Up the Rockport version of Broadway the wife and I walked into an ambitious group of Sea Scouts really doing a job in tidying up the grounds of the new town office building. Why the town can't afford to hire men to do that important chore is beyond us. But it gives the young men a chance to add to their merit badge achievements, we suppose.
Straw boss evident was Shorty Lesch, who incidentally does a grand work with the scouts. He has a habit of winning their confidence and getting the best out of them. 'Tis a pity that more fathers don't try to emulate fellers like Shorty and Skip Brown (Boy Scout fame). Why are so many fathers so willing to set back on their golf clubs and let somebody else take care of their sons! That we'll never know.
More evidence of house cleaning was spotted on the front lawn and side one too of the Methodist Church. They tell us that Roger Smith and his aides gave up a day to tidy up the place of the winter debris. Whoever dun it, dun a bright job.
Across the way you couldn't help but delight in the sensation of the full blossomed magnolia tree in the immaculate yard of the Rockport Post Office where Eben Knowlton does a thorough performance. We doubt if there's another PO around in the nation that looks any better.
That brought us up to the sight of Rockpor's only police dog, a shaggy and shy terrier owned by Patrolman L. Ellsworth Harris, a Broadwayite, Rockport style. Old faithful besides watering our bushes faithfully, also haunts the town gaol. He's a moseyin' kyote with nothing but peace in his heart, and no stomach for crime bustin'.
Ever think how lobster buoys can be so decorative to a garden? Well, Postmaster Ralph Wilson, another Broadwayite in Sandy Bay, must have thought so for he has done a right smart piece of out-door decorating with these colorful buoys mixed with massive junipers. The effect is prizeworthy. And those buoys form an impressive background to the old stone wall. The Wilson grounds gain plenty of strength of character in that quaint wall. The town has many of them. May any historical committee fight hard to retain such walls so us sentimental walkers can continue to revel in our weekly strolls. Let's not ge too darned modern!
Along we swung up onto Main Street and past the Frank Parady yard. Maybe we've mentioned it before but that old-fashioned wooden chair swing rolls up all the nostaglia of the past. Yup, as kids we burned up many an hour a-pushing and a-dreaming the biggest whoppers in such a swing in the backyard. And we had that chair swing a-whooshing high into the air beyond all safety zones. Yet there was nary a mishap. Them were the days when they celebrated the good old Fourth of July with the vang-bang salutes and firecrackers that shot tin cans rocketing into the ozone. In the days before the old ladies sewing circles hamstrung a decent big Fourth toot, American independence was sabotaged along the way by petticoat government, say we.
But what's this? A real old-fashioned merry-go-round nag. And right in Dr. Jack Bloombergh's yard on the main stem. This we had to take a closer look at, so we invaded the premises. Sure enough, it was the real McCoy. It was hard to resist the temptation to jump on the critter's back and even though there was no motor, we could imagine us off on a ride to nowhere but fantasy land of youth!
J.P.C., Jr.
Showing posts with label Brown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Brown. Show all posts
Friday, January 22, 2010
Friday, November 13, 2009
March - Broadway and Beyond
Excuse please! We're a-trying to catch up with our Sunday walks. So that the intervening return of winter snows won't fool you, this was a perambulation taken on March 9, it was Spring- like then, before snow blotted out the crocus buds. There are no walks like those in Sandy Bay. And we have two inveterate around-the-town daily hikers, "Babe" Grace, retired telephone mogul and his missus, to prove it.
Up Broadway we strolled and the first blot on the horizon was that measly little cannon in its all too modern cement casement still resting in the scant space beside the new town office building. Historic, yes. Fitting? well, we have our doots, as the Irisher might say. A statue to John Henry Dennis, exemplar of town government, might be far more to the point. Cannons are destructionists. Old John Henry was a builder, cantankerous as he might have been.
Quieting our ruffled nerves was a darling little gal in blue astride a miniature blue bicycle awhirl in the joy of an early Spring and all we could think of was good old Browning and his "God's in His Heaven, all's well with the world". We were back on the joy of a hike. Children can do so much to unsnarl the fretting of age.
A glance at the blacktop and sure enough, you couldn't see the road for the buzz-wagons. They were a-whizzin' down and a whizzin'-up, with nary an idea where they were heading and seeing nothing of the day's beauty. To us they were just gas-happy. And we envied them not a bit. We are sure they didn't see the home-town postmaster, Ralph Wilson, gloating over his grandchild, who in her carriage had captured the keys to Uncle Sam's mail dispensary and was determined in her girlish way never to give them up. J. Edgar himself couldn't have solved this one. We forgot to check if the Rockport post office opened the next day.
Five corners was as frantic as ever. Without a traffic cop, the flow depends largely on the "give-and-take" of the motorists. And who gives when behind that futuramic metal wheel? Our sympathy was out to Gloucester's City Auditor Kenneth Simpson Webber and his good frau Katy, who were caught in the swirl. And by the by, that is actually Dwight Dutton Square, named for a World War I hero, in case you never heard.
We paused to watch Gillie Everett busy working on his greenhouse on Agawam Lane, named for an Indian tribe long extinct. He was wielding a whitewasher with vigorous swabs. Spring does that to the more ambitious. But not to us who have no "do-it-yourself" inhibitions.
All through this stroll we couldn't escape from the fact that here in the sacred season of Lent, a mildness pervaded the atmosphere that gave zest to every step. It also convinced us all the more that every man-jack ensconced within a heated car was cheating himself or herself of the inspiration of being on foot. It is hard to believe that mechanism has robbed folks of the will to walk and see rather than ride and miss all the glories of leisurely ambling to pass the time of day with folks you know and respect.
Down past the Building Center that used to be a garage. There was the appealing announcement of how to win a bike. Great thought, for it means that some youngster is bound to be made happy and will forever remember that establishment as a wee bit of heaven. Would that more business emporiums would give a thought to childhood. It would make more than their cash registers ring happy tones.
There before us were 20th century sleds which on the balmy day appeared out of tune with the world. A mere matter of seven days brought the thought more into focus. March never lets us down when it comes to flaky treatment.
A glance at Evans Field, Hibbard-land, left us no doubt that winter remained, for there was no cries of harassed coaches or scenes of foul balls hurdling the fences and youngsters having a gay time searching for the pellets in the tall grass.
Along came Bill Reed, one of the town fathers, a perennial in town hall, on a Sunday ride a-wondering when we were going to invade the precincts of Pigeon Cove to describe his glorious walks. The Cove always appealed to us as out of America. Maybe we'll try it sometime. Right behind was Al Brown, the tax collector, extolling the virtues of Squam Hill for a stroll. But they say they grow the canines man-size up there in the hills. And we still own only that lone Sunday suit.
Around the Mill Pond, we noted a thin coating of ice, forbidding to skaters. And adacent to Architect Herb Murphy's chatelier by that pond we espied an old-fashioned "privy." That in the old days was an air-conditioned lavatory that often cooled us in the middle of the night -- and made a man of us!
The picturesque brook was running fiercely into the mirrored pond and again we felt at peace with the world. Such glimpses are what make walks worthwhile.
To climax it all, we met up with an ardent nativve, Beano Evans, and had with him the kind of chit-chat that swells our pride in old Rockport as against the invasion of the past score of years. The old town pump was a-quiverin'!
J.P.C., Jr.
Up Broadway we strolled and the first blot on the horizon was that measly little cannon in its all too modern cement casement still resting in the scant space beside the new town office building. Historic, yes. Fitting? well, we have our doots, as the Irisher might say. A statue to John Henry Dennis, exemplar of town government, might be far more to the point. Cannons are destructionists. Old John Henry was a builder, cantankerous as he might have been.
Quieting our ruffled nerves was a darling little gal in blue astride a miniature blue bicycle awhirl in the joy of an early Spring and all we could think of was good old Browning and his "God's in His Heaven, all's well with the world". We were back on the joy of a hike. Children can do so much to unsnarl the fretting of age.
A glance at the blacktop and sure enough, you couldn't see the road for the buzz-wagons. They were a-whizzin' down and a whizzin'-up, with nary an idea where they were heading and seeing nothing of the day's beauty. To us they were just gas-happy. And we envied them not a bit. We are sure they didn't see the home-town postmaster, Ralph Wilson, gloating over his grandchild, who in her carriage had captured the keys to Uncle Sam's mail dispensary and was determined in her girlish way never to give them up. J. Edgar himself couldn't have solved this one. We forgot to check if the Rockport post office opened the next day.
Five corners was as frantic as ever. Without a traffic cop, the flow depends largely on the "give-and-take" of the motorists. And who gives when behind that futuramic metal wheel? Our sympathy was out to Gloucester's City Auditor Kenneth Simpson Webber and his good frau Katy, who were caught in the swirl. And by the by, that is actually Dwight Dutton Square, named for a World War I hero, in case you never heard.
We paused to watch Gillie Everett busy working on his greenhouse on Agawam Lane, named for an Indian tribe long extinct. He was wielding a whitewasher with vigorous swabs. Spring does that to the more ambitious. But not to us who have no "do-it-yourself" inhibitions.
All through this stroll we couldn't escape from the fact that here in the sacred season of Lent, a mildness pervaded the atmosphere that gave zest to every step. It also convinced us all the more that every man-jack ensconced within a heated car was cheating himself or herself of the inspiration of being on foot. It is hard to believe that mechanism has robbed folks of the will to walk and see rather than ride and miss all the glories of leisurely ambling to pass the time of day with folks you know and respect.
Down past the Building Center that used to be a garage. There was the appealing announcement of how to win a bike. Great thought, for it means that some youngster is bound to be made happy and will forever remember that establishment as a wee bit of heaven. Would that more business emporiums would give a thought to childhood. It would make more than their cash registers ring happy tones.
There before us were 20th century sleds which on the balmy day appeared out of tune with the world. A mere matter of seven days brought the thought more into focus. March never lets us down when it comes to flaky treatment.
A glance at Evans Field, Hibbard-land, left us no doubt that winter remained, for there was no cries of harassed coaches or scenes of foul balls hurdling the fences and youngsters having a gay time searching for the pellets in the tall grass.
Along came Bill Reed, one of the town fathers, a perennial in town hall, on a Sunday ride a-wondering when we were going to invade the precincts of Pigeon Cove to describe his glorious walks. The Cove always appealed to us as out of America. Maybe we'll try it sometime. Right behind was Al Brown, the tax collector, extolling the virtues of Squam Hill for a stroll. But they say they grow the canines man-size up there in the hills. And we still own only that lone Sunday suit.
Around the Mill Pond, we noted a thin coating of ice, forbidding to skaters. And adacent to Architect Herb Murphy's chatelier by that pond we espied an old-fashioned "privy." That in the old days was an air-conditioned lavatory that often cooled us in the middle of the night -- and made a man of us!
The picturesque brook was running fiercely into the mirrored pond and again we felt at peace with the world. Such glimpses are what make walks worthwhile.
To climax it all, we met up with an ardent nativve, Beano Evans, and had with him the kind of chit-chat that swells our pride in old Rockport as against the invasion of the past score of years. The old town pump was a-quiverin'!
J.P.C., Jr.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Just A Walk Next Door
There are times when a feller just can't squeeze out enough time even for a short walk on a weekend. One of these times is when Uncle Sam and the old Bay State breathes down your neck with those confusing forms known as income tax blanks. Before us that Sunday was the Federal readjustment form for 1959, the State readjustment form for same, the 1960 estimate for both federal and Commonwealth.
By mid-afternoon, snowed under by forms, by scribbled tabs, we were suckers for a strait jacket, foaming at the mouth in our curses of all those chair warmers who had stayed up nights thinking up questions to trap us unsuspecting taxpayers so as to bait us into Danbury or Walpole. Believe you me, we were about ready to sign over the weekly pay check and moan help yourself but save us from these nightmares. Instead we completed every mother's son of them right down to signing our names to the dotted lines, so help us God. Now all we have to worry about is that grim gray badge three years from now demanding "How come you figger this way?"
But that's far, far, away, so with it off our chest, the wife and I decided to steal out for the short space before twilight to again catch the joys of Rockport afoot. The lateness of the hour insisted that it be just a walk next door. Up our own way, School Street, with our dainty little four-footer Molly waddling ahead like a dreadnought in wallowing seas, we dropped by the Drolets to check on the progress of his lobster boat. Emery had it swathed in tarpaulin to ward off the winter's gales. We hope to live to see the day it is launched. At least it's planked. But of course, he has to make a living meanwhile.
Our Molly, the questionable Boxer, cared not for boats but instead butted up against a l'il ol' houn' dog that had us puffing for a second until we saw the tails semaphore an "All's well with the world." That even made the sight of a bitter frigid ocean in the distance look heart warming to us.
Strolling this time of year has its hazards what with the glare ice hidden beneath thin snow. The town sanders try to smooth the way but playful winds throw them off stride. At our age, equilibrium means a great deal. But we managed to stay upright until the tag end of the meandering.
The spirit of Christmas still hugs Rockport. Clear evidence of this was noted at the Tuc Kraft Shop at the start of High Street where a lone miniature Christmas tree stood bravely on the top of a porch. Gaudy baubles adorned it. May it stay there until next Yuletide to remind all that the day should be year-round.
From there by Rockport's former police chief, Dick Manson's cozy house with its horsey sign for what reason we'll never know when we realize he's the prexy of the Gloucester Auto Bus Co. union drivers.
An indication that the olden days had a much greater respect for sheds was evidenced in the existence of a strong brick chimney protruding up from one in Agnes Rich's property on High Street. It was an impressive extension.
And the sight of deep pink blinds on the house at 22 High Street proved an eye-arrester. They lent an air of distinction to the abode. And nearby was an ivy covered apple tree in a yard which sported a "For Sale" sign.
A stately Christmas treee that would do justice to Dock Square come Christmas morn with the thousand of kiddoes surrounding Santa's emissary, hugged the portside of Skipper Alvin Brown's homestead at 20 High. Personally we think it should live out its days right where it is guarding the hearth of Rockport's Boy Scout history.
Back of Ready Kilowatt Don Pool's home we saw a new home rising up two floors. And almost next door, an ancient well sweep. Peaceful scenes these that couldn't last as long as Molly was in tow. For then all of a skitter, another female appeared, and how the fur flew. Who's to blame? S'help me, we don't know. But the air was blue with our curses as we couldn't fathom why ladies just couldn't be ladies, dogs or no dogs. But she'll be a walkin' with us come another Sunday. Why not do the same?
J.P.C., Jr.
By mid-afternoon, snowed under by forms, by scribbled tabs, we were suckers for a strait jacket, foaming at the mouth in our curses of all those chair warmers who had stayed up nights thinking up questions to trap us unsuspecting taxpayers so as to bait us into Danbury or Walpole. Believe you me, we were about ready to sign over the weekly pay check and moan help yourself but save us from these nightmares. Instead we completed every mother's son of them right down to signing our names to the dotted lines, so help us God. Now all we have to worry about is that grim gray badge three years from now demanding "How come you figger this way?"
But that's far, far, away, so with it off our chest, the wife and I decided to steal out for the short space before twilight to again catch the joys of Rockport afoot. The lateness of the hour insisted that it be just a walk next door. Up our own way, School Street, with our dainty little four-footer Molly waddling ahead like a dreadnought in wallowing seas, we dropped by the Drolets to check on the progress of his lobster boat. Emery had it swathed in tarpaulin to ward off the winter's gales. We hope to live to see the day it is launched. At least it's planked. But of course, he has to make a living meanwhile.
Our Molly, the questionable Boxer, cared not for boats but instead butted up against a l'il ol' houn' dog that had us puffing for a second until we saw the tails semaphore an "All's well with the world." That even made the sight of a bitter frigid ocean in the distance look heart warming to us.
Strolling this time of year has its hazards what with the glare ice hidden beneath thin snow. The town sanders try to smooth the way but playful winds throw them off stride. At our age, equilibrium means a great deal. But we managed to stay upright until the tag end of the meandering.
The spirit of Christmas still hugs Rockport. Clear evidence of this was noted at the Tuc Kraft Shop at the start of High Street where a lone miniature Christmas tree stood bravely on the top of a porch. Gaudy baubles adorned it. May it stay there until next Yuletide to remind all that the day should be year-round.
From there by Rockport's former police chief, Dick Manson's cozy house with its horsey sign for what reason we'll never know when we realize he's the prexy of the Gloucester Auto Bus Co. union drivers.
An indication that the olden days had a much greater respect for sheds was evidenced in the existence of a strong brick chimney protruding up from one in Agnes Rich's property on High Street. It was an impressive extension.
And the sight of deep pink blinds on the house at 22 High Street proved an eye-arrester. They lent an air of distinction to the abode. And nearby was an ivy covered apple tree in a yard which sported a "For Sale" sign.
A stately Christmas treee that would do justice to Dock Square come Christmas morn with the thousand of kiddoes surrounding Santa's emissary, hugged the portside of Skipper Alvin Brown's homestead at 20 High. Personally we think it should live out its days right where it is guarding the hearth of Rockport's Boy Scout history.
Back of Ready Kilowatt Don Pool's home we saw a new home rising up two floors. And almost next door, an ancient well sweep. Peaceful scenes these that couldn't last as long as Molly was in tow. For then all of a skitter, another female appeared, and how the fur flew. Who's to blame? S'help me, we don't know. But the air was blue with our curses as we couldn't fathom why ladies just couldn't be ladies, dogs or no dogs. But she'll be a walkin' with us come another Sunday. Why not do the same?
J.P.C., Jr.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)