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 Lesch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lesch. Show all posts
Friday, January 22, 2010
Friday, November 6, 2009
A Walk in Wintry Summer
Summer sure sneaked into Sandy Bay Sunday despite the chill winds. First sign of it was the thermometer reading 40 degrees as of mid-morning. Next was the strange sight of Artist Iver Rose and his missus strolling down Jewett Street toward their Main Street seaside home. Tradition has it that when Iver sets foot in Rockport from Broadway (New York), then that's the first day of the summer season.
We passed the time of day with him prior to our stroll. The Roses, in full bloom even to Iver's sheer silk muffler, made a special trip to talk business with a fellow Rockport artist, maybe a merger for all we know, and then were planning to inspect their manor by the sea to learn if the winter storms had left it intact. They were bound back to Manhattan to escape the North Atlantic blasts.
The wife and I with our four-footer, Molly, the boxer, waited untl the sun was high before we ventured forth. The wife this time plotted a short course to fetch up on Bearskin Neck, so we could experience a bleak but quiet Neck with shuttered windows and sea gulls as our only companions. That's what she thought.
On the way we spied another warm weather portent. Boys were playing baseball in the parking lot and having a lot of fun about it without fear of breaking a window.
Emerging from our own thoroughfare, School Street onto Main Street, we couldn't resist peeking into the new Oleana eaterie and its breath of Sweden, doing a thriving business. Down the avenue to scan a pile of sawn logs to the rear of Engineer Sterling Pool's yard, to note again that ancient lantern hanging over the front door adding to the richness of this center of town period dwelling.
Charming variations of wooden fences that build beauty into Dock Square and are probably one of the big reasons why outsiders repeat their visits to our town caught the wifely eye There was the plain white fence over to artist Harold Rotenberg's, the fancy white picket fence fronting the Pool property with its eight softly rounded stone pillars, the stately and smart white wooden pickets guarding longtime Advisory Board Chief Bob Rapp's former abode.
We hadn't walked another 10 feet when we were hit by the fact that old-fashioned wooden blinds mark this neighborhood. The Rapp house boasted green ones, Gene Thibeault's Rockport Market vaunted marooon ones, while Davy Jones' Locker was content with drab blackies. Who said blinds are a thing of the past?
Not only does Dock Square sport distinctive fences and blinds but its chimneys are varied. F'r n'instance the tall sparse red brick soot carrier shooting skyward from the tiny lone story ell of the so-called Wee Shop is taller than the shop itself. And across the way is a short stubby stack from a "skyscraper" in comparison to its neighbor. That's Rockport for you!
Then we ran full tilt into the third and conclusive sign of summer in winter. Traffic from the Sea Fencibles to the start of the inner breakwater was so thick that a pedestrian had to hug the sides of the walls. We who had looked forward to a stroll by ourselves found ourselves instead in the midst of all manner of cars, bearing license plates from New Jersey, Connecticut, New York and Rhode Island as well as our own Bay State. Wouldn't surprise us to know that one from l'il ol' Arkansaw sneaked by too.
There were some shops open like that of Shorty Lesch, who greeted us from the side door commenting on that fact that Rockport was getting like this every wintry Sunday if the sun favored the land. What else can the Boston folks do on a good Sunday, he said. It all makes for business.
Paying no attention at all to this mad rush was one weatherbeaten shack that today only housed the haunts of its one-time lobsterman owner, a shack that sported an upper window of six panes of bluish tinted glass, the kind of colored glass that antique dealers crave.
By this time we had sauntered into Wendell's Alley, which its owner, Eddie Wendell, prefers calling Tuna Alley. The extra-high tides of a month ago dug dangerous pot holes into it and threw askew the Republican and Democrat benches of the old Country Store.
It was a different Neck at this time of year, but a place we will visit again of another Sunday to see how a season can change the town's favored spot.
J.P.C., Jr.
We passed the time of day with him prior to our stroll. The Roses, in full bloom even to Iver's sheer silk muffler, made a special trip to talk business with a fellow Rockport artist, maybe a merger for all we know, and then were planning to inspect their manor by the sea to learn if the winter storms had left it intact. They were bound back to Manhattan to escape the North Atlantic blasts.
The wife and I with our four-footer, Molly, the boxer, waited untl the sun was high before we ventured forth. The wife this time plotted a short course to fetch up on Bearskin Neck, so we could experience a bleak but quiet Neck with shuttered windows and sea gulls as our only companions. That's what she thought.
On the way we spied another warm weather portent. Boys were playing baseball in the parking lot and having a lot of fun about it without fear of breaking a window.
Emerging from our own thoroughfare, School Street onto Main Street, we couldn't resist peeking into the new Oleana eaterie and its breath of Sweden, doing a thriving business. Down the avenue to scan a pile of sawn logs to the rear of Engineer Sterling Pool's yard, to note again that ancient lantern hanging over the front door adding to the richness of this center of town period dwelling.
Charming variations of wooden fences that build beauty into Dock Square and are probably one of the big reasons why outsiders repeat their visits to our town caught the wifely eye There was the plain white fence over to artist Harold Rotenberg's, the fancy white picket fence fronting the Pool property with its eight softly rounded stone pillars, the stately and smart white wooden pickets guarding longtime Advisory Board Chief Bob Rapp's former abode.
We hadn't walked another 10 feet when we were hit by the fact that old-fashioned wooden blinds mark this neighborhood. The Rapp house boasted green ones, Gene Thibeault's Rockport Market vaunted marooon ones, while Davy Jones' Locker was content with drab blackies. Who said blinds are a thing of the past?
Not only does Dock Square sport distinctive fences and blinds but its chimneys are varied. F'r n'instance the tall sparse red brick soot carrier shooting skyward from the tiny lone story ell of the so-called Wee Shop is taller than the shop itself. And across the way is a short stubby stack from a "skyscraper" in comparison to its neighbor. That's Rockport for you!
Then we ran full tilt into the third and conclusive sign of summer in winter. Traffic from the Sea Fencibles to the start of the inner breakwater was so thick that a pedestrian had to hug the sides of the walls. We who had looked forward to a stroll by ourselves found ourselves instead in the midst of all manner of cars, bearing license plates from New Jersey, Connecticut, New York and Rhode Island as well as our own Bay State. Wouldn't surprise us to know that one from l'il ol' Arkansaw sneaked by too.
There were some shops open like that of Shorty Lesch, who greeted us from the side door commenting on that fact that Rockport was getting like this every wintry Sunday if the sun favored the land. What else can the Boston folks do on a good Sunday, he said. It all makes for business.
Paying no attention at all to this mad rush was one weatherbeaten shack that today only housed the haunts of its one-time lobsterman owner, a shack that sported an upper window of six panes of bluish tinted glass, the kind of colored glass that antique dealers crave.
By this time we had sauntered into Wendell's Alley, which its owner, Eddie Wendell, prefers calling Tuna Alley. The extra-high tides of a month ago dug dangerous pot holes into it and threw askew the Republican and Democrat benches of the old Country Store.
It was a different Neck at this time of year, but a place we will visit again of another Sunday to see how a season can change the town's favored spot.
J.P.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.
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.
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