It was a walk into summer-time in a winter month. The dateline read a Sunday in the last of November, but the thermometer plainly read in the high 60's, shirt sleeve clime here in Rockport town, and that's how the male was dressed. The good wife was dressed accordingly, and Molly sported her accustomed skintight garb. We were at peace with the world.
We sneaked a gas buggy ride up South Street to Briarstone Road , where we descended to stroll down the road to the ocean, only to bump up against a beautiful shepherd dog hid behind a startling white picket fence. That gave our four-footed monster a chance to bellow at fever pitch with the shepherd yawking just as feverishly, but the fence was high enough to thwart both. Whether they were swapping the Indian love call or hymns of hate we'll never know. With guilty feelings, we just kept a-going and finally our Molly surrendered and galloped up to us.
Hardly was that uproar a thing of the past but what we came upon a second walloping woofer, thist time on the Roger W. Howard estate. But all our 65-pound pooch did was to snub the home dog.
It is a street of beautiful homes, the kind that make our assessors glow and fellow townsmen proud. It is a street that charms visitors with its picturesque accents like the rustic electic lamp fronting Ernest Parsons' property, and a gateway of two huge anchors held up by huge timbers at the end of a street rushing into the sea.
Popping all around us were guns of hunters eager to crush small animal life. We hoped their ammo would go sour. We are among the weaklings who would like to see wildlife roam in safety. Then up through the lush greenery of the Locke Anderson estate, in through alleys trying to find an exit to pass a wintry cordwood pile and onto Marmion Way.
Past a home where the folks think enough of their kiddoes to have nailed crude boards at short intervals on a tree so the young Americans could climb into a tree house. Well we know how a tree can be a great factor in character building for the next generation. We love those people.
We came across an artesian well being drilled into the expansive estate once owned by the Radcliffes, a summer tourist home, overlooking the broad Atlantic. A short distance away was a trailer off the wheels, a type of home that worries town planners hereabouts. In the heavens, two jets were streaking heavy white scars, a sight that never loses its fascination for us.
Again Molly came upon a challenger protesting invasion. This time, we thought it had to be a "she" and that meant a hassle, so out came the leash. Oh, why can't these femmes get together?
But this "she" didn't quiver at the sight of Molly. It was a wee snip of a black-headed, white-bodied bird that peeped right back at our yapping "gal" on the beach, as the big round sun set a brilliant yellow in back of us all.
Traffic was heavy as we spotted Post Office custodian Eben Knowlton and others cruising the shore line, plastered with myriads of cat-o-nine-tails in the fens.
Yes, it was a rewarding stroll that brought reveries to us, the wife and I, and a mud-wallowing delight to our mischievous four footer. Why not try it some time, folks?
J.P.C., Jr.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
A Walk With A Lady
Ever own a boxer? Consider well the step if you're thinking of it. They grow on you more than any other four-legged friend of man. They'll run your home -- and run you out of all your fond diggin's, such as that easy chair in the parlor where you could always snooze and snore in comfort.
Such a gal is Molly. But we have found a way to regain that favored chair. Just hit the road with her. She's a proud lady who loves to canter, trot, and even more, streak through quiet street and backyards, ever in pursuit of a spitting, squealing tabby.
The wife was gadding somewhere the other night. The stub-tailed canine lady had taken over the easy chair and her so-called master had to squat on the floor, a miserable arrangement that could only be settled by the master donning the topcoat, and wheedling the "moose" into the great outdoors.
Molly's a born stroller. It was a joyous mild Fall late afternoon, nearing twilight. We sauntered up School Street into Pleasant Street. An over-the-shoulder look revealed one of the most spectacular sunsets that has ever blessed us. We don't doubt other locales of the Commonwealth were graced with the same brilliant dip of the earth's savior, but we in Rockport can't help but feel that we provide the best props for the sun and its dipping.
Impressive to us is the extensive amount of rich green moss on the town's trees this year. We noted this on the glorious elms on School near Pleasant Street. We are told that it is most unusual this year. Nope, you can't blame the atomic experiments this time. The power is even much greater. Dame Nature is the guilty babe.
From the burnished browns of Autumn, our good eye spotted a fading touch of summer in a spacious yard. Summer chairs were still outdoors in a School Street yard, indicating that these good folks were still hanging on the season's delights.
By this time, the fleet-footed animal was out of sight on a sniffing expedition through the backyards of our good neighbors. Out of the blue came a scream and a squeal. Author of the squeal was a frantic tabby that had little use for a canine challenge of her right to peaceful existence. The scream was from her lady owner who had less use for any nasty invader of her tabby's privacy.
We imagined a rap on the door by the dog officer with an ominous official complaint. We had to forget the sunset and salvage a dog-goned situation. But a few kind words worked wonders and again we were on the road --intact.
Down the trail on Pleasant Street the sight of two parked bicycles beside a picket fence took us back to the days when our offspring were still bike-riding children. Parents should make the most of those days. They pass all too quickly. They really are among the best years in lives. Adult children are admirable, but they can never come up to the joy quotient derived from the bike age. Those two-wheelers really hit us on this stroll.
The "hearts and flowers" moisture on our bi-focals was rapidly dried by the sudden realization that the boxer was strutting in the middle of the road without thought of cars. After all, she possessed no armored rear. Her chassis was far from dent proof. And her pedigree was no protection. So we descended to the factual with a "Come, Molly, come, Molly--get out of the road!"
The friendly sight of corn husks on front doors, a pleasant symbol of Fall, the encroachment of huge trees on sidewalks, the massive colection of fallen leaves on lawns, all added to the approach of winter on Rockport's Pleasant Street. It was a restful short walk all of you should take to rescue you from that pressure.
We came upon Allan MacLean, who is studying for the Congregational ministry. He has a small English car and had just got belted in the rear on the drive home along Route 128. Luckily he was not hurt. His mother is a Rockport school teacher.
But while his mother, a high school classmate of ours, and the future clergy were shooting the breeze along came a mean-looking police dog to frisk our Molly from stem to stern. Now as master we have no qualms about any canine giving our four-footed darling a sniff as long as the fantail keeps a-bobbing, but when there's a sharp growl from the engine-room, we begin to get worried.
As it happened, this was not the case. The copper canine was friendly. The walk ended as beautifully as it had begun.
Why shouldn't it? It was a walk with a lady.
J.P.C., Jr.
Such a gal is Molly. But we have found a way to regain that favored chair. Just hit the road with her. She's a proud lady who loves to canter, trot, and even more, streak through quiet street and backyards, ever in pursuit of a spitting, squealing tabby.
The wife was gadding somewhere the other night. The stub-tailed canine lady had taken over the easy chair and her so-called master had to squat on the floor, a miserable arrangement that could only be settled by the master donning the topcoat, and wheedling the "moose" into the great outdoors.
Molly's a born stroller. It was a joyous mild Fall late afternoon, nearing twilight. We sauntered up School Street into Pleasant Street. An over-the-shoulder look revealed one of the most spectacular sunsets that has ever blessed us. We don't doubt other locales of the Commonwealth were graced with the same brilliant dip of the earth's savior, but we in Rockport can't help but feel that we provide the best props for the sun and its dipping.
Impressive to us is the extensive amount of rich green moss on the town's trees this year. We noted this on the glorious elms on School near Pleasant Street. We are told that it is most unusual this year. Nope, you can't blame the atomic experiments this time. The power is even much greater. Dame Nature is the guilty babe.
From the burnished browns of Autumn, our good eye spotted a fading touch of summer in a spacious yard. Summer chairs were still outdoors in a School Street yard, indicating that these good folks were still hanging on the season's delights.
By this time, the fleet-footed animal was out of sight on a sniffing expedition through the backyards of our good neighbors. Out of the blue came a scream and a squeal. Author of the squeal was a frantic tabby that had little use for a canine challenge of her right to peaceful existence. The scream was from her lady owner who had less use for any nasty invader of her tabby's privacy.
We imagined a rap on the door by the dog officer with an ominous official complaint. We had to forget the sunset and salvage a dog-goned situation. But a few kind words worked wonders and again we were on the road --intact.
Down the trail on Pleasant Street the sight of two parked bicycles beside a picket fence took us back to the days when our offspring were still bike-riding children. Parents should make the most of those days. They pass all too quickly. They really are among the best years in lives. Adult children are admirable, but they can never come up to the joy quotient derived from the bike age. Those two-wheelers really hit us on this stroll.
The "hearts and flowers" moisture on our bi-focals was rapidly dried by the sudden realization that the boxer was strutting in the middle of the road without thought of cars. After all, she possessed no armored rear. Her chassis was far from dent proof. And her pedigree was no protection. So we descended to the factual with a "Come, Molly, come, Molly--get out of the road!"
The friendly sight of corn husks on front doors, a pleasant symbol of Fall, the encroachment of huge trees on sidewalks, the massive colection of fallen leaves on lawns, all added to the approach of winter on Rockport's Pleasant Street. It was a restful short walk all of you should take to rescue you from that pressure.
We came upon Allan MacLean, who is studying for the Congregational ministry. He has a small English car and had just got belted in the rear on the drive home along Route 128. Luckily he was not hurt. His mother is a Rockport school teacher.
But while his mother, a high school classmate of ours, and the future clergy were shooting the breeze along came a mean-looking police dog to frisk our Molly from stem to stern. Now as master we have no qualms about any canine giving our four-footed darling a sniff as long as the fantail keeps a-bobbing, but when there's a sharp growl from the engine-room, we begin to get worried.
As it happened, this was not the case. The copper canine was friendly. The walk ended as beautifully as it had begun.
Why shouldn't it? It was a walk with a lady.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk in Two Lanes
The wife and I ambled with the proud boxer in the lead. The walk covered no more than a mile and a half; we recommend it for a cure of the blues. It takes in a delightful section of old Rockport, the kind we hope that the artists and native can save from modernity.
Up School Street we noted that Emery Drolet was flying the flag of the country from his front door. Emery's new party boat-to-be is several planks nearer launching, we noted in his backyard.
Fences catch the wife's eye. This time it was several on High Street, freshly painted. The brush on a fence improves the property and emphasizes the type. In one compact neighborhood there was variety: white pickets and right alongside, wrought-iron with tall granite posts. Unchanged are these from deep in the 19th century.
Towering fall-splattered maples in the yard of Dr. Albert C. Thomas on High Street greeted us with the freshness of a changing season. No wonder they say Rockport's wealth is in her treees.
We noted for the first time two small, impressive stone lions on the front stoop of Nettie Fears' home, and a simple iron ring set in the sidewalk curving in front of Skipper Walter Church's property, a ring inserted years ago to hitch horses whose master was a-calling.
And here's where usually sharp-eyed Molly was fooled. On the Church's lawn were miniature toy deer. Leash or no leash, Molly made one leap, only to find them to be on painted wood--nothing more. Molly was in a playing mood but the "Bambi's" weren't.
Just beyond, the wife decided to probe an un-named lane. Noting it was aster-bowered on both sides, we came to the conclusion it must be Aster Lane. And so it will be to us.
It is a one-man path between rows of trees, glorified as the sun's rays filter down through the leaves. It looked like a great spot for a canvas. There was even a derelict one-room shack off to one side that offered all manner of interpretation. And in season for the extra hungry, there was a profusion of raspberry bushes. Sumac also crowned the path.
Above us loomed the remains of what once must have been the adventurous retreat for many a youngster -- a tree house. The builders by now are probably grown up and scattered the breadth of the land. The tree and house planks stay as their monument.
The lane had its ending on Pleasant Street where we noted young Johnny Peters and his friend David Fine enjoying exploration of a gravel pile on their bicycling around town.
Thence into another lane, this time one with a name. Spring Lane shoots from Pleasant Street to end at Summer Street Extension. It was carpeted with acorns. It wound up past Dick Ryan's home, with outboard motorboat in the yard, the lane narrowing into a one-way, two-footer overgrown with riotous Fall foliage and lined with a 17th century stone wall.
Suddenly we emerged in the backyard of friend Lewis Poole, the tall sparse Veteran of World War I who used to lead the Memorial Day parades when we first reported Rockport's 20 years ago.
At Ernie Niemi's home were three filled milk bottles on the stoop. Only five hours later we needed Ernie in a hurry: the oil heater had gone democratic on us. And plug or no plug, Ernie, who had arrived home just moments before, came down at once and restored warmth to the household. Aren't small towns just wonderful!
From there down Prospect Street onto South Street, the most startling sight was the grim stump of an elm in front of the old Josh Poole house at Number 38. That elm towered over 100 feet in the air. It was a landmark that had to be felled this year because of the Dutch elm disease. Nature gives and takes.
J.P.C., Jr.
Up School Street we noted that Emery Drolet was flying the flag of the country from his front door. Emery's new party boat-to-be is several planks nearer launching, we noted in his backyard.
Fences catch the wife's eye. This time it was several on High Street, freshly painted. The brush on a fence improves the property and emphasizes the type. In one compact neighborhood there was variety: white pickets and right alongside, wrought-iron with tall granite posts. Unchanged are these from deep in the 19th century.
Towering fall-splattered maples in the yard of Dr. Albert C. Thomas on High Street greeted us with the freshness of a changing season. No wonder they say Rockport's wealth is in her treees.
We noted for the first time two small, impressive stone lions on the front stoop of Nettie Fears' home, and a simple iron ring set in the sidewalk curving in front of Skipper Walter Church's property, a ring inserted years ago to hitch horses whose master was a-calling.
And here's where usually sharp-eyed Molly was fooled. On the Church's lawn were miniature toy deer. Leash or no leash, Molly made one leap, only to find them to be on painted wood--nothing more. Molly was in a playing mood but the "Bambi's" weren't.
Just beyond, the wife decided to probe an un-named lane. Noting it was aster-bowered on both sides, we came to the conclusion it must be Aster Lane. And so it will be to us.
It is a one-man path between rows of trees, glorified as the sun's rays filter down through the leaves. It looked like a great spot for a canvas. There was even a derelict one-room shack off to one side that offered all manner of interpretation. And in season for the extra hungry, there was a profusion of raspberry bushes. Sumac also crowned the path.
Above us loomed the remains of what once must have been the adventurous retreat for many a youngster -- a tree house. The builders by now are probably grown up and scattered the breadth of the land. The tree and house planks stay as their monument.
The lane had its ending on Pleasant Street where we noted young Johnny Peters and his friend David Fine enjoying exploration of a gravel pile on their bicycling around town.
Thence into another lane, this time one with a name. Spring Lane shoots from Pleasant Street to end at Summer Street Extension. It was carpeted with acorns. It wound up past Dick Ryan's home, with outboard motorboat in the yard, the lane narrowing into a one-way, two-footer overgrown with riotous Fall foliage and lined with a 17th century stone wall.
Suddenly we emerged in the backyard of friend Lewis Poole, the tall sparse Veteran of World War I who used to lead the Memorial Day parades when we first reported Rockport's 20 years ago.
At Ernie Niemi's home were three filled milk bottles on the stoop. Only five hours later we needed Ernie in a hurry: the oil heater had gone democratic on us. And plug or no plug, Ernie, who had arrived home just moments before, came down at once and restored warmth to the household. Aren't small towns just wonderful!
From there down Prospect Street onto South Street, the most startling sight was the grim stump of an elm in front of the old Josh Poole house at Number 38. That elm towered over 100 feet in the air. It was a landmark that had to be felled this year because of the Dutch elm disease. Nature gives and takes.
J.P.C., Jr.
Around the Block
Just a stroll around the block in Rockport had to suffice Sunday afternoon due to a late engagement for the wife and myself. Looking across to the school yard with the parking lot area fence removed for the summer, we noted belatedly that the selectmen did a nice job in protecting young swingers and jungle gym fans from the cars.
The wife pointed out beautiful hydrangeas in fulsome white clusters that add so much to the Fall scene. Rockport is blessed with a generous display of hydrangeas in many a yard. The wife saw to it we had a complete census on who was who in this pampering of the foliage.
Took a look into Emery Drolet's yard to see how the new lobster and party boat was coming along. Emery is so busy at sea during the summer, the neighborhood boat had to be neglected. But it is pretty well planked. And it's looking real big!
Up the road on School Street, Minister Edmund W. Nutting and his folks were completing their noon repast out in the open. More and more of America quit their dining rooms on summer days to sit on benches at rough-hewn tables out in the yard. And why not?
Down Pleasant Street to find it continues to live up to its name in every respect with green carpeted yards sliding away back into what seem like cool depths. Certainly it stands out as one of our finest streets for homes.
Ths we came upon one of the nicest gardens in town, that of Harold Dann who for years was a police sergeant in Providence, R.I. Japanese lanterns, a flower that looks like exactly what it is called, featured the natural layout of flowers in rock garden settings.
And across the street on the Goddard premises, for years the Dodge homestead, a ginkgo tree soared heavenward, not too common a sight in this clime. Nester Peterson has one down in Indian Village. That Pleasant Street tree has been there close to a half century.
Across the main drag, Mount Pleasant Street, to pass down through Cove Hill Lane, a picturesque thoroughfare if ever we saw one. A big catalpa tree in Helen Mackay's yard, a solid powerful looking stone wall, the base of the old Cove Hill School, where many of earlier Rockport learned their three R's. These greet the walker at the start to encourage him to continue on down through the winding narrow path.
Huge portions of canvas hang on lines in Duffy Blatchford's yards, presumablly those of his pride and joy, the Manchester I-class boat, Peggy, which is an often-time winner in the Sandy Bay Yacht Club weekend races.
Cove Hill Lane, a short cut for many bent on bathing at Old Garden beach. A lane that leads on to Clark Avenue, whose most prominent resident these days is ornithologist John Kieran.
Sandy Bay holds much of joy for the one who would leave his car by the side of the road and refind the town through walking.
J.P.C., Jr.
The wife pointed out beautiful hydrangeas in fulsome white clusters that add so much to the Fall scene. Rockport is blessed with a generous display of hydrangeas in many a yard. The wife saw to it we had a complete census on who was who in this pampering of the foliage.
Took a look into Emery Drolet's yard to see how the new lobster and party boat was coming along. Emery is so busy at sea during the summer, the neighborhood boat had to be neglected. But it is pretty well planked. And it's looking real big!
Up the road on School Street, Minister Edmund W. Nutting and his folks were completing their noon repast out in the open. More and more of America quit their dining rooms on summer days to sit on benches at rough-hewn tables out in the yard. And why not?
Down Pleasant Street to find it continues to live up to its name in every respect with green carpeted yards sliding away back into what seem like cool depths. Certainly it stands out as one of our finest streets for homes.
Ths we came upon one of the nicest gardens in town, that of Harold Dann who for years was a police sergeant in Providence, R.I. Japanese lanterns, a flower that looks like exactly what it is called, featured the natural layout of flowers in rock garden settings.
And across the street on the Goddard premises, for years the Dodge homestead, a ginkgo tree soared heavenward, not too common a sight in this clime. Nester Peterson has one down in Indian Village. That Pleasant Street tree has been there close to a half century.
Across the main drag, Mount Pleasant Street, to pass down through Cove Hill Lane, a picturesque thoroughfare if ever we saw one. A big catalpa tree in Helen Mackay's yard, a solid powerful looking stone wall, the base of the old Cove Hill School, where many of earlier Rockport learned their three R's. These greet the walker at the start to encourage him to continue on down through the winding narrow path.
Huge portions of canvas hang on lines in Duffy Blatchford's yards, presumablly those of his pride and joy, the Manchester I-class boat, Peggy, which is an often-time winner in the Sandy Bay Yacht Club weekend races.
Cove Hill Lane, a short cut for many bent on bathing at Old Garden beach. A lane that leads on to Clark Avenue, whose most prominent resident these days is ornithologist John Kieran.
Sandy Bay holds much of joy for the one who would leave his car by the side of the road and refind the town through walking.
J.P.C., Jr.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Winter Walk to the Mill Pond
It was so bitter cold in Rockport that the graphite froze before it finished the words on the notepaper, not to mention petrified finger tips trying to manipulate the pencil. Hardly a day for a stroll, not even a bite-size one. But you don't know the wife. Sunday had come around again and on the calendar that meant on foot around town for both of us, even if the Arctic had moved south.
One look at the mercury showed it no farther up the scale than 12 and the missus announced a half hour was long enough to take such punishment. We stuck to the heart of Rockport. Few if any community centers posses as much richness of charm to us.
Through School Street into Main with the long-eared boxer, Molly as the advance scout, we passed by two of Rockport's austerer great houses, the Hill House and the Tupper House, and thought of their earlier days. Both were fine single residences, the former having been that of Hunter Harwood, an engineer associated with the construction of Sandy Bay Breakwater, the latter, the home of Dr. Alexander G. Tupper. Today Eddie Hill and his wife conduct the Hill House, and Dr. Tupper's granddaughter, Mrs. Russell Brundage, and her husband, the Tupper House. Both places add prestige to the community.
Turning up Cleaves Street, we entered upon one of the most delightful sections of the town. From Cleaves into Jewett, up the hill and down Hale Street across Main Street again through Mill Lane, past the skating pond, into the meadow and back onto Beach Street to continue onto Main Street and home.
First to attract the eye on Cleaves street is the bright red door to the library's children's room, an addition the voters okayed that has won wide approval from grateful parents and more particularly the children themselves. Every hour it is open is the children's hour in that converted basement.
Across the way is one old New England church whose exterior holds to a tradition no one should want to shelve. It is the First Universalist Church of Rockport, over which Rev. Ralph M. Barker presides, along with being an official weather forecaster, School Committee chairman, and a businessman. Located on the brow of the hill, its proud steeple and simple facade radiate dignity and reverence.
Familiar sight in Rockport yards is a car on the front bumper of which is the red sign, "Rockport Fire Department," noting that the owner is one of Sandy Bay's call firemen, such as Jakie Nelson, whose chariot was resting in his Cleaves Street yard. Nearby was another Christmas souvenir, the abandoned tree whose day of glory had passed. The dump is its next and final stop.
From here up, culture long since took over this once winding path. For on this street are the homes of Authoress Ruth Holberg, Artists Arnold Knauth and his wife, Jerri Ricci, and in the past, Artist Sam Hershey, whose mother still resides in the large yellow house. Along the way is one of those picturesque items that delight the artist looking for the unusual. It is a large house, one half of which is painted white, the other side unpainted for a long time. The contrast is effective. Some modernists might call it "blight." Us stick-in-the-muds like to refer to it as exciting.
Fences along this street and down through Hale Street add to the picturesqueness of the section. Wooden picket fences, shrubbery fences, straight wooden palings -- no sordid attempt for uniformity or design. They all help to set off homes that breathe the joy of life. Far from being the mill row type of the 19th century, nor the development rows of the 20th. Then up before us as we come to the bottom of the hill looms a structure of red stone that even in its modernity blends into the picture quite nicely. It's the phone company's dial station. Only recently we asked for the Pigeon Cove School and were amazed to hear phone worker O'Maley's voice talking from the dial headquarters. Good man, we admit, but wrong teacher!
The all too nippy clime that forced us to write only at intervals had no effect on Mollie. Her browsing from one yard to another, her gruff greeting to all fellow four-footers, kept her humming along the way. Her pointed ears reaching skyward were a dead giveaway that just around the bend was a kindred spirit with whom to enjoy even a short romp.
Mill Lane never loses its lure for us. A sign that went un-noticed by us in the past now stood out like a light. Attached beside the door of a modest home it read, "Why yes! The Swansons live here." And on the sign were painted two birds.
Looking down the slope of the ancient cemetery across to the sea, the bleakness of a Rockport winter never appeared sharper. If ever blue can be a cold color, the sea can reflect it. In direct contrast was the warming scene of young skaters on the Mill Pond setting in the valley. Across the meadow, past the rushing waters over the thick ice encrusted spillway, we came onto Beach Street, and were agreeably surprised at the progress being made on Rockport's first motel, being built for Hermon C. Erwin, guest house and restaurant leader. It will be another asset to the town and its summer business.
By this time, even our feet threatened to drop off so the shortest way to the family estate brought a pleasant ending to another Sunday stroll.
J.P.C., Jr.
One look at the mercury showed it no farther up the scale than 12 and the missus announced a half hour was long enough to take such punishment. We stuck to the heart of Rockport. Few if any community centers posses as much richness of charm to us.
Through School Street into Main with the long-eared boxer, Molly as the advance scout, we passed by two of Rockport's austerer great houses, the Hill House and the Tupper House, and thought of their earlier days. Both were fine single residences, the former having been that of Hunter Harwood, an engineer associated with the construction of Sandy Bay Breakwater, the latter, the home of Dr. Alexander G. Tupper. Today Eddie Hill and his wife conduct the Hill House, and Dr. Tupper's granddaughter, Mrs. Russell Brundage, and her husband, the Tupper House. Both places add prestige to the community.
Turning up Cleaves Street, we entered upon one of the most delightful sections of the town. From Cleaves into Jewett, up the hill and down Hale Street across Main Street again through Mill Lane, past the skating pond, into the meadow and back onto Beach Street to continue onto Main Street and home.
First to attract the eye on Cleaves street is the bright red door to the library's children's room, an addition the voters okayed that has won wide approval from grateful parents and more particularly the children themselves. Every hour it is open is the children's hour in that converted basement.
Across the way is one old New England church whose exterior holds to a tradition no one should want to shelve. It is the First Universalist Church of Rockport, over which Rev. Ralph M. Barker presides, along with being an official weather forecaster, School Committee chairman, and a businessman. Located on the brow of the hill, its proud steeple and simple facade radiate dignity and reverence.
Familiar sight in Rockport yards is a car on the front bumper of which is the red sign, "Rockport Fire Department," noting that the owner is one of Sandy Bay's call firemen, such as Jakie Nelson, whose chariot was resting in his Cleaves Street yard. Nearby was another Christmas souvenir, the abandoned tree whose day of glory had passed. The dump is its next and final stop.
From here up, culture long since took over this once winding path. For on this street are the homes of Authoress Ruth Holberg, Artists Arnold Knauth and his wife, Jerri Ricci, and in the past, Artist Sam Hershey, whose mother still resides in the large yellow house. Along the way is one of those picturesque items that delight the artist looking for the unusual. It is a large house, one half of which is painted white, the other side unpainted for a long time. The contrast is effective. Some modernists might call it "blight." Us stick-in-the-muds like to refer to it as exciting.
Fences along this street and down through Hale Street add to the picturesqueness of the section. Wooden picket fences, shrubbery fences, straight wooden palings -- no sordid attempt for uniformity or design. They all help to set off homes that breathe the joy of life. Far from being the mill row type of the 19th century, nor the development rows of the 20th. Then up before us as we come to the bottom of the hill looms a structure of red stone that even in its modernity blends into the picture quite nicely. It's the phone company's dial station. Only recently we asked for the Pigeon Cove School and were amazed to hear phone worker O'Maley's voice talking from the dial headquarters. Good man, we admit, but wrong teacher!
The all too nippy clime that forced us to write only at intervals had no effect on Mollie. Her browsing from one yard to another, her gruff greeting to all fellow four-footers, kept her humming along the way. Her pointed ears reaching skyward were a dead giveaway that just around the bend was a kindred spirit with whom to enjoy even a short romp.
Mill Lane never loses its lure for us. A sign that went un-noticed by us in the past now stood out like a light. Attached beside the door of a modest home it read, "Why yes! The Swansons live here." And on the sign were painted two birds.
Looking down the slope of the ancient cemetery across to the sea, the bleakness of a Rockport winter never appeared sharper. If ever blue can be a cold color, the sea can reflect it. In direct contrast was the warming scene of young skaters on the Mill Pond setting in the valley. Across the meadow, past the rushing waters over the thick ice encrusted spillway, we came onto Beach Street, and were agreeably surprised at the progress being made on Rockport's first motel, being built for Hermon C. Erwin, guest house and restaurant leader. It will be another asset to the town and its summer business.
By this time, even our feet threatened to drop off so the shortest way to the family estate brought a pleasant ending to another Sunday stroll.
J.P.C., Jr.
A Walk into School Days
The annual January thaw was rampaging last Saturday when the wife and I and our lumbering boxer decided the day was divine for a stroll. With the insurance leash in our overcoat pocket, we set out from our School Street domicile in Rockport to pause for a minute at the home of a neighbor, Emery Drolet, to ask him about his new lobster-party boat.
He told us he would christen her Ryda using the last two letters of his first name, and the last two of his wife's first name, Hulda. He hopes to launch the 38-footer this Spring and at the same time, sell his 38-foot party and fishing boat, Walrus. He recalled the story of a Rockport selectman who was hit by a double-runner sled, and claimed his posterior was paining. False teeth in his back pocket had "bit" him.
Back strolling, we were fascinated with the array of house blinds, grays, greens, blacks and blues, a street of blinds, this School Street, unusual even in a New England town nowadays. All homes once boasted blinds to exclude the burning summer sun. It was reassuring for us to see that town officials had posted a sign at the head of School Street advising "Danger. Children Coasting" despite the fact that the street was bare of snow except for a stingy fringe on either side.
As we preambulated up Pleasant Street and by the Cox home we heard inside the brittle woof-woof of a dog challenging Molly. She paid no attention as she greeted a shepherd dog. Up Summer Street, our four-foot push-pawed the gate to view the classical sculpture of nymphs and fawns by sculptor Dick Recchia.
Along the way were two youngsters in profound study of the gnarled rings of old trees, trying to determine the age. It was good to see youth concerned with the greatness of time.
We were struck with the addition of new houses in the area of the four year old Community School. As one of the prime movers on this school the housing development that followed gives us pleasure. First the new roads, Summer Street Extension, then Jerdens Lane rebuilt. A new area built up. Martha's Lane, Seagull Avenue, have resulted.
Such changes on this 21.46 acre site where once Orren Poole had his farm and prolific apple orchard. Inside the glassed portals we heard kids shouting basketball calls. And to the leeward we saw a barren area that needed attention for skating. It was a cozy mid-winter amble just long enough for comfort.
J.P.C., Jr.
He told us he would christen her Ryda using the last two letters of his first name, and the last two of his wife's first name, Hulda. He hopes to launch the 38-footer this Spring and at the same time, sell his 38-foot party and fishing boat, Walrus. He recalled the story of a Rockport selectman who was hit by a double-runner sled, and claimed his posterior was paining. False teeth in his back pocket had "bit" him.
Back strolling, we were fascinated with the array of house blinds, grays, greens, blacks and blues, a street of blinds, this School Street, unusual even in a New England town nowadays. All homes once boasted blinds to exclude the burning summer sun. It was reassuring for us to see that town officials had posted a sign at the head of School Street advising "Danger. Children Coasting" despite the fact that the street was bare of snow except for a stingy fringe on either side.
As we preambulated up Pleasant Street and by the Cox home we heard inside the brittle woof-woof of a dog challenging Molly. She paid no attention as she greeted a shepherd dog. Up Summer Street, our four-foot push-pawed the gate to view the classical sculpture of nymphs and fawns by sculptor Dick Recchia.
Along the way were two youngsters in profound study of the gnarled rings of old trees, trying to determine the age. It was good to see youth concerned with the greatness of time.
We were struck with the addition of new houses in the area of the four year old Community School. As one of the prime movers on this school the housing development that followed gives us pleasure. First the new roads, Summer Street Extension, then Jerdens Lane rebuilt. A new area built up. Martha's Lane, Seagull Avenue, have resulted.
Such changes on this 21.46 acre site where once Orren Poole had his farm and prolific apple orchard. Inside the glassed portals we heard kids shouting basketball calls. And to the leeward we saw a barren area that needed attention for skating. It was a cozy mid-winter amble just long enough for comfort.
J.P.C., Jr.
To the Housing for the Elderly - January, 1965
This could well have been a practice walk for us, the jaunt from our intown "estate" to the group of apartments on the right side of the tracks where many of Rockport's senior citizens are housed today. For the hour could be near at hand when we could be among their number taking advantage of the state's foresight.
It was just before Christmas, the day was excellent, but brittle cold, and the course up Broadway. It was a busy Sunday with the cars headed for Bearskin Neck and the shops. The town parking lot holding over a hundred cars was jam-packed. Like on a summer Sunday wherever parking is allowed, all spaces were taken.
The wife and I kept our four-footed boxer and her 60 -odd pounds on the leash knowing we were wandering up a way that could be called cat alley. Age has not yet softened Molly's feline feelings. A standout as usual was the Snow house on Broadway of deep red brick, 2 and a half stories high. It is one of the very few of its find left in the parish of Sandy Bay. We are very impressed with its beauty.
The town fathers had saluted Christmas by hanging eye-catching wreaths in the windows of the town office building. Rockport no longer has a town hall. That may have been good enough for our fathers but not for us. Now we use the super duper school gym to do our pressure voting at town meetings.
The fire station went along with the Yuletide spirit. But Mother Nature was a backslider in this regard for she had dropped not a flake of snow on the ground. Insead she'd kept the grass on the Methodist Church lawn a warming green. We passed by what was once known as the Iron Balcony, where we stopped many a time to pick up the wife for a Sunday walk along the Rockport shore before the town got fenced in and town landings vanished from public use. We recalled hearing old Capt. Johnson, owner of that Iron Balcony, relate his hair-raising experiences fishing in the North Atlantic in the dead of winter. That's another chapter lost in the town's history.
Speaking of history, we are reminded that the town is losing a good bet if it doesn't get somebody who can write interestingly and sit down with certain elderly folks, say sixtyish and above, and take down their stories of the town's past before it is all forgotten and some outlander provides a garbled account that smacks of the sea serpent nonsense.
Up by the once officially condemned old school house, afterward the historical society house and Community House, a weather-beaten structure that is still an active alert community house for many folks in the town. Sometimes even humans are condemned as having outlived their use, only to find 'tain't so.
And could be to the youth of our unusual town, the seat of the anatomy of fulsome living, is that faded old cannon of iron ball-heaving naval warfare. We could see our children playing horse on it; we could see hundreds of other tikes, girls as well as boys clambering all over it. The gun does have value, even though it lacks culture.
Those homes for the elderly! We're getting there, but don't forget at our failing years, an inch is getting to be a mile. You just don't gallop down the remaining span unless the devil starts prodding. Down Railroad Ave., past Cap Green's, the stately ruler of the town's "senate" of the past with his wealth of colorful chapeaus. There's one of the bonafide Rockporters who ceould provide many a good story of the old Rockport and prove to certain ones that this town has been far from apathetic through the years and is just as far from apathetic today.
And here at last is the entrance to our so-called Housing for the Elderly. The wife and I hate that term. It sounds like you had provided a corral for wasting humans. Maybe we wouldn't mind so much if it weren't that within these most attractive units resided many of our friends who are paying rent just as many of us do through town.
Our hats are off to the Rockport committee in charge of building these apartment houses. Site of a productive farm, the grounds have been smartly landscaped. And for Christmas, a tall Christmas tree was aglow with Christmas lights that welcomed you.
We again viewed one apartment where we often play bridge with a so-called elder and his wife, where the male elder, supposed to be on the bend, for his alleged "tottering" years still does a good week's work - not all six days but part of the week. He's too smart to quit. To us, it seemed like a good home for many.
It was just before Christmas, the day was excellent, but brittle cold, and the course up Broadway. It was a busy Sunday with the cars headed for Bearskin Neck and the shops. The town parking lot holding over a hundred cars was jam-packed. Like on a summer Sunday wherever parking is allowed, all spaces were taken.
The wife and I kept our four-footed boxer and her 60 -odd pounds on the leash knowing we were wandering up a way that could be called cat alley. Age has not yet softened Molly's feline feelings. A standout as usual was the Snow house on Broadway of deep red brick, 2 and a half stories high. It is one of the very few of its find left in the parish of Sandy Bay. We are very impressed with its beauty.
The town fathers had saluted Christmas by hanging eye-catching wreaths in the windows of the town office building. Rockport no longer has a town hall. That may have been good enough for our fathers but not for us. Now we use the super duper school gym to do our pressure voting at town meetings.
The fire station went along with the Yuletide spirit. But Mother Nature was a backslider in this regard for she had dropped not a flake of snow on the ground. Insead she'd kept the grass on the Methodist Church lawn a warming green. We passed by what was once known as the Iron Balcony, where we stopped many a time to pick up the wife for a Sunday walk along the Rockport shore before the town got fenced in and town landings vanished from public use. We recalled hearing old Capt. Johnson, owner of that Iron Balcony, relate his hair-raising experiences fishing in the North Atlantic in the dead of winter. That's another chapter lost in the town's history.
Speaking of history, we are reminded that the town is losing a good bet if it doesn't get somebody who can write interestingly and sit down with certain elderly folks, say sixtyish and above, and take down their stories of the town's past before it is all forgotten and some outlander provides a garbled account that smacks of the sea serpent nonsense.
Up by the once officially condemned old school house, afterward the historical society house and Community House, a weather-beaten structure that is still an active alert community house for many folks in the town. Sometimes even humans are condemned as having outlived their use, only to find 'tain't so.
And could be to the youth of our unusual town, the seat of the anatomy of fulsome living, is that faded old cannon of iron ball-heaving naval warfare. We could see our children playing horse on it; we could see hundreds of other tikes, girls as well as boys clambering all over it. The gun does have value, even though it lacks culture.
Those homes for the elderly! We're getting there, but don't forget at our failing years, an inch is getting to be a mile. You just don't gallop down the remaining span unless the devil starts prodding. Down Railroad Ave., past Cap Green's, the stately ruler of the town's "senate" of the past with his wealth of colorful chapeaus. There's one of the bonafide Rockporters who ceould provide many a good story of the old Rockport and prove to certain ones that this town has been far from apathetic through the years and is just as far from apathetic today.
And here at last is the entrance to our so-called Housing for the Elderly. The wife and I hate that term. It sounds like you had provided a corral for wasting humans. Maybe we wouldn't mind so much if it weren't that within these most attractive units resided many of our friends who are paying rent just as many of us do through town.
Our hats are off to the Rockport committee in charge of building these apartment houses. Site of a productive farm, the grounds have been smartly landscaped. And for Christmas, a tall Christmas tree was aglow with Christmas lights that welcomed you.
We again viewed one apartment where we often play bridge with a so-called elder and his wife, where the male elder, supposed to be on the bend, for his alleged "tottering" years still does a good week's work - not all six days but part of the week. He's too smart to quit. To us, it seemed like a good home for many.
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