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.