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.
Showing posts with label Pool. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pool. Show all posts
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Walk in Snow Land
Snow's not half as bad as some folks think as long as it doesn't come in too big bundles. Take for instance that of last weekend. Just enough to lend soft white fluffy beauty to the landscape but not so much that it bogged down auto traffic or stopped us Sunday strollers from our waistline trimming ambles.
That's why the wife and I and our streamlined boxer Molly hit the high road after dinner to wander for a wee bit. Out of our home path, School Street in Sandy Bay and up Broadway, trudging kidlike through the ankle deep white drifts, it was nice to see the fun the four-footer had racing through the snow, sniffing to her heart's content. There's no calisthenics like it for a dog.
The town's smartest move in years, that off-street parking lot where Mrs. Brown once lived and Universalists made merry in Murray Hall, offered an inviting winter scene as good as any Currier & Ives ever came up with. Cars of all descriptions bathed from hood to rear bumper in snow caught the eye.
Only a short time before we had seen our Molly baffled in her effort to scratch a hole in the snow-covered hard earth to bury a brand new polished bone from the butcher, only to learn the fundamental lesson that the best hiding place is in the most obvious location, right out in plain sight, so she left it on the front lawn.
No wonder she snubbed a couple of fellow canines who were staging a raucous Donnybrook on the front lawn of the Town Office building over a clumsy stick. To her,any couple so dumb as to bare teeth over a hunk of wood would never stumble over that precious morsel of hes. So along she went about her business.
Autoists seemed to be pleased with the fact that Rockport's roads had been sanded by Road Surveyor "Pete"Perkins and his gang. Getting around in mid-morning, the sanders brought relief. Early motorists slithered all over the highway.
Again we were fascinated by the sight of the decorative old-time wooden grill work on the porch of Rockport's baseball mentor, Dr. Earl Greene. Carpenters of another day outdid themselves in this fanciful brilliance of their trade. Thousands of patients have passed beneath it without sensing its beauty because of their ills.
The old blends with the new on the roof of the Florence Pool home on Broadway, where a widder's walk is flanked by two olden chimneys and a television antenna. The latter, forever, remind us of the pictures in old books of the storks' nests atop the homes along the Zuyder Zee.
Large ornate treees never look better to us in a front yard than when draped in snow. We are thinking of the Fred Tarr homestead on Upper Broadway, painted brightly yellow. The trees have grown massive with theyears, as stately and impressive as was the late master of the house, the noted United States Attorney.
Crossing over onto Railroad Avenue, we were greeted by an old-hat rocking horse that appeared to suffer not the least, even though its hind quarters were smothered in below-freezing dew. At least she was one nag that Molly never tried her hoof-nipping tactics on, as she does with live horses.
Christmas trees abound the year around in Rockport. Such were those on the Sam Henderson property, now that of Dave Scatterday on the avenue to the depot. Snow heightens their winterish glory. There's a real warmth to their frigidity for us strollers.
Across the way and over the railroad tracks we sauntered up along Poole's Lane, noting that steel-helmeted men were driving in Toonerville Trolley shaped poles by the tracks. They said it was to bring more power into Rockport, but as far as we are concerned, this town is already power-packed with all the things that make life worth living.
It was nostalgic to watch youngsters sliding down the hill. It seemed ages ago that we too had the thrill of coaching our own to sled belly-bumper over the snowy slopes. It's heck to see them grow beyond it. Never lose a chance to walk or play with those young 'uns. It's money in the bank of life.
J.P.C., Jr.
That's why the wife and I and our streamlined boxer Molly hit the high road after dinner to wander for a wee bit. Out of our home path, School Street in Sandy Bay and up Broadway, trudging kidlike through the ankle deep white drifts, it was nice to see the fun the four-footer had racing through the snow, sniffing to her heart's content. There's no calisthenics like it for a dog.
The town's smartest move in years, that off-street parking lot where Mrs. Brown once lived and Universalists made merry in Murray Hall, offered an inviting winter scene as good as any Currier & Ives ever came up with. Cars of all descriptions bathed from hood to rear bumper in snow caught the eye.
Only a short time before we had seen our Molly baffled in her effort to scratch a hole in the snow-covered hard earth to bury a brand new polished bone from the butcher, only to learn the fundamental lesson that the best hiding place is in the most obvious location, right out in plain sight, so she left it on the front lawn.
No wonder she snubbed a couple of fellow canines who were staging a raucous Donnybrook on the front lawn of the Town Office building over a clumsy stick. To her,any couple so dumb as to bare teeth over a hunk of wood would never stumble over that precious morsel of hes. So along she went about her business.
Autoists seemed to be pleased with the fact that Rockport's roads had been sanded by Road Surveyor "Pete"Perkins and his gang. Getting around in mid-morning, the sanders brought relief. Early motorists slithered all over the highway.
Again we were fascinated by the sight of the decorative old-time wooden grill work on the porch of Rockport's baseball mentor, Dr. Earl Greene. Carpenters of another day outdid themselves in this fanciful brilliance of their trade. Thousands of patients have passed beneath it without sensing its beauty because of their ills.
The old blends with the new on the roof of the Florence Pool home on Broadway, where a widder's walk is flanked by two olden chimneys and a television antenna. The latter, forever, remind us of the pictures in old books of the storks' nests atop the homes along the Zuyder Zee.
Large ornate treees never look better to us in a front yard than when draped in snow. We are thinking of the Fred Tarr homestead on Upper Broadway, painted brightly yellow. The trees have grown massive with theyears, as stately and impressive as was the late master of the house, the noted United States Attorney.
Crossing over onto Railroad Avenue, we were greeted by an old-hat rocking horse that appeared to suffer not the least, even though its hind quarters were smothered in below-freezing dew. At least she was one nag that Molly never tried her hoof-nipping tactics on, as she does with live horses.
Christmas trees abound the year around in Rockport. Such were those on the Sam Henderson property, now that of Dave Scatterday on the avenue to the depot. Snow heightens their winterish glory. There's a real warmth to their frigidity for us strollers.
Across the way and over the railroad tracks we sauntered up along Poole's Lane, noting that steel-helmeted men were driving in Toonerville Trolley shaped poles by the tracks. They said it was to bring more power into Rockport, but as far as we are concerned, this town is already power-packed with all the things that make life worth living.
It was nostalgic to watch youngsters sliding down the hill. It seemed ages ago that we too had the thrill of coaching our own to sled belly-bumper over the snowy slopes. It's heck to see them grow beyond it. Never lose a chance to walk or play with those young 'uns. It's money in the bank of life.
J.P.C., Jr.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Old Castle & Pingree Park
They said we couldn't make it. The winds were near gale force, the rains were tearing the landscape. But out came the sun, down went the wind. So the wife and I with our capricious boxer Molly chevied again to the fringes of Pigeon Cove. We parked in the shadow of the Old Castle, that 17th century dwelling with a 20th century touch of a fuzzy cutout of Santa as a centerpiece.
An old-fashioned sled was in the driveway of a house that had a "For Sale" on it. Maybe the owner won't part with the sled he loved as a child on Rockport's hills. Before us a sign read "Paper House" with an arrow pointing to the left, up Curtis Street. The house made of paper is today protected by the A. Richard Carlsons and Mrs. Stenman. It has much to offer.
A throwback to the past was a green painted bench meant for a passenger bus stop on Granite Street. Across the way was a wrought iron fence spaced with granite pillars topped by granite balls. Molly was having a ball. She had two felines in her range, both black, one treed, the other grounded. Fortunately for us the meeow was faster than the boxer and made the tall timber in ample time.
We were attracted by Madeline Griffin's house, cut in two so that a passageway could be had to the ocean, the number is 161 Granite. As we rounded into Story Street two sparse old ghost-like trees squatted square in the middle of the road within 20 feet, opposite Norm Pool's home. Both were painted white up to about six feet high to warn motorists at night not to smear 'em.
A plaque at Pingree Field read, "Presented by Pingree Recreative Association of Pigeon Cove in memory of Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree, lover of the young for whom he lost his life, July 10, 1915." He must have been really great. But what about that word "Recreative?" It bothers us.
Just before this point, the four-footer's sleek brown broad stern came within a whisker of being whacked by a sleeker limousine. Down came the car window as the smiling driver hollered, "I wouldn't hit that dog for anything!" A dog's best friend must be man.
Pigeon Cove is a gold mine of laughing brooks coursing over rough terrain. On Story Street we reveled in the sound and sight of one. Strollng on a way of houses on one side while on the other nature runs spiritually rough-shod. Makes you tingle that God IS in His Heaven, after all, as Browning claimed.
The Story Elementary School inspires in the Yuletide season with its windows aglow with star cutouts, on the brow of the hill, like a star-studded firmament. Maybe that's stretching the imagination a wee bit but we liked the thought.
By this time Molly had darted out of line to pay a call on Betty Bartlett, for we had reached Pigeon Hill Street. The Bearskin Neck 9 o'clock-sharp closing young merchant wasn't to home, but the boxer relished the snout probe of the period house with its white trim on the front and the second story balcony.
Wintry chills failed to dampen the ardor of young fry shooting baskets at an outdoor hoop on the property of Contractor John F. Lilja. Maybe that's why Sandy Bay has superior basketball teams year in and year out. They train to swish the ball through the twine.
We came to a sign reading, "Pri. Property, pass at your own risk." The way led up past a stack of weatherbeaten lobster pots smack into a ridge of craggy boulders overgrown with briars. The "risk was' sure imminent. Thus we found our way back onto Granite Street and our chariot, a pleasant walk without even rousing up a pinch of short breath. The Cove's an Eden for Sunday Walkers.
J.P.C., Jr.
An old-fashioned sled was in the driveway of a house that had a "For Sale" on it. Maybe the owner won't part with the sled he loved as a child on Rockport's hills. Before us a sign read "Paper House" with an arrow pointing to the left, up Curtis Street. The house made of paper is today protected by the A. Richard Carlsons and Mrs. Stenman. It has much to offer.
A throwback to the past was a green painted bench meant for a passenger bus stop on Granite Street. Across the way was a wrought iron fence spaced with granite pillars topped by granite balls. Molly was having a ball. She had two felines in her range, both black, one treed, the other grounded. Fortunately for us the meeow was faster than the boxer and made the tall timber in ample time.
We were attracted by Madeline Griffin's house, cut in two so that a passageway could be had to the ocean, the number is 161 Granite. As we rounded into Story Street two sparse old ghost-like trees squatted square in the middle of the road within 20 feet, opposite Norm Pool's home. Both were painted white up to about six feet high to warn motorists at night not to smear 'em.
A plaque at Pingree Field read, "Presented by Pingree Recreative Association of Pigeon Cove in memory of Rev. Arthur Howe Pingree, lover of the young for whom he lost his life, July 10, 1915." He must have been really great. But what about that word "Recreative?" It bothers us.
Just before this point, the four-footer's sleek brown broad stern came within a whisker of being whacked by a sleeker limousine. Down came the car window as the smiling driver hollered, "I wouldn't hit that dog for anything!" A dog's best friend must be man.
Pigeon Cove is a gold mine of laughing brooks coursing over rough terrain. On Story Street we reveled in the sound and sight of one. Strollng on a way of houses on one side while on the other nature runs spiritually rough-shod. Makes you tingle that God IS in His Heaven, after all, as Browning claimed.
The Story Elementary School inspires in the Yuletide season with its windows aglow with star cutouts, on the brow of the hill, like a star-studded firmament. Maybe that's stretching the imagination a wee bit but we liked the thought.
By this time Molly had darted out of line to pay a call on Betty Bartlett, for we had reached Pigeon Hill Street. The Bearskin Neck 9 o'clock-sharp closing young merchant wasn't to home, but the boxer relished the snout probe of the period house with its white trim on the front and the second story balcony.
Wintry chills failed to dampen the ardor of young fry shooting baskets at an outdoor hoop on the property of Contractor John F. Lilja. Maybe that's why Sandy Bay has superior basketball teams year in and year out. They train to swish the ball through the twine.
We came to a sign reading, "Pri. Property, pass at your own risk." The way led up past a stack of weatherbeaten lobster pots smack into a ridge of craggy boulders overgrown with briars. The "risk was' sure imminent. Thus we found our way back onto Granite Street and our chariot, a pleasant walk without even rousing up a pinch of short breath. The Cove's an Eden for Sunday Walkers.
J.P.C., Jr.
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