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.
Monday, July 13, 2009
To Pigeon Cove's Pasture Road
It was a sparkling Sunday afternoon for a slippery walk in a Rockport town. The wife and I and boxer Molly started walking on Granite Street at the foot of Rowe Square--and bumped right into the sight of bird feeders on a tree in the John Chambers yard on Granite Street, where feathered friends were having a feed.
Up Rowe Avenue we skidded past another of those wrought iron fences with spikes and U-shaped rods. On Pasture Road's sleek slabs of ice even Molly's four feet floundered. On a door window was a sort of damask pattern reminiscent of vivid decorations of another age. 'Tis the little differences in exterior decor that give Rockport individuality that attracts the natives and near-natives as much as the brand-newcomers.
We were now on a road parallel to Granite Street and the broad open sea, before us a spectacular view of the Atlantic in quiet calm, spotted by small lobster boats. We were walking on ice, to my dismay, for rubbers fail to assure me equilibrium. I was reminded of a horrible hike along the terminal moraine of Dogtown Common that my good friends, the 'Squam mountain goats inveigled me into one frigid winter's day. They did fine, got a book out of it all; all I got was frayed pants and hush-hush bruises.
The Rockport skyline from this geographic shelf was spectacular and brought a new warmth for this town of towns. We ran into one of those real old low stone walls that bordered the farms of the past, behind which as the poet said, the embattled farmers took potshots at the retreating Redcoats.
Bob Cranston's brand new home wore Christmas decorations and a doggy likeness with lantern on a signpost. Outside was his Tina, a boxer like ours. Mollie was on a leash, though, and Tina never paid even a whisper of attention.
Old stone posts, a sailboat in a yard, a doghouse in the distance, contributed to a pastoral scene of a seaport village. Snow lined the trees to build up the effect. We were again in the heart of Pigeon Cove, which offers many a wintry walk with its lanes and coves, its byways and fetching homes. Parts were like Christmas land with snow-covered fir trees seeming eager for the gay baubles, cornucopias, candy-filled, gay silver tinsel, and colored bulbs.
Snug little homes were aglitter with snow outlines below us and we took this to be a new approach to the North Village. Here we had a rude awakening. In descendng to Granite Street we collapsed to the horizontal on a glare of ice. We must ask the Cove "mayor," the dean of selectmen, to see that his by-ways are better sanded for visiting strollers.
J.P.C., Jr.
Up Rowe Avenue we skidded past another of those wrought iron fences with spikes and U-shaped rods. On Pasture Road's sleek slabs of ice even Molly's four feet floundered. On a door window was a sort of damask pattern reminiscent of vivid decorations of another age. 'Tis the little differences in exterior decor that give Rockport individuality that attracts the natives and near-natives as much as the brand-newcomers.
We were now on a road parallel to Granite Street and the broad open sea, before us a spectacular view of the Atlantic in quiet calm, spotted by small lobster boats. We were walking on ice, to my dismay, for rubbers fail to assure me equilibrium. I was reminded of a horrible hike along the terminal moraine of Dogtown Common that my good friends, the 'Squam mountain goats inveigled me into one frigid winter's day. They did fine, got a book out of it all; all I got was frayed pants and hush-hush bruises.
The Rockport skyline from this geographic shelf was spectacular and brought a new warmth for this town of towns. We ran into one of those real old low stone walls that bordered the farms of the past, behind which as the poet said, the embattled farmers took potshots at the retreating Redcoats.
Bob Cranston's brand new home wore Christmas decorations and a doggy likeness with lantern on a signpost. Outside was his Tina, a boxer like ours. Mollie was on a leash, though, and Tina never paid even a whisper of attention.
Old stone posts, a sailboat in a yard, a doghouse in the distance, contributed to a pastoral scene of a seaport village. Snow lined the trees to build up the effect. We were again in the heart of Pigeon Cove, which offers many a wintry walk with its lanes and coves, its byways and fetching homes. Parts were like Christmas land with snow-covered fir trees seeming eager for the gay baubles, cornucopias, candy-filled, gay silver tinsel, and colored bulbs.
Snug little homes were aglitter with snow outlines below us and we took this to be a new approach to the North Village. Here we had a rude awakening. In descendng to Granite Street we collapsed to the horizontal on a glare of ice. We must ask the Cove "mayor," the dean of selectmen, to see that his by-ways are better sanded for visiting strollers.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk into Reflections
As much as we love Scotland, the wife and I are no admirers of what they call a Scotch mist. But that's what shrouded our last Sunday's walk around Rockport. Like it or no, we ventured with our four-footed female "menace." From our School Street manse we strolled up Broadway to mail the weekly note to our daughter of the Berkshires, then into Cleaves Street where delighting us was the sight of the cute coral painted door set in stone for the children's entrance to the Carnegie Public Library over which the good wife watches as one of the three trustees.
We commented on the fetching white blinds that stand out on the front side of the Charlie Spiewak home. Blinds are rare these days making them unique. We know they'll come back into fashion as soon as the cycle spins around. People are like that. Up Hale Street we slogged through the sultry damp afternoon, climbing into the olden part of the town above the sea. One house again attracted our attention as we saw one half more drab than ever while t'other half loomed up clean pure white. Will never the twain meet color-wise?
A delight to the eyes is the property of Arnold Knauth and his fellow artist-wife, Jerri Ricci. These two eager beavers have resurrected an old building into a red colored studio set back from a white picket fence. Once it was a barn. Now from it emerge beautiful paintings from the brushes of these two personages. And Hale Street is the richer for it.
Punkins on porch stoops, their fronts transformed into human visages dot this winding hillside. Our regrets are expressed to the fact that there should be vandals who destroyed stoop punkins through town last week especially that of Alice Burbank's on High Street after she even had it rigged with a mike to talk to the kiddoes come Halloween. How mean can some youths get!
We liked the corn husk draping teacher Marion Bruce's house on this street as a sort of medallion of the season. And nearby number 24, we believe, was a display of late 'mums, and also a heap of chopped cord wood all ready for the fireplace on winter evenings. It brought the wife and I back to our northern Vermont retreat where such furnace length wood is a "musty" when the thermometer falls below a frigid 30 under.
Then down past the red brick funereal telephone dial structure facing Main Street with its netted windows and its cold sign, "Private Property, No Trespassing." We had to admit though that the shrubbery was well kept up and showy.
Across Main Street into Mill Lane we sailed with our snouting boxer Molly as the front echelon, ever prowling for cats of either sex much to our dismay. In a corner cellar window of the first house she really growled at the likenesses of faces carved out of coconuts, real Halloween scarers. Down the crushed stone road that did the town justice we ambled to note mighty attractive back yard gardens still flush with Fall beauty and bird baths whose patrons again gave Molly the jitters. She has yet to get her wings.
One particular fetching garden fronted by a winsome white picket fence was that of the John Patiences. Down past the dismal cemetery of ancient stones brightened only by the neighboring functional modernity of the Peg Leg motel. And then into a secluded graveyard section bordered by wrought iron gates and a 17th century stone wall wherein the weather beaten marble slabs spelled out the names of Gotts amid which were just plain nameless stones where they must have buried folks whose modesty forbade identity.
For Molly, the infidel, graves meant nothing except a place to ramble and snout at her pleasure. She was at her height as she came into the Mill Pond area where we arrived at the land of exciting reflections, perfect to a fault. All the attractive homes along the bank were seen again in the pond in complete proportion, a mirage that held us to the spot for many minutes.
It was a grand though short walk around our town, one that you, neighbor, should leave your car to repeat and feel the alluring breath that is of Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
We commented on the fetching white blinds that stand out on the front side of the Charlie Spiewak home. Blinds are rare these days making them unique. We know they'll come back into fashion as soon as the cycle spins around. People are like that. Up Hale Street we slogged through the sultry damp afternoon, climbing into the olden part of the town above the sea. One house again attracted our attention as we saw one half more drab than ever while t'other half loomed up clean pure white. Will never the twain meet color-wise?
A delight to the eyes is the property of Arnold Knauth and his fellow artist-wife, Jerri Ricci. These two eager beavers have resurrected an old building into a red colored studio set back from a white picket fence. Once it was a barn. Now from it emerge beautiful paintings from the brushes of these two personages. And Hale Street is the richer for it.
Punkins on porch stoops, their fronts transformed into human visages dot this winding hillside. Our regrets are expressed to the fact that there should be vandals who destroyed stoop punkins through town last week especially that of Alice Burbank's on High Street after she even had it rigged with a mike to talk to the kiddoes come Halloween. How mean can some youths get!
We liked the corn husk draping teacher Marion Bruce's house on this street as a sort of medallion of the season. And nearby number 24, we believe, was a display of late 'mums, and also a heap of chopped cord wood all ready for the fireplace on winter evenings. It brought the wife and I back to our northern Vermont retreat where such furnace length wood is a "musty" when the thermometer falls below a frigid 30 under.
Then down past the red brick funereal telephone dial structure facing Main Street with its netted windows and its cold sign, "Private Property, No Trespassing." We had to admit though that the shrubbery was well kept up and showy.
Across Main Street into Mill Lane we sailed with our snouting boxer Molly as the front echelon, ever prowling for cats of either sex much to our dismay. In a corner cellar window of the first house she really growled at the likenesses of faces carved out of coconuts, real Halloween scarers. Down the crushed stone road that did the town justice we ambled to note mighty attractive back yard gardens still flush with Fall beauty and bird baths whose patrons again gave Molly the jitters. She has yet to get her wings.
One particular fetching garden fronted by a winsome white picket fence was that of the John Patiences. Down past the dismal cemetery of ancient stones brightened only by the neighboring functional modernity of the Peg Leg motel. And then into a secluded graveyard section bordered by wrought iron gates and a 17th century stone wall wherein the weather beaten marble slabs spelled out the names of Gotts amid which were just plain nameless stones where they must have buried folks whose modesty forbade identity.
For Molly, the infidel, graves meant nothing except a place to ramble and snout at her pleasure. She was at her height as she came into the Mill Pond area where we arrived at the land of exciting reflections, perfect to a fault. All the attractive homes along the bank were seen again in the pond in complete proportion, a mirage that held us to the spot for many minutes.
It was a grand though short walk around our town, one that you, neighbor, should leave your car to repeat and feel the alluring breath that is of Rockport.
J.P.C., Jr.
To a $75,000 House on Gap Head
It was a raw and cold November Sunday afternoon spiced with a drizzle. But the wife and I decided that was hardly reason enough to moor us and our boxer Molly by the fireside. Besides, we wanted to take another look at what could become a good bird sanctuary some day -- Straitsmouth Island. We weren't that ambitious to hike the whole distance so we drove...to Straitsmouth Way.
Shetland Road's entrance is marked by two huge stone posts that at one time must have introduced an estate. Massive oaks had shed foliage to provide a brilliant carpet of leaves for the strollers. An old stone dry wall rubbed elbows with a spanking new dressed-up type of stone wall. Down past Serendippity and the grand new home of Rockport's real estate dealer Alex Marr. We were invited in by Alex's brother George and sister Peggy Lawson. Spacious picture windows overlook the ocean, a short distance away. It's going to be one of the nicest in a mighty nice area.
Then into Straitsmouth Way. Here is another of Rockport's many picturesque lanes well worth a stroll. And it is another way to the sea. Molly had found ample to keep her nose busy up to this point, but the way provided her with all manner of excitement. We were again in a wooded area, whether it contained bears or rabbits, we'll never know but how that four-footed girl carried on! A thrill a second was her reward. We were fearful lest she emerge from the brush proudly toting a skunk to show us. That happened once with our beagle Nipper. He had to go into quarantine for a week. So did we.
Along the way were dog-tooth violets at least semblances of them. Aspen trees added to the road's appeal. As we left the wooded section, the sight of two unusual summer houses greeted us. One has a two-sided slanting roof almost to the ground, making the place resemble a wooden tent. It sports a piazza. Summery looking it was. The other looks like a pillbox on a rock. The location is tremendous and the clusters of geren moss on the rocks gives the neighbors a natural rock garden that needs no care from them.
We had reached our goal, the shores facing Straitsmouth Island. A stiff wind had whipped up a respectable sea. The small island was being lashed. But the gulls didn't seem to care. We had no intention of walking to the island, nor even to getting a boat and rowing there. Looking at it from the shore satisfied us all, even Molly.
Another brief walk took us to the granite shore on which naval architect William Francis Gibbs is having his Gap Head home built. The water department had opened a trench to install deep water to the $75,000 house. Gibbs owns Straitsmouth Island. He bought the island, we understand, to prevent any building on it that would obstruct his view. He bought where he did to assure him of an ocean view on three sides. It's a masterpiece of stone masonry being done by Gloucester's Faulk Bros. It wll be a Cape Ann showplace without any doubt.
We plan to put Straitsmouth Way into our reminder book to make the short but enjoyable walk again. Besides where is a better place to walk the dog than a Rockport lane? They hold mysteries for a four-footer.
J.P.C., Jr.
Shetland Road's entrance is marked by two huge stone posts that at one time must have introduced an estate. Massive oaks had shed foliage to provide a brilliant carpet of leaves for the strollers. An old stone dry wall rubbed elbows with a spanking new dressed-up type of stone wall. Down past Serendippity and the grand new home of Rockport's real estate dealer Alex Marr. We were invited in by Alex's brother George and sister Peggy Lawson. Spacious picture windows overlook the ocean, a short distance away. It's going to be one of the nicest in a mighty nice area.
Then into Straitsmouth Way. Here is another of Rockport's many picturesque lanes well worth a stroll. And it is another way to the sea. Molly had found ample to keep her nose busy up to this point, but the way provided her with all manner of excitement. We were again in a wooded area, whether it contained bears or rabbits, we'll never know but how that four-footed girl carried on! A thrill a second was her reward. We were fearful lest she emerge from the brush proudly toting a skunk to show us. That happened once with our beagle Nipper. He had to go into quarantine for a week. So did we.
Along the way were dog-tooth violets at least semblances of them. Aspen trees added to the road's appeal. As we left the wooded section, the sight of two unusual summer houses greeted us. One has a two-sided slanting roof almost to the ground, making the place resemble a wooden tent. It sports a piazza. Summery looking it was. The other looks like a pillbox on a rock. The location is tremendous and the clusters of geren moss on the rocks gives the neighbors a natural rock garden that needs no care from them.
We had reached our goal, the shores facing Straitsmouth Island. A stiff wind had whipped up a respectable sea. The small island was being lashed. But the gulls didn't seem to care. We had no intention of walking to the island, nor even to getting a boat and rowing there. Looking at it from the shore satisfied us all, even Molly.
Another brief walk took us to the granite shore on which naval architect William Francis Gibbs is having his Gap Head home built. The water department had opened a trench to install deep water to the $75,000 house. Gibbs owns Straitsmouth Island. He bought the island, we understand, to prevent any building on it that would obstruct his view. He bought where he did to assure him of an ocean view on three sides. It's a masterpiece of stone masonry being done by Gloucester's Faulk Bros. It wll be a Cape Ann showplace without any doubt.
We plan to put Straitsmouth Way into our reminder book to make the short but enjoyable walk again. Besides where is a better place to walk the dog than a Rockport lane? They hold mysteries for a four-footer.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Pre-Election ay Walk to Beach Street
The Sunday before an election, national or otherwise, is a busy one in our game, what with making our vote tabulation forms, so the wife and I and our adopted woofer shortened our weekly walk. The boss decided to stay in the center of Rockport town. From School Street we headed toward the main stem with the four-footer under control by the leash. We envied a proud mother with two attractive young daughters jumping off the church's granite wall, all of two feet, but to them a bonafide dare, just as did our youngsters in the dim past. It has always amused us to see how crookedly arranged are these granite slabs that make the low wall, as if they had become a wee bit tipsy with time.
Main Street traffic was surprisingly heavy this brilliant sunny Sunday. Above us was bright sun, haunted by lowery clouds split by a screaming jet. Even the heavens lack the peace of yesterday. Political signs blazed forth from shop windows, Republican and Democrat, but none for Prohibition or Socialist-Labor candidates, who stay incognito but for their last names.
We came to the grandiose granite steps of Detective Ralph Piper's Main Street possession, a fabulous stairway and wall that has impressed Rockport, native and otherwise. It is a gorgeous piece of work that would do credit to a royal mansion. Clustered in front of the waiting station, "Brud" Curtis' emporium, were bikes and more bikes, his and her'n, with the teenagers yakking a mile a minute about school, girls and boys and all other subjects dear to their hearts. But not a word about the nation's politics. They leave that talk-talk to the mossbacks, like us. We saw where Brud is pushing his store into the ocean ready to handle an enlarging trade for the summer. It started as a hole in the wall.
On Beach Street, we were again delighted to see that house with the old cellar window of eight minute panes and the cerulean blue cellar door, set perfectly as a frontispiece of the Cape's most modern motel and its characteristic gull perched on the eaves. The comfy green wooden benches facing Front Beach had nary a customer this ideal Fall day. Instead along came a dyed-in-the-wool Rockporter headgeared for a football scrimmage, come what may. The youngster looked the part to a "T-formation."
Then our volcanic boxer Mollie came into her element, for we had entered Mill Brook Meadow, sold by jeweler Joe Thibeault at cost to the Garden Club and by it given to the town of Rockport. Barrels of room for her to scoot after birds she luckily could never catch, a running brook for her to wade in and snout for what she could find. And the rustling sigh and moaning of weeping willows to hold us enthralled. The willows weren't the only weepers in Sandy Bay. The town is still rock-ribbed GOP, you know.
From there through olden Smith Street, a way of comfortable sturdy old homes, all neatly kept up. 'Tis a part of town which we always love to visit for we feel we are again walking through a section that was nearer to what the village was in the past. Here was the old baker shop where Post Office custodian Eben Knowlton's ancestors operated a bakery. Today the building is one for storage. For us, it had rich memories.
A beautiful yellow-leaved maple, a background of the spire of the Finnish church greeting us with a touch of old Europe, a battalion of more weeping willows as we headed away from this dead-end street toward our own home lane. Brief as it was, the three of us breathed the better for this walk. Try it sometime for the better heart and leave the drugs on the bathroom shelf for a change.
J.P.C., Jr.
Main Street traffic was surprisingly heavy this brilliant sunny Sunday. Above us was bright sun, haunted by lowery clouds split by a screaming jet. Even the heavens lack the peace of yesterday. Political signs blazed forth from shop windows, Republican and Democrat, but none for Prohibition or Socialist-Labor candidates, who stay incognito but for their last names.
We came to the grandiose granite steps of Detective Ralph Piper's Main Street possession, a fabulous stairway and wall that has impressed Rockport, native and otherwise. It is a gorgeous piece of work that would do credit to a royal mansion. Clustered in front of the waiting station, "Brud" Curtis' emporium, were bikes and more bikes, his and her'n, with the teenagers yakking a mile a minute about school, girls and boys and all other subjects dear to their hearts. But not a word about the nation's politics. They leave that talk-talk to the mossbacks, like us. We saw where Brud is pushing his store into the ocean ready to handle an enlarging trade for the summer. It started as a hole in the wall.
On Beach Street, we were again delighted to see that house with the old cellar window of eight minute panes and the cerulean blue cellar door, set perfectly as a frontispiece of the Cape's most modern motel and its characteristic gull perched on the eaves. The comfy green wooden benches facing Front Beach had nary a customer this ideal Fall day. Instead along came a dyed-in-the-wool Rockporter headgeared for a football scrimmage, come what may. The youngster looked the part to a "T-formation."
Then our volcanic boxer Mollie came into her element, for we had entered Mill Brook Meadow, sold by jeweler Joe Thibeault at cost to the Garden Club and by it given to the town of Rockport. Barrels of room for her to scoot after birds she luckily could never catch, a running brook for her to wade in and snout for what she could find. And the rustling sigh and moaning of weeping willows to hold us enthralled. The willows weren't the only weepers in Sandy Bay. The town is still rock-ribbed GOP, you know.
From there through olden Smith Street, a way of comfortable sturdy old homes, all neatly kept up. 'Tis a part of town which we always love to visit for we feel we are again walking through a section that was nearer to what the village was in the past. Here was the old baker shop where Post Office custodian Eben Knowlton's ancestors operated a bakery. Today the building is one for storage. For us, it had rich memories.
A beautiful yellow-leaved maple, a background of the spire of the Finnish church greeting us with a touch of old Europe, a battalion of more weeping willows as we headed away from this dead-end street toward our own home lane. Brief as it was, the three of us breathed the better for this walk. Try it sometime for the better heart and leave the drugs on the bathroom shelf for a change.
J.P.C., Jr.
To the Headlands and Old Garden Beach
Browsing on foot in Rockport of a Sunday can be rewarding in many ways. At least the wife and I find it so, and we think the four-footer is of the same opinion. With a favored sister, also a bird-watcher, we four headed down Broadway toward the shore and within a city block bumped into the hustling McMasters finishing their daily 10-mile stroll (not five-mile as we were burringly corrected by the lord and master) so as to get home in time for the World Serious game on which Lady McMasters delights.
Ahead, the birder marveled at the mob on T Wharf, but to us it was commonplace. What day-tripper can resist such a view of deep blue water and the myriad of boats in that little cove that the natives insist on calling a harbor. We were surrounded by leaves and more leaves in yards, on lawns, cluttering the gutters, but breathing the spirit of Fall. We happen to be one of those rustic eccentrics who lives to rake and then burn leaves. To us, the odor is rich. No mulch for this scribe.
All along this walk, we were impressed by the beauty of the abundant Fall asters. All summer long, that's no more than an ungainly weed but when the summer flowers are withered, up pops this soft blue gayety to enrich the landscape. Nature sure plans better than man.
Up Mount Pleasant and into Atlantic Avenue skirting the cove, again the bird watcher was stunned at the glory of the Frostbite boats in varicolored sails readying for a Sunday spurt in the bay. So were we though we had viewed it many times. As pacific as the stroll had been, we knew there had to be an eruption, dog-wise, and sure enough it exploded when in a passing car was Molly's kid brother. After all, the old gal hadn't seen him for ages, so she took off on all four dog-power to catch that bus and greet brother rightfully. But horsepower beat dog power.
On the avenue, we were thrilled by the beautiful garden of the Robbins house where petunias, marigolds, dwarf dahlias, snapdragons, and even roses still deified the season. Arriving on the Headlands, a carved fish for a weathervane on the Jack Woodard house struck us as an impressive nautical touch for a prominent Jack Tar out of Sandy Bay Yacht Club. From here we could see that Sandy Bay was alive with Sunday traffic. We asked ourselves when is Rockport going to have a sea-going traffic cop? To us, it's about time.
We had the road all to ourselves. It was apparent that everyone and his grandmother was glued to the TV watching a big game. Ahead of us was the former Blunt estate on Marmion Way, born a half century ago with a real cobblestone wall and a garage built of the same rock. Its firm solid beauty could last through the ages. Here's where the wife reminisced of Rockport's past in this area; of the fact that in her youth there was no dwelling from South Street to Old Garden Beach. And that her father used to walk from his Mount Pleasant Street ancestral home through Cove Hill Lane to Old Garden Beach summers at early morning for a quick swim before hastening to Boston and work. In fact, there was a board walk to the beach, she said.
But Molly wasn't listening. She was busy tearing up the turf in somebody's yard, much to our distress. 'Tis our fear that the selectmen will yet hear of her depredations. Besides the day, we enjoyed several new homes being built in the area as well as nostalgic big pumkins on door stoops.
J.P.C., Jr.
Ahead, the birder marveled at the mob on T Wharf, but to us it was commonplace. What day-tripper can resist such a view of deep blue water and the myriad of boats in that little cove that the natives insist on calling a harbor. We were surrounded by leaves and more leaves in yards, on lawns, cluttering the gutters, but breathing the spirit of Fall. We happen to be one of those rustic eccentrics who lives to rake and then burn leaves. To us, the odor is rich. No mulch for this scribe.
All along this walk, we were impressed by the beauty of the abundant Fall asters. All summer long, that's no more than an ungainly weed but when the summer flowers are withered, up pops this soft blue gayety to enrich the landscape. Nature sure plans better than man.
Up Mount Pleasant and into Atlantic Avenue skirting the cove, again the bird watcher was stunned at the glory of the Frostbite boats in varicolored sails readying for a Sunday spurt in the bay. So were we though we had viewed it many times. As pacific as the stroll had been, we knew there had to be an eruption, dog-wise, and sure enough it exploded when in a passing car was Molly's kid brother. After all, the old gal hadn't seen him for ages, so she took off on all four dog-power to catch that bus and greet brother rightfully. But horsepower beat dog power.
On the avenue, we were thrilled by the beautiful garden of the Robbins house where petunias, marigolds, dwarf dahlias, snapdragons, and even roses still deified the season. Arriving on the Headlands, a carved fish for a weathervane on the Jack Woodard house struck us as an impressive nautical touch for a prominent Jack Tar out of Sandy Bay Yacht Club. From here we could see that Sandy Bay was alive with Sunday traffic. We asked ourselves when is Rockport going to have a sea-going traffic cop? To us, it's about time.
We had the road all to ourselves. It was apparent that everyone and his grandmother was glued to the TV watching a big game. Ahead of us was the former Blunt estate on Marmion Way, born a half century ago with a real cobblestone wall and a garage built of the same rock. Its firm solid beauty could last through the ages. Here's where the wife reminisced of Rockport's past in this area; of the fact that in her youth there was no dwelling from South Street to Old Garden Beach. And that her father used to walk from his Mount Pleasant Street ancestral home through Cove Hill Lane to Old Garden Beach summers at early morning for a quick swim before hastening to Boston and work. In fact, there was a board walk to the beach, she said.
But Molly wasn't listening. She was busy tearing up the turf in somebody's yard, much to our distress. 'Tis our fear that the selectmen will yet hear of her depredations. Besides the day, we enjoyed several new homes being built in the area as well as nostalgic big pumkins on door stoops.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk to Curtis Street
The combination of a strained ankle and lady dogs hardly blend for a comfortable Sunday stroll, but the wife and I and our buxom boxer took the chance by settling on mostly riding and a minimum of ambling in Rockport. Of course, our neighbor friends and long distance hikers, the Archie McMasters would smilingly scoff , in their verra Scotch brogue, "Isn't that how you always do it?" This hardy couple think nothing of covering five miles without accepting a lift.
The ankle strain came to me unwanted thanks to our Molly's careless manner of leaving her chewed bones all over the yard. This one I located while leaf-raking, and for a solid week, my pity for cripples leaped markedly.
On the ride to Pigeon Cove, Granite Street produced the first lady dog to spy Molly's massive cranium, and a prolonged staccato of woofs enlivened the Sabbath calm. We ignored it, enjoying the rich expanse of deep blue sunlit water in the Bay. We paid no attention to the stares of irked townies whose joy at collecting leaves from their front lawns was so rudely interrupted. Maybe we ought to buy a muffler for the family pet.
Mulch gatherers to the wind'ard, we overtook folks who find other ways than walking to bask in the outdoor life. A complete family was on wheels, two apiece in this case, filled knapsacks on their backs, pedaling along Rockport's scenic shore drive. That's a great way to really see the town.
We had to stop on the way because of the glorious sight of Louis Mappelli's landscaping at 283 Granite Street. In this country from Italy for 38 years, he has built up his place so that even at this late season, a bower of marigolds, begonias, mums, and zinnias fairly shone. His long-time hobby gives pleasure to everyone.
Once on foot, we stayed that way for at least a half hour as we browsed the neighborhood, despite the aching ankle. Another female four-footer at this point was no help as we had to gaff our own. Up Curtis Street, we collided with a path that soon took us to a sort of dank swamp featured by giant fronds all of 10 feet high, a mass of them. For a background were weeping willows. The wife thought of the scene as from a Japanese painting.
To the left was a shallow quarry bounded by a sharp hewn rock, yet with a gentle aspect to it all. The street itself had given no promise of this awesomeness. The wife and I ventured along the rim of this silent quarry even though the swelled leg bone was howling in protest. After all, Covers don't hot-top these quarry paths. We came upon a huge green background of trees and brush. It was worth the agony. And along the way were bright blue asters (I think).
A profusion of scrub pines sloped over the quarry's edge along its entire rim. To us, it seemed the ideal setting for a picnic right into the winter snows. A picnic for folks who enjoy nature's artistry and the chirping of birds and who have the decency of disposing of their waste paper and garbage in the proper places.
For background sound we had the whiz and whirr of outboard motors in Sandy Bay, the whish and buzzing of motors on the highway, unseen though nearby, and overhead, a plane or two, a deafening jet boasting of its future. We had hardly emerged from this idyllic setting when Molly fresh from snouting out strange smells in the wilderness, found her heart's desire, the hated cat. Yup, she zoomed on all four pedals, but where is there the dog that can ever overtake a feline? We breathed a sigh of relief as the School Street terror, tongue hitting the dirt, gave up the chase and from then on humbly followed us to the car and home. Even on one and one-half legs, this feller loved the short stroll. It made the brunch taste better.
J.P.C., Jr.
The ankle strain came to me unwanted thanks to our Molly's careless manner of leaving her chewed bones all over the yard. This one I located while leaf-raking, and for a solid week, my pity for cripples leaped markedly.
On the ride to Pigeon Cove, Granite Street produced the first lady dog to spy Molly's massive cranium, and a prolonged staccato of woofs enlivened the Sabbath calm. We ignored it, enjoying the rich expanse of deep blue sunlit water in the Bay. We paid no attention to the stares of irked townies whose joy at collecting leaves from their front lawns was so rudely interrupted. Maybe we ought to buy a muffler for the family pet.
Mulch gatherers to the wind'ard, we overtook folks who find other ways than walking to bask in the outdoor life. A complete family was on wheels, two apiece in this case, filled knapsacks on their backs, pedaling along Rockport's scenic shore drive. That's a great way to really see the town.
We had to stop on the way because of the glorious sight of Louis Mappelli's landscaping at 283 Granite Street. In this country from Italy for 38 years, he has built up his place so that even at this late season, a bower of marigolds, begonias, mums, and zinnias fairly shone. His long-time hobby gives pleasure to everyone.
Once on foot, we stayed that way for at least a half hour as we browsed the neighborhood, despite the aching ankle. Another female four-footer at this point was no help as we had to gaff our own. Up Curtis Street, we collided with a path that soon took us to a sort of dank swamp featured by giant fronds all of 10 feet high, a mass of them. For a background were weeping willows. The wife thought of the scene as from a Japanese painting.
To the left was a shallow quarry bounded by a sharp hewn rock, yet with a gentle aspect to it all. The street itself had given no promise of this awesomeness. The wife and I ventured along the rim of this silent quarry even though the swelled leg bone was howling in protest. After all, Covers don't hot-top these quarry paths. We came upon a huge green background of trees and brush. It was worth the agony. And along the way were bright blue asters (I think).
A profusion of scrub pines sloped over the quarry's edge along its entire rim. To us, it seemed the ideal setting for a picnic right into the winter snows. A picnic for folks who enjoy nature's artistry and the chirping of birds and who have the decency of disposing of their waste paper and garbage in the proper places.
For background sound we had the whiz and whirr of outboard motors in Sandy Bay, the whish and buzzing of motors on the highway, unseen though nearby, and overhead, a plane or two, a deafening jet boasting of its future. We had hardly emerged from this idyllic setting when Molly fresh from snouting out strange smells in the wilderness, found her heart's desire, the hated cat. Yup, she zoomed on all four pedals, but where is there the dog that can ever overtake a feline? We breathed a sigh of relief as the School Street terror, tongue hitting the dirt, gave up the chase and from then on humbly followed us to the car and home. Even on one and one-half legs, this feller loved the short stroll. It made the brunch taste better.
J.P.C., Jr.
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