Spring Inspection Tour Bearskin Neck April 1964

For the wife and I to take a Sunday walk without our friendly four-footer Molly is a rarity but on this Sunday morning, it was a "mustie." We were invading "Catland" otherwise known as Bearskin Neck. And to the brown bomber, all friendship ceases when it comes to spitting felines. Us, we'd like to keep our cat-owning friends down there and elsewhere.

The calendar may say that this Spring officially opened on March 21, but in our book the season of hope really opened its big blue eyes wide and beaming on April 12--at least in Rockport.

As we left our house in Rockport on foot all the way the 65 pound old gal sensed what was up for she looked away around the easy chair's starboard quarter, her fawn-colored eyes lifted up to us so soulfully that our resistance came close to breaking. Afterward we heard through the grapevine, that there are some citizens of the Neck who wish a cat-chaser would stalk their preserves for a space. Wonder why?

It was a walk before the sun was over the yard-arm, a walk into several alleys where abided what might be called alley cats of the four-footed variety except the cats were too well bred.

Across the street we passed through the first alley headed by a sign of really peeling words noting to those with imagination that it was not a thoroughfare. A fair-to-middlin' code decipherer might have made it out if he had time.

At the far end we looked over the fence into the back yard of the former House of Rapp. That yard was just coming alive after a bitter winter, its crocuses were out, its tulip bed was pushing upward for the day of blooming.

Into Dock Square to our left was a home with scaffolding for shingling the roof, and down the main stem with a fiery cheroot tipped at an angle in his mouth was a saunterer Ingolff Thompson, Saint Mary's sexton, window gazing.

We came to Bearskin Neck to be greeted by a sign that read, "Entrance to historic Bearskin Neck," only to read a second sign just below it which shouted, "Dead End." Historically dead? Well, hardly. It's just that when you hit the rocks by the bay, you've had it , brother. What's deader than the end of the road.

The wife and I were thinking of another summer stroll, mostly before dark, that we took almost nightly down here as we again saw the railed-in piazza atop the colorful pewter shop, the "millyuns" of new and old lobster pots stacked sky-high back of the shops. A new note in that back space that well might be called Motif Lane, was a wee weather-beaten shack labeled "Harbor Master's Office" whose window boasted the kind of mature "art" that brings sparkles to a grampie's eyes.

One difference in the back of these stores since we started the Neck meanderings a quarter century ago, is the colony inhabiting apartments that have sprung up, overlooking the inner harbor. After one shuddering look at the water-logged old Maine coaster Eva S. Cullison alongside Wendell's Alley wharf, we sauntered up through Dana Vibert's lobster shop into the main drag again where we enjoyed the sight of that mammoth arched window fronting the second floor apartment of artist John Chetcuti.

Down Wendell's (Tuna) Alley we wandered to note the elaborate changes. Ed and Doris Coleman's "House of Glass" moved into where Hedlund's Restaurant was up to a year ago. It was the kind of day that broughtout the real wealth of color from the great assortment.
Contractors King & Lilja of Rockport have built a new structure next it, a coffee house with a top deck from where folks may lunch at leisure and enjoy the yacht races. Eddie Donovan, the lobster king, will remain in his old stand.

To the end of the Neck where the town fathers have built a rotary for autoists to save them from backing up to return to Main Street. The town did a good job on this turn-around.
For the wife and me, it was a comfortable tireless walk of a Sunday morning. Try it yourself sometime before your legs quit.

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.