Prospect to Dock Square - Spring

Ever go church fund canvassing? That's what the wife and I did on Sunday afternoon. We found it simple, relaxing, a chance to make new good friends and renew old acquaintances. And above all, a grand excuse for another pleasing walk around Rockport streets.

This time we were choked up as far as taking our boxer Molly along. After all, we were seeking weekly pledges from good citizens, and we didn't want to frighten them out of their pocketbooks with the rambunctious package of dynamite. Confronting them with Molly could be haled as attempted coercion. And we feared the pastor wouldn't condone it. So the lithe one spent the afternoon chasing squirrels in vain around the neighbors' yards.

They were kind to us at the church -- only gave us four to call on, and in locations that made an ideal stroll, not too long nor too short. It took us first from our School Street home up that street past bared gray trees tossed and shaken by the day's high winds into Pleasant Street, where we noted what is possibly the town's biggest compost mound in the yard of retired teacher Charles Haskell. His is a grand yard for extensive vegetable and flower gardens. Compost is most welcome there.

In Prospect Street we saw that Ed Gracie was building an addition to his house. And that Alice Cox's dachshund seemed to be fattening up, though she insisted instead he was dropping a couple of pounds. Past Poole's twin barns that are still protected from being art studios we walked. Derelict they may be, but true to the past, even to the old farm cart idle in the yard and two nondescript dories without a sea in sight. To us, it's good to have some of old Rockport left in the village.

In our first call, we got the treat of finding a family who loved to collect birds of all colors, besides tropical fish that the wife hailed as goldfish, much to the hostess' disgust. Actually they were guppies. We set her straight right quick. Ambling down Prospect Street we came to South, where on the corner there popped before us a clean white gate in a dry stone wall. But the gate led only into thicket. For Molly it would have been a cinch, but to us that snarl of brush made the gate useless. We gave up that call.

Onto Mount Pleasant Street we came upon a beagle that oozed friendliness once she smelled Molly on our clothes. Funny how one dog feels that anyone who tolerates another pup must be a pal to all the ilk. Took us a half a century to find that out. In another delightful call, soliciting was secondary to visiting. We just talked of mutual friends, past and present.

En route to Dock Square we tried another Rockport lane that was new to us. They call it Star Island Lane. The signpost looked wet behind the ears, but it was poetic, and actually led into Atlantic Avenue and beyond to what was once an isle, tiny as it might be, in Rockport Cove. The lane was actually hot-topped and folks lived beside it; folks we knew. Along much of one side of it ran a spectacular high hedge. We imagined Peter Rabbit and Br'er Cottontail cavorting in and around it, for the hedge bordered the modest estate of artist Harrison Cady.

Thence to Dock Square and an apartment where we saw one of Peter Hamlett's fresh brilliant high surf scenes that a critic was admiring. Art was rewarding, but at the time, we had dollar signs for eyeglasses, all for the church you know, so, our business was with the vivacious young lady of the house. It was a skip and jump to the final call next door. The missus admitted that folks had a habit of using their home for a traveled way from Main Street into the high school yard. But this time it cost her money. All for the church, of course.

Which reminds us, try church fund canvassing if you want to make friends, enjoy the fresh air and take a little exercise walking.

J.P.C., Jr.

South End Walk

Home work was pressing us as the wife and I and boxer Molly went walking on a fresh sparkling winter's day in Rockport town. But a weekend walk we must have or we get upbraided, even through newspaper articles, so off we took to the South End.

On Penzance Way, which has nothing to do with Gilbert & Sullivan's fictitious pirates, Molly found a paradise of adventure on the yellowed icy marsh, a treat you ought to give to your favorite canine without leash holding her back. 'Tis good for her digestion.

Then came a car with a dog inside and that gave the family pet of 65 pounds a chance to drop a couple of heft in puffing noisily after it, even though she only wanted to say a fond hello. Inside the car, we viewed the antics of one who wanted to break through the window, yapping a livid streak just to swap the same greetings. Frustrating, no less.

We met our friend Mrs. Harriet Garfield, another who knows the value of a stroll, and were reminded of our joint duty to our church. Looking to port, we caught sight of cat-o'-nine tails flush in their wintry growth, and close by, three snowy owls that Naturalist Elliott Rogers, the sage of 'Squam, taught us to observe. He once tried in vain to convert us into a Rogers Ranger over that terrible termnal moraine on Dogtown.

Oscar Harvey and Frank Haskell came along, collecting rock samples along the shore. They showed us feldspar, among other minerals that can be seen in Sandy Bay if you know where to find them. Frank's mustacheoed sire once ran Loblolly, where his claim to fame was that he fed a lobster dinner in the open air to President William Howard Taft.

We noted summer homes barricaded for the winter, homes of folks prominent in the nation's affairs. We came on a staunch peastone-buuilt road that defied winter. From here we went down a dead-end road to the ocean's lip, confronted by a dilapidated barn. This led us to a side street that challenged us in its muddy and icy condition, but nothing stops us weekend hikers. Walking into the late sun in all its winterish glory, we met up with the constabulary in their shiny jalopy. Aboard were Officers Johnny Borge and Jorma Savinen, who knew better than to offer us hoofers a lift. After making sure that we were not cottage breaking, they sped for richer realms in crime pursuit.

We continued to enjoy the richness of cloud formations , bathed with fading sunset. The South End was boldly riotous in color. And artist would blush to dare such tints on a canvas. Down by Henry's Pond we viewed an outburst of colorful humanity of all ages. Here, where the town has expended nothing, is a natural haven for those who love gliding on sharp steel in safety, with the broad surging Atlantic for a seething foreground.

Molly is far from a Sonja Henie, but her heft and her broad paws lend her purchase on ice, so she too, reveled on the pond as well as in the brush along the way, flushing out whatever wee animals might have nestled in the thickets.

It was along this road that a pleasing traffic jam allowed us to chat awhile with Dr. Reginald Courant, former school committeeman and alderman of Gloucester. Politics, Gloucester style, was the subject. Then the traffic came surging along like on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue and we had to button up. Back to our jalopy and the close of another joyous stroll with neighbors and friends.

J.P.C., Jr.