn't the slightest chance of catching. That overgrown mutt is the only birder in our family.
Upsetting to us was the ugly change in the landscape caused by man-made scars through the hunger for gravel. The wife recalled a graceful wooded hill of that past that was now reduced to a pocked mess, and another area that once was treed and bushed but now was nothing but hard scrabble. We can't blame the owners but it stil doesn't deaden the shock to those who love Nature.
By this time we had reached the Loop around which I had never been because of a dread of damaging a train by collision. That fear had never bothered the wife, who had always figured a loco was too much of a gentleman to bump a lady.
The rusted rails of the Loop showed the progress from steam to Diesel and Budd. Along the way was the stump-filled pond where our son once set traps for beaver and muskrat much to our disgust, and the fast running brooks where with a red license tag stuck in his squashed beanie, he fished for slimy eels. Now our third "step-child" - the spayed monster had her own belt at fishing as she snubbed into the rushing brook, but she had no more luck than did our two-footer.
Back onto the hot iron, we ran into one of the very few trains of the day, a solitary Budd tearing down the iron bound for Fish Town, sending us scurrying down the embankment to safety, sceaming at our Molly to run to "kiver" which she did, as she cast a baleful stare at the aluminnum ogre.
Yup, it was a mighty fine hike around the loop, one that you and yours ought to take to improve your digestion.
JPC, Jr.
So without son or daughter but now with a 65 pound rip-snorting female boxer we decided this Sunday afternoon to revisit these precincts in the hope of recapturing a bit of that happy past.
The railroad yard we saw was a much changed one. First to greet us was what must be a 30-foot swath along the siding occupied by a string of single poles with a humble cross-tree supporting three strands denoting that more power is headed our way once the Merrimack-Essex Electric Company gets the green light from the State Department of Public Utilities.
Along with the installations was a wire-fenced enclosure of a power station plastered with warnings of "don't touch unless you want a short circuit to perdition." This is one juice that is not body building.
Impressive to us was the Anadama bread making plant. It looks good to see live industry in our town with folks at work earning a living and yet in a factory that is a credit to the surroundings.
The Railroad Station itself is a desolate sight. A rundown station, miserable grounds, the absence of the two water towers that always excited our kiddoes as the towers let down a flood of aqua pura into the bowels of the steam engines. Unromantic Diesels benched those towers to the woodpile.
The day was raw and cold, a day that belied the season and forced us to be cloaked in rubber. The walk, because of it, could have been dreary but for the nostalgia of a walk along the cinder path with the vision of our youngsters by our side. This is where we came abreast of the rough-hewn wooden foot bridge that led to the water pumping station and from there up the lane to civilization.
In fact that's what we were hearing all along the way. Civilization represented by a flock of squawking hens up the terrace a piece yapped at the approaching of our four-footer. But our Molly's ears are not as keen as that snub nose, so the fowl were safe. Instead she made a wild stab for a mite of bird that she hadn't the slightest chance of catching. That overgrown mutt is the only birder in our family.
Upsetting to us was the ugly change in the landscape caused by man-made scars through the hunger for gravel. The wife recalled a graceful wooded hill of that past that was now reduced to a pocked mess, and another area that once was treed and bushed but now was nothing but hard scrabble. We can't blame the owners but it stil doesn't deaden the shock to those who love Nature.
By this time we had reached the Loop around which I had never been because of a dread of damaging a train by collision. That fear had never bothered the wife, who had always figured a loco was too much of a gentleman to bump a lady.
The rusted rails of the Loop showed the progress from steam to Diesel and Budd. Along the way was the stump-filled pond where our son once set traps for beaver and muskrat much to our disgust, and the fast running brooks where with a red license tag stuck in his squashed beanie, he fished for slimy eels. Now our third "step-child" - the spayed monster had her own belt at fishing as she snubbed into the rushing brook, but she had no more luck than did our two-footer.
Back onto the hot iron, we ran into one of the very few trains of the day, a solitary Budd tearing down the iron bound for Fish Town, sending us scurrying down the embankment to safety, sceaming at our Molly to run to "kiver" which she did, as she cast a baleful stare at the aluminnum ogre.
Yup, it was a mighty fine hike around the loop, one that you and yours ought to take to improve your digestion.
JPC, Jr.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Early Morning Walk Shows Character(s) of the Town - June 29, 1965
It was a brilliant summer dawn plus one hour in Rockport-town as we slipped into Bermudas and flamboyant straw to take a fat-thieving amble around the town's center in an effort to gather a bit of news before bussing it to the office in Gloucester. We have always felt than an old-time newshawk was correct when he said there was always a front page headline in any walk around a big town or a small town block any time of the night or day.
From our School Street home, we headed for the main stem sans wife, sans boxer Mollie, but not Matisse, that bright-eyed male French poodle belonging to our long-time artist friend, moustachioed, curly-black-haired Iver Rose, who has been coming to Rockport summers from the Year One, it would seem.
Iver with his swank cane was on his regular early morning stroll. Matisse was in a sniffing mood as usual. You could almost hear him woof out, "Where's my pal Mollie?"
We drifted up Jewett Street and noted the individuality of the summer apartments that seemed to come out of a jigsaw puzzle with no thought of design. To us they looked a lot more chummy.
Up past the always exciting frame shop of Frenchy Hilliard's, a craft shop run by a master who is as vocally expressive as he is clever with his working hands. And for the kids, he sees to it they have a basketball hoop nailed on the shop's outside wall.
Across the way are two properties that in our post-dawn imagination are about the most attractive in what to us is a most attractive town. We refer to the adjoining properties of Town Clerk Esther Johnson and her son-in-law, Francis Bruni, on Jewett St. Their well-kept lawns are the greenest, the gardens with plenty of character in color and design. Bruni deals in rustic fences, so he put up a stunner on his own compact estate. And of course it helps to have a landscape specialist for a brother-in-law, Charlie Spiewak across the street. Charlie's yard also well reflects his calling.
It gives a guy a real lift of an early morning to breathe in the beauty of such grounds as those of the Johnson clan. Even the birds have a richer chirp in that environment.
Adding to the scene is the sign, "Brooksie's Barn" with firewood on the Spiewak property. We remember Brooksie, a most colorful soul.
Through the Town Office Building grounds to note what a grand job custodian George Soini does with them these days. Hard to tell who is better him or veteran custodian Eben Knowlton, once of Town Hall, now of the Rockport Post Office. Fellows like them help to make this town worth living in.
Getting on toward 7 a.m. and down Broadway we could see a noted Rockporter, artist-yachtsman Max Kuehne with his lively Scottie, after the morning Boston paper. You can set your watch by that 85-year-old bereted Max.
We detoured to cool off our aching "pups" to call on Officer Blaker at police headquarters who keeps us Rockporters healthy crime-wise through the dark hours -- or at least we hope he does. His answer to our perennial question, "What's new?" drew a negative reply. There were "No fires, no robberies, no murders, in fact, no nothing." Our Rockport is a clean, clean town, man!
No early morning walk or ride in Rockport is complete without dropping in at Ellen's Coffee Shop on Mount Pleasant St. at Dock Square. And who are we to be non-conformists? In that two-by-four java paradise at this time of day gather many of the town notables, selectmen, contractors and other characters ad infinitum, even a reporter, character of characters. And of course we came in for the usual ribbing. We think it was one Harold Hobbs throwing the barbs this time. How could we tell with a face full of hot what-you-may-call-it.
But that's our Rockport before you let up the curtain, throw out the mutt for a dewatering. Great town, boys, really great town.
This is the story we found in our jaunt around the block.
J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: Ellen's is now on T-Wharf, a larger restaurant, serving lunch and dinner as well as breakfast, but still as customer friendly as ever. The old Ellen's is now The Red Skiff, and retains the tradition of being a "two by four java paradise".
From our School Street home, we headed for the main stem sans wife, sans boxer Mollie, but not Matisse, that bright-eyed male French poodle belonging to our long-time artist friend, moustachioed, curly-black-haired Iver Rose, who has been coming to Rockport summers from the Year One, it would seem.
Iver with his swank cane was on his regular early morning stroll. Matisse was in a sniffing mood as usual. You could almost hear him woof out, "Where's my pal Mollie?"
We drifted up Jewett Street and noted the individuality of the summer apartments that seemed to come out of a jigsaw puzzle with no thought of design. To us they looked a lot more chummy.
Up past the always exciting frame shop of Frenchy Hilliard's, a craft shop run by a master who is as vocally expressive as he is clever with his working hands. And for the kids, he sees to it they have a basketball hoop nailed on the shop's outside wall.
Across the way are two properties that in our post-dawn imagination are about the most attractive in what to us is a most attractive town. We refer to the adjoining properties of Town Clerk Esther Johnson and her son-in-law, Francis Bruni, on Jewett St. Their well-kept lawns are the greenest, the gardens with plenty of character in color and design. Bruni deals in rustic fences, so he put up a stunner on his own compact estate. And of course it helps to have a landscape specialist for a brother-in-law, Charlie Spiewak across the street. Charlie's yard also well reflects his calling.
It gives a guy a real lift of an early morning to breathe in the beauty of such grounds as those of the Johnson clan. Even the birds have a richer chirp in that environment.
Adding to the scene is the sign, "Brooksie's Barn" with firewood on the Spiewak property. We remember Brooksie, a most colorful soul.
Through the Town Office Building grounds to note what a grand job custodian George Soini does with them these days. Hard to tell who is better him or veteran custodian Eben Knowlton, once of Town Hall, now of the Rockport Post Office. Fellows like them help to make this town worth living in.
Getting on toward 7 a.m. and down Broadway we could see a noted Rockporter, artist-yachtsman Max Kuehne with his lively Scottie, after the morning Boston paper. You can set your watch by that 85-year-old bereted Max.
We detoured to cool off our aching "pups" to call on Officer Blaker at police headquarters who keeps us Rockporters healthy crime-wise through the dark hours -- or at least we hope he does. His answer to our perennial question, "What's new?" drew a negative reply. There were "No fires, no robberies, no murders, in fact, no nothing." Our Rockport is a clean, clean town, man!
No early morning walk or ride in Rockport is complete without dropping in at Ellen's Coffee Shop on Mount Pleasant St. at Dock Square. And who are we to be non-conformists? In that two-by-four java paradise at this time of day gather many of the town notables, selectmen, contractors and other characters ad infinitum, even a reporter, character of characters. And of course we came in for the usual ribbing. We think it was one Harold Hobbs throwing the barbs this time. How could we tell with a face full of hot what-you-may-call-it.
But that's our Rockport before you let up the curtain, throw out the mutt for a dewatering. Great town, boys, really great town.
This is the story we found in our jaunt around the block.
J.P.C., Jr.
NOTE: Ellen's is now on T-Wharf, a larger restaurant, serving lunch and dinner as well as breakfast, but still as customer friendly as ever. The old Ellen's is now The Red Skiff, and retains the tradition of being a "two by four java paradise".
A Walk to Stockholm (Avenue) - Pigeon Cove
That elusive ball of fire had again sweltered the Cape after a week's retreat, so the wife and I emerged from the oilskins along with the four-footer Molly and set out for a Sunday stroll. On opening the sealed orders, we learned the missus had again chosen Pigeon Cove, that "militant" village that stands upon its own laurels.
Lazied by the seven-day flood, we Chevied to the foot of Curtis Street and then ambled for almost two hours through that colorful way into Stockholm Avenue to return to the car, neighborly "gassing" along the way. It was a rewarding stroll for all three of us although nerve-wracking at times.
Wracked nerves sprung from the army of dogs that seemed to challenge many steps of the way. This area could be hailed as the Dogtown of today, all shapes and sizes, but fortunately for us, all even-tempered. Molly found many new friends along the way even a lady boxer like herself, all of whom are supposed to be sworn enemies. The only woof-woof who challenged her was a blackie. Maybe Molly was wrong, who knows?
Second delightful feature was the grand display of rhododendrons gracing many a yard along the way. They were all beautiful, particularly one that towered above all others in their pink splendor. We never saw so many so close together.
Impressive is the fact that along one side of the street are the woods, stirring the imagination for mystery lurking within, and opposite are sturdy homes, well kept grounds, all individual. For Molly, those woods with their fetching pools are paradise. A stray squirrel, a bird in her bath, all fair game to her, though she never could catch any of them, for which we are relieved.
Along the way we came across one yard containing a massive boulder centered by strong iron rungs indicating that once a quarry derrick must have been anchored. And next door, on the premises of Arthur Balestraci, was a rock garden of great appeal emphasized by even the rocks being painted in futuristic design.
Up farther we bumped into a bit of old Europe, an impressive stone barn, at least two-thirds up when it was finished in strong wood. Mario Balzarini had it. We were told that artists considered it a motif for their canvases. And we don't blame them one bit. It was like a whiff of good old country.
We made the bend from Curtis Street down Stockholm Avenue, through quite a stretch of sheer sylvan grandeur until we hit upon the inhabited section bumping first into Town Engineer Matt Hautala's big acre. Matt and the missus were preparing to go neighboring when we popped into view.
But our visiting moments were rudely sidetracked by an impudent Molly who wanted to give an innocent equine a hard time in her corral nigh to Matt's land. The horse belonged to Walter Wayrynen . . . from which sprung a diverting tale. Walt was a nervous wreck after having officiated earlier in the day as midwife to his dashing mare for a bouncing colt. Yup, Walt pulled him out of his natal world.
What had Walt in a great dither was to restrain the horde of young fry from exciting the mare during the matinee performance. The fry was attending a next door wedding reception at the Everett Jylkka property. They wanted to go the limit, even to riding the frisky colt. But the mare's sharp teeth wouldn't brook any butting in. As for our boxer, the whole area was off limits. That gal is an awful baiter - just like some cocky politicians we know on Cape Ann.
Our sympathy for the day went out to young Bob Hautala, whose injured hip has yet to heal. At his age, it's rough to be deprived of so many summer activities. But there's another summer coming when you can throw those crutches into the Rockport firemen's Fourth of July bonfire, so stay with 'em.
The wife and Molly and I have grown to love the Cove and its alluring streets with their folksy residents. We'll be over there again!
J.P.C., Jr.
Lazied by the seven-day flood, we Chevied to the foot of Curtis Street and then ambled for almost two hours through that colorful way into Stockholm Avenue to return to the car, neighborly "gassing" along the way. It was a rewarding stroll for all three of us although nerve-wracking at times.
Wracked nerves sprung from the army of dogs that seemed to challenge many steps of the way. This area could be hailed as the Dogtown of today, all shapes and sizes, but fortunately for us, all even-tempered. Molly found many new friends along the way even a lady boxer like herself, all of whom are supposed to be sworn enemies. The only woof-woof who challenged her was a blackie. Maybe Molly was wrong, who knows?
Second delightful feature was the grand display of rhododendrons gracing many a yard along the way. They were all beautiful, particularly one that towered above all others in their pink splendor. We never saw so many so close together.
Impressive is the fact that along one side of the street are the woods, stirring the imagination for mystery lurking within, and opposite are sturdy homes, well kept grounds, all individual. For Molly, those woods with their fetching pools are paradise. A stray squirrel, a bird in her bath, all fair game to her, though she never could catch any of them, for which we are relieved.
Along the way we came across one yard containing a massive boulder centered by strong iron rungs indicating that once a quarry derrick must have been anchored. And next door, on the premises of Arthur Balestraci, was a rock garden of great appeal emphasized by even the rocks being painted in futuristic design.
Up farther we bumped into a bit of old Europe, an impressive stone barn, at least two-thirds up when it was finished in strong wood. Mario Balzarini had it. We were told that artists considered it a motif for their canvases. And we don't blame them one bit. It was like a whiff of good old country.
We made the bend from Curtis Street down Stockholm Avenue, through quite a stretch of sheer sylvan grandeur until we hit upon the inhabited section bumping first into Town Engineer Matt Hautala's big acre. Matt and the missus were preparing to go neighboring when we popped into view.
But our visiting moments were rudely sidetracked by an impudent Molly who wanted to give an innocent equine a hard time in her corral nigh to Matt's land. The horse belonged to Walter Wayrynen . . . from which sprung a diverting tale. Walt was a nervous wreck after having officiated earlier in the day as midwife to his dashing mare for a bouncing colt. Yup, Walt pulled him out of his natal world.
What had Walt in a great dither was to restrain the horde of young fry from exciting the mare during the matinee performance. The fry was attending a next door wedding reception at the Everett Jylkka property. They wanted to go the limit, even to riding the frisky colt. But the mare's sharp teeth wouldn't brook any butting in. As for our boxer, the whole area was off limits. That gal is an awful baiter - just like some cocky politicians we know on Cape Ann.
Our sympathy for the day went out to young Bob Hautala, whose injured hip has yet to heal. At his age, it's rough to be deprived of so many summer activities. But there's another summer coming when you can throw those crutches into the Rockport firemen's Fourth of July bonfire, so stay with 'em.
The wife and Molly and I have grown to love the Cove and its alluring streets with their folksy residents. We'll be over there again!
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk Back of Brad's -- June
The sun fairly blessed Rockport this Sunday of our choosing for a walk around town, taken by the wife, old four-foot Molly and myself. This time, the missus had voted for a walk back of "Brad's."
There is only one Brad in our town. He is J. Bradley Hodgkins, a man of many business ventures who proves by his industry that he's forever willing to take a chance to better himself and his.
Cheating a bit as usual, we gassed up the cluttered Sabbath highway to park near the residence of our old friend Hannibal Nunes, painter and former spokesman for his people of "the Hill" in Gloucester. At 213 Main Street, we saw he had converted the grounds into lush gardens of fox gloves, sweet Williams and Canterbury bells, among other favorites. And gracing his front door was the replica of a spread eagle, our nation's emblem.
Down the lane our eye was struck by the sight of a picnic table carved out of a tree stump as we saw Molly go out into high gear for a squawking pullet that had the world to herself until the boxer invaded the scene. Roosters crowed tauntingly as their lady won the race without pain. All Molly got was just plain winded.
More of the carver's art was ahead of us in the shape of Indian totem poles that looked up awesomely into fluffy gray clouds of a perfect late Spring day. The road began winding back to the main stem. The month of June had taken over, proven by the sight of yards and yards of daisies.
Here we came across a group of modern homes nestled in the woods and relieved from all the hustle-bustle of the nearby highway. We were at last in the thick of Brad's housing development. But he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe developing had his attention.
Molly met more than her match at this juncture, for out jumped a snappy peanut-sized Boston bull terrier who just was not going to have any other canine no matter how big, taking her home base away from her.
What surprised us was the sight of so many new homes, especially nice homes, that have mushroomed in this area between Upper Main Street and the railroad tracks. We remembered that area as woodland and brush.
We had the feeling that we were walking in people's backyards, though every home appeared to have ample room around it. One house sported a pair of old iron tea kettles.
Out front on the main stem was a neat yard appropriate for a banker, flying an American flag, the property of Harry Mills, of the Rockport Granite Savings Bank.
Across the street, the wife and I continued toward Cape Pond. We passed the town garage, flanked by a parked plow and a stockpile of fill and gravel.
Our big reason for taking to the Cape Pond highway was to give Molly a chance for a real run. Amid the housing development, we hardly dared to let her off the leash; too many hazards existed for our frayed nerves.
The pleasing smell of Vermont woods seemed to pervade this area, along with the sounds of birds everywhere. Gulls galore dotted the Pond. But then too many darning needles began to buzz around us and it looked like the best bet was back to the car and home.
The walk was well worth while for all of us.
J.P.C., Jr.-
There is only one Brad in our town. He is J. Bradley Hodgkins, a man of many business ventures who proves by his industry that he's forever willing to take a chance to better himself and his.
Cheating a bit as usual, we gassed up the cluttered Sabbath highway to park near the residence of our old friend Hannibal Nunes, painter and former spokesman for his people of "the Hill" in Gloucester. At 213 Main Street, we saw he had converted the grounds into lush gardens of fox gloves, sweet Williams and Canterbury bells, among other favorites. And gracing his front door was the replica of a spread eagle, our nation's emblem.
Down the lane our eye was struck by the sight of a picnic table carved out of a tree stump as we saw Molly go out into high gear for a squawking pullet that had the world to herself until the boxer invaded the scene. Roosters crowed tauntingly as their lady won the race without pain. All Molly got was just plain winded.
More of the carver's art was ahead of us in the shape of Indian totem poles that looked up awesomely into fluffy gray clouds of a perfect late Spring day. The road began winding back to the main stem. The month of June had taken over, proven by the sight of yards and yards of daisies.
Here we came across a group of modern homes nestled in the woods and relieved from all the hustle-bustle of the nearby highway. We were at last in the thick of Brad's housing development. But he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe developing had his attention.
Molly met more than her match at this juncture, for out jumped a snappy peanut-sized Boston bull terrier who just was not going to have any other canine no matter how big, taking her home base away from her.
What surprised us was the sight of so many new homes, especially nice homes, that have mushroomed in this area between Upper Main Street and the railroad tracks. We remembered that area as woodland and brush.
We had the feeling that we were walking in people's backyards, though every home appeared to have ample room around it. One house sported a pair of old iron tea kettles.
Out front on the main stem was a neat yard appropriate for a banker, flying an American flag, the property of Harry Mills, of the Rockport Granite Savings Bank.
Across the street, the wife and I continued toward Cape Pond. We passed the town garage, flanked by a parked plow and a stockpile of fill and gravel.
Our big reason for taking to the Cape Pond highway was to give Molly a chance for a real run. Amid the housing development, we hardly dared to let her off the leash; too many hazards existed for our frayed nerves.
The pleasing smell of Vermont woods seemed to pervade this area, along with the sounds of birds everywhere. Gulls galore dotted the Pond. But then too many darning needles began to buzz around us and it looked like the best bet was back to the car and home.
The walk was well worth while for all of us.
J.P.C., Jr.-
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