Down a Nameless Lane - Pigeon Cove

The deluge had subsided this Sunday afternoon, and the wife and I and our four-footer decided we could chance a stroll in the North Village. So into the wheezy home cab we tumbled and set off along Beach Street in Rockport past a beach strewn with sea-red kelp, debris of all sorts, and three prone bikes plus a lonesome gull. Winter had left her mark along this shore.

Debarking on Granite Street at the old stone office of the Rockport Granite Company, we found this end of the Cape derelict of snow. The sight was a happy relief to us. We ambled past the cozy home of a lady who bought the house just so she could get an uninterrupted view of the broad Atlantic. There before her this day of days was an unruffled calm blue sea with the gentlest of white foamed surf lapping Salvages. A strong touch of Spring was ruffling through our balding hair. Even our menacing boxer Mollie felt the lure as she fairly whizzed over the terrain, once off the leash.

We came by the little domicle of George Caffrey at 52 Granite Street within which rested the faithful town servant who surrenders many hours of winter to keep our roads open in the heavy snows. No matter what he earns in those hours, we are most thankful he is willing to give up his tranquil hours just to serve us. It's so nice to snooze in bed and hear him shove through our street to breach an auto path. Maybe we don't pay him and his enough.

Nearby through striking blue gates we saw a well arranged array of flush evergreens beautifying 56 Granite Street now owed by an artist from Providence, R.I. Anthony what's his last name? We forget. But we never will forget what a grand job he has done to improve the neighborhood. A good citizen, that man.

And we noted that Hugh Smith had built himself an immense granite wall in front of his property at 103 Granite Street, a massive work that will outlive him and all of his. It would even defy a 20th century Jericho. We saw that the town fathers went beserk in numbering this main drag through the mighty proud North Village. On one side we came across a number 60 and directly across the way was 103. What a jump into space. So we found ourselves bumping against Number 103 with a full grown pilot house smack dab in the middle of a field bordered by a stone wall and a picket fence. The long granite slab atop the sone wall fascinated our penny pinching philosophy. At least we knew that no salty skipper would ever blast his orders from that wheelhouse, here or thereafter.

Here's where our normally friendly boxer met up with two speaking acquaintances, a shepherd and a collie dog. With canine fleet trailing us, we left the hardtop public way to enter a just as hardtopped but private way running between where two single tracks ran down to the sea in the old days, taking cars laden with tons of stone to be loaded onto sloops bound to the big seaports of the eastern seaboard.

We came upon mammoth granite slabs forming the pier, a 19th century setting harboring a mid-20th century low slung bungalow home framed in a natural gurgling brook that rushed in cascade style to the ocean. To its right was a beach of large bright pebbles splashed with weather-bleached driftwood, just aching for a glowing fireplace.

We had come to Professor Roger Hardy's Cove domicile, fronted by a solid granite cookout that is arbored by a Japanese-effected arch and protected by an old-fashioned stone wall that climbed at least 15 foot. By now us folks had reached mud row yielding to a false promise of Spring. For Molly and her rollicking yappers, it was a heaven of Chinese wrestling, growling and just plain sniffing. We were on our way down the un-named road to a grout pile left by the granite men of the past when they decided the gold had left the dust.

The wife and I met up with the next neighbor down the road, Norm Fitts, ex-newsman and fellow Yalesian, and his good wife, two folks who have carved a handsome seaside-terraced villa out of hardscrabble and rubble and a flabby granite business power house, ugly skyscraping black sooty smoke stack and all. Norm showed us a picture of the misery of 1900.

We were told that one of the outlanders settling in this strip of God's Heaven had the idea to christen this hallowed road, Water Margin Road but he failed of a second. Then we merged onto Pigeon Hill Road where the Fitts claim residence.

The Sunday wanderers and their meow chasers had landed plumb into a haven of nine-lifers. And when they spotted the trio of barkers, we could see those cats rush for the niches in the rocks along the shore. Ourselves we found delight in touring through the Fitts' home to see how two happy people could transform that power house into a divine dwelling with expansive fireplaces, rustic shelves, heavy ceiling timbers, and so appointed with staunch antique desks. The wife and I and even our four-footer admired their taste.

JP.C., Jr.

Winter on Bearskin Neck

We walked by ourselves -- the wife and I -- on Bearskin Neck on Washington's Birthday. The Neck teems with humanity of all shapes and sizes, all manner of dress--and undress--during the summertime, but when bitter winds course through the winding paths, it becomes as deserted as Dogtown. But it is not uninviting; to us, it has charm for 12 months of the year, a varied charm reflected from its changing moods.

A few hardy souls live on the Neck the year round. One such is Friend Greenleaf, an artist, who was being dug out that day by an earnest young man who certainly was earning his fee. The walk to the side door of the home was plainly in need of being cleared to give its occupants escape room.

We looked for blizzard damage to the Neck, but Old Man Winter spared the cottages and shops where in the past havoc has been inflicted by high winds. The only thing amiss was a screen door twisted off its hinges at the "hut," a small cottage almost at the head of the Neck.

Looking across the bay toward Pigeon Cove, the spectacular sight of snow-capped Pigeon Hill greeted us, along with its many fine hillside homes, giving the appearance of a modest mountainside village independent of the rest of the Cape.

We bumped into Shorty Lesch of the Explorer Scouts. His head poked out of a strange door from an unoccupied shoppe. It was then we learned that Shorty plans to become an entrepreneur along that strand come summer days. Everyone likes Shorty and the way he helps folks.

Striking to the eye were rigid squads of spotless white-vested seagulls perched on the ridge poles. They stood motionless, but their eyes were everywhere. A foraging scout had tackled a disposal bucket in front of a lobster store and with persistency and considerable strength succeeded in reaching what the gull thought might be succulent items. The first stab was a blooper --just a washed-up drinking cup. The second try yielded a tasty morsel that caused a yawking and down swooped the front rank to fight over the spoils.

Over to T Wharf, lobstermen were busy about their boats. Somebody was pumping out the Nancy. Ashore the scenery was wintry but in the harbor and bay, it was as tranquil as a day in July. Only sign of February was the ice-bordered Sandy Bar breakwater.

Leo De Coste, actually the skipper of the trim sloop he was on, attending to the mooring, would hardly welcome being greeted as cap'n for fear his gang ashore would laugh him off the waterfront. But he is entitled to the rank for the amount of blue water he has wrung out of his boots.

In the village proper we reverted to practices first enjoyed in youth! Sloshing along through the slush, protected by overshoes; and walking along the top of the snow-banks instead of being our age and staying on the blacktop. After all, winter comes but once a year and why not get the thrill out of life that Topper of the movies seems to enjoy in letting down his hair?

Bumped into a friend who told us about a fellow Rockporter who was in a big department store in Boston the other day buying an article. The Rockporter asked if the clerk would take his check, so the story goes. The clerk was about to say yes, when a voice behind the Rockporter muttered, "I wouldn't if I were you; he has a poor reputation in the town where I come from." The voice another Rockporter, was saying it all in jest, as he quickly slithered out of sight. But the joke put his fellow Rockporter in a mess of trying to convince the clerk, a floorwalker, and even an assistant manager, before the check was accepted. It's a classic right now in this town.

We hadn't got much farther along when somebody stopped us to tell us about the good work that Pete Perkins and George Caffrey did in getting the ambulance on its way to a mercy call down White Way at the height of the February blizzard. A lady was expecting and needed to get to the hospital -- but fast. Fire Engineer Harold Hobbs and Fire Fighters Charles G. "Brud" Burbank and Lee Kramer turned to and manned the kit, except they couldn't get out of the Broadway barn unless they could move that high wall of hard-packed snow. That's where Caffrey came through as usual, along with Road Surveyor Perkins. They cleared the snow in jig time and also got the kit up through the Way. The patient was delivered to the hospital, but as it turned out, the actual delivery was not as near as first thought.

J.P.C., Jr.

Winter Sleds in Burial Grounds

Crisp brittle sheer white snow. That's a challenge to any live blooded human to stretch out and hike. The temperature was just cold enough to make it right so off we went Sunday to see what Rockport looked like on its first respectable snowfall of the winter. We never regretted one pace of it. The steaming hot cocoa at the end never tasted better to the wife -- nor did the much more stimulating spirits frumenti warm the cockles of the male heart any deeper.

Carrie MacDonald was still displaying her attractive Christmas greens in the windows of her Railroad Avenue restaurant which railroad men frequent. And we wouldn't blame her for not putting them in storage. They were beautiful and deserved a year-round showing.

The light snow was crunchy under our feet, a positive improvement to the landscape, not too difficult for motorists. Everyone seemed concerned over feeding the birds. Starlings, grackles, yes, even greedy gulls swooped down onto backyards to get their fill. We had already seen to it that the Sunday dinner left-overs were strewn into the back yard to take care of these welcome scavengers and on our Sunday walk, we saw that plenty of other folks had done likewise.

Passing by the Mill Pond, we could see young fry busy scraping the snow away so that they could enjoy their winter sport. This scene was repeated on all the skating ponds of the Cape for the weather was perfect for those who rate skating their top winter sport. Florida was never like this.

Once we thought we were the only Sunday hikers. But this Sunday we saw Dr. George Bruns and his daughter out on a jaunt at Land's End. And he was real professional at it, even to a cane. And this Sunday who should be stepping out but Don Betts and his wife Martha. They, too, parked the family car to get the most of a wintry day.

We noted that Rockport was prompt on sanding its main streets. Pete Perkins, Frankie Francis and George Caffrey saw to that. They were out right after daybreak attending to it with the result that motorists didn't mind coming down Rockport streets to get their Sunday paper or going to church.

Sledders were much in evidence. Rockport selectmen set aside hills for sliding. We saw many youngsters on their way to sliding grounds. One of them was on a bike towing his sled. He told us that High Street wa the best. Both of us wished then we had a sled to take part in the thrilling sport. But our young fry were beyond the sledding stage and we had long since given away the double runners to other folks so that their offspring could enjoy the sport. Yes, we sure miss that phase of childhood.

What captured our attention most in regard to sliding was the fact that kiddos were using the old burial ground on Beach Street for this pleasure. This happens to be the Old First Parish burial ground, not used today. It offers a convenient place and the youngsters are safe. And honestly we don't think that the dead mind one bit.

Much of the time we were also chewing the fat about this and that. Among the topics was that of the present generation coming home from college this week after their midyears. Since ours is among the number, little wonder it was a topic. After all we hadn't seen him sice Christmas. We could again see the gang clustering around Nick's on Gloucester's Main Street and Poole's on Rockport's Main Street. And we also could again hear the clucking of irresponsible old tongues about such clusterings of youth and wonder why some folks of our generation have to grow so old and so ridiculous so soon.

Coming down to Bearskin Neck we noted five boats, including the lonely Friendship sloop and at least 50 squawking gulls battling the wintry breeze. It was a typical January scene. And braving the blasts walking to the tip of the inner breakwater were five young ladies without escorts.

Along the Neck we noted a gathering in Eddie Donovan's lobster shack and came to the conclusion that Rockport's "Senate" had moved from Cap Green's on Dock Square. For there were the lobster skippers, the postmaster, and other weighty citizens hashing over the affairs of the day.

A stroll through Wendell's Alley on the Neck convinced us that the lane got the most bountiful snowfall. Fred Douglas' summer shop had a snugly mass of snow against the sill. Jack Frost had done a beautiful etching on the panes of the New England Handicraft House. Winter had certainly come to Bearskin Neck.

J.P.C., Jr.