Rowe Avenue to Steel Derrick

We ambled again into Reedland (Selectman Bill Reed's Pigeon Cove) Sunday before last, the wife and I, and again we found a delightful walk. And it wasn't long enough to tire even a confirmed autoist, but it was far more rewarding than a Sunday ride. We cheated to the extent of riding to the start at Granite Street and Rowe Avenue.

From there we set our sights for the farthermost quarry pits in that area. The wife hadn't been on that walk for nearly a score of years. Last time I had seen the early part of it was to report a pit drowning, a tragedy far more frequent in the past when swimmers haunting the water-filled abandoned quarries were more numerous. Private owners were finally forced to discourage swimmers due to the unwarranted actions of some. These owners have done royally in converting the old quarry areas into rugged inspiriting settings for idyllic living.

First thing to hit our eyes was the dark-brown stained house where resides Mrs. Alfred Otis, 89, formerly of Marblehead. We recalled it as having been painted yellow when Abbie Condon had it. The new color gave it the touch of early 17th century. Mrs. Otis bought the house so that she could always have a view of the ocean. She has it all right, the grandest kind of a view.

Right next door we spotted another of those picturesque wrought iron fences skirting the Rowe Avenue property of Elias Newman. As an added decoration, he had a large gold spread-eagle on the side of the house. A high peak to the roof and long windows stand out.

Up ahead was a huge barn made of granite blocks where in the past they say that Police Chief Jacob H. Perkio's father once had cows. And before that, the quarry owners kept oxen used in hauling the quarried granite down to the barges. Beside it was the Rowe House in which several families lived in the past. The years have taken their toll of both places but the granite itself looked little disturbed.

It was like walking along a ridge hearing the echoes of voices from below the keystone bridge hollering, "Hey, where's the elevator!" The man-made cement dam bottling the excess water supply, and the gulls screaming overhead brought us to Rockport's latest water supply, an abandoned quarry put to work fo the common goood.

Returning to the woodland path, we struck out to find the last quarry. Up past Swan's place to Wooditarns bearing the sign "Private property-do not enter" and another "No parking on either side." I began looking for some bellowing mastiff emerging from the bracken to challenge us.

But Rover never showed. Instead we came out upon a rock shelf and there before us spread a most beautiful and tranquil lake bounded by shelf upon shelf of granite. Across the way what apparently were the owners, enjoyed the gentle ease of reading the Sunday papers at the edge of the pit.

Back to the path, we noted about every native berry existing there, and even saw a wild rabbit dart across the path into the brush. What was even more delightful there was no harsh sound of cars, no heavy smell of gas or oil.

Finally we came to Steel Derrick pit, the biggest and the handsomest. Here there were several bathers sunning themselves on the ledges. Swimming seemed to be out of the picture. The water temperature hadn't climbed that high. From the quarry depths arose what looked to be Grout Island, a sizable pile of granite leavings. Ring bolts still showed in the rocks where once big derricks swung to get the blocks out of the quarry.

It's a recommended walk --by us, that is--for a restful pleasant Sunday afternoon, a great chance to renew acquaintance with your feet.

J.P.C., Jr.

Around the Loop

It was the Sunday before town meeting when the wife and I decided to take a walk around the block in Sandy Bay without our two-ton boxer in tow. Our Molly was still stuck with her tomato juice anti-skunk treatment and who are we to share such a scent with the world. Molly is at an age when she should be more choosey of her friends.

The air was brittle but the March sun was bright and it was no pain to be afoot. Round School, up Broadway past many a familiar scene and home we went, knowing that within many walls along the way were friends who chose to browse over what might be the last Boston Sunday papers for awhile. Which made us unhappy to think of our Boston newspaper friends who would be minus that friendly weekly check in the interim through no doing of their own. As we passed St. Mary's from our irreverent lips of long standing, we dropped a prayer for an early end to that workless period. But who hears a heathen?

We recall that old saying by Lord knows who, "If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" We seemed to recall it was the title of a book popular in the flush Twenties. A glance along the roadside indicated Spring was awhistling for attention. All the snow was practically gone--not that Salty Owens of Public Works and his gang would let it linger. The little left was hardly fit to drink. Instead there were puddles, puddles, puddles, which if consolidated could mount up to several days' supply of usable water, that is if you are a puddle drinker. We're not, even though Molly is an avid guzzler of such surface supplies.

As we approached the town parking lot, we realized it was the time for the pause that refreshes, that is for a defogging of the extra pair of eyes if we expected to stay on course. As much as we deny advancing years, there are times when we get it right between the eyes, as our old TV pal Gunsmoke might snarl.

On our street we had seen few parked cars this Sunday afternoon, which surprised us because of the clear weather but on our far from gay Broadway, the car traffic flow was tremenjus, which convinced us that our town constabulary, top gun Jake, must get our vote come the next night for his radar. Our neighbors agreed and he got. Says the song, what Lulu wants, Lulu gets (or is it Lola)? In our town that song goes what Jake wants (police-wise, that is) Jake gets. That's why we can sleep nights, peace-wise.

But to get back to the bunyon beating, again we admired how well policed are the grounds of the post office and the town office building, showing that those custodians, once known as humble janitors, have a real pride in their work.

Up past the Methodist Church, a massive edifice in sheer white with an architectural design including a great circle within a triangle. It is part of the Rockport scene.

We reached the third prominent church on this pristine Broadway (cleansed as never was that Manhattan path to perdition). It is St. Joachim's, that we view with its hot-topped strip marked "Clergy,"which means that only the car of the good Father can rest there as he in church tries to pull the sinners away from that ol' devil.

Never meeting a fellow soul on foot on this short walk around the so-called Rockport Loop, we passed the stately old home of our late family doctor, Ezra Eames Cleaves, a great country practitioner, who laughed at us when in the '40's we were knocked out by the mumps an ailment that males should never get at that age. Medicos like our Dr. Cleaves, and our Dr. Earl Greene are (unhappily to us) fading from the scene. They only die rich in the worship of us common folk. And don't you forget there are still some of us common folk still breathing.

Down Main St. we eyed a sign on a barn in old English lettering, "Antiques Etc." Only a school teacher like Gert Abbott Hutchings could have thought up such a sign. Cute is the word.

But the piece de resistance was the Al Remick house on this Main St. with its Christmas wreath and its string of colored Yuletide lights on the front door proving that our Al or his good wife, or both, believe that Christmas is 365 days in the year, not one day or week. We buy that, and the sight of it gave us a joyful lift as we continued our amble to home and the nasty leering look from a Molly we had rudely snubbed because of nose trouble.

Anyway we had fun of a Sabbath matinee, why not you to trim that waistline?

J.P.C., Jr.