One of my favorite things to do in the summer is to take the commuter rail from Boston up to Rockport on Cape Ann. I love the shops and galleries, the tiny town beach, and the quaint and historic flavor of the town. Rockport, the home of the indigenous Agawam people, was settled in the late 1600s by members of the Massachusetts Bay Colony who established a fishing village. Originally part of nearby Gloucester, Rockport became incorporated as a separate town in 1840. At that time, the town supported a thriving granite industry. Granite from Rockport was shipped all over the country. Today, Rockport is known for its scenic harbor, artist community historic Bearskin Neck and the famous, much painted and photographed red fisherman’s shack, Motif No. 1. During my annual trips to the quaint seaside town, I have taken many photos , which have inspired my newest photo essay.

Rockport: a day in the sun

Pouring the aromatic cinnamon tea from the white china pot into her matching cup, Poppy Goodwine settled back into the cushioned wicker arm chair.  She took a sip of tea and savored the warm cinnamon flavor accented with a hint of orange.  Poppy would miss breakfasting here on the wrap-around porch of the historic inn that had been her home for the past week.  She would have to ask Alice, the innkeeper, for her scone recipe and look for this blend of tea at her local gourmet shop in Vermont.

With a soft clink, she set her cup on its saucer and took a long look at the deep blue, sunlit ocean before pushing back her chair ready to carry on with her final day of vacation.

“So lovely,” she murmured to herself. 

Down on the beach, gentle waves lapped the shore.  Employees from the inn were busy setting up lounge chairs and pink umbrellas in the sand.  An elderly couple with a golden retriever on a long leash walked along the water’s edge and one brave  soul was swimming out to a raft anchored in front of the inn.

In the lobby, Poppy stopped at the front desk to drop off a stack of postcards to be mailed.

The innkeeper, a middle aged woman with long, chestnut hair twisted into a thick braid and a sprinkling of freckles on her tanned cheeks, greeted her warmly. “How was your bike ride this morning?”

“It was great, Alice,” Poppy said. “I rode out to Halibut Point.  What a pretty ride!”

“I love exploring the Babson Farm Quarry there.  Years ago, Rockport used to have a successful granite industry.  One of the first settlers was a granite cutter, you know. Did you go by the old quarry? “

“I did.  And through some leafy woods and then along the shore.  I stopped to take some pictures at the quarry,” Poppy said, pushing her round glasses up to the bridge of her nose.  “This week, I’ve been researching my family history.  As it turns out, some of my ancestors worked in the quarries.”

“Wow!  So you’re practically a local.”

“I guess I am.”  Poppy checked her watch.  “I’m off to town now  for one more afternoon of poking around the shops and galleries before heading home tomorrow morning.  I’m going to miss Rockport.”

“Well, I hope you’ll come back soon,” Alice said with a cheerful wave.

Rockport’s town center was bustling with visitors.  Poppy joined the crowds strolling along Bearskin Neck.  She popped into a small and friendly independent bookshop to pick up a couple of local history books recommended by Alice.  While there she looked at the shelves of staff picks, reading the handwritten reviews posted on index cards.  One of the booksellers had highlighted Poppy’s favorite book, Wild Designs by Katie Fforde.

As she headed back out into the sunshine and walked down the street to a popular ice cream shop she thought about Katie Fforde’s character, Althea, an aspiring garden designer and divorced mother of three who was at a crossroads in her life.  

Poppy  waited in line in the tiny shop  to order a small cup of key lime pie ice cream, which she took outside to the garden patio.  Once she was settled into one of the candy cane cafe tables scattered around the patio, Poppy decided she would pull out the tattered copy of her favorite novel from her bookshelf when she got home and read it one more time. 

As a widowed mother with a college-aged daughter who also loved planting and growing flowers, she identified with Althea. Although Poppy was happy and secure in her job running the local historical society, unlike Althea, who was made redundant at the beginning of the novel, she felt like she might be ready for a change.  A new challenge.

As she scraped the last bit of ice cream from the bottom of her paper cup, Poppy’s phone rang.  She dug it out of the bottom of her green and blue plaid backpack and checked the display.  Her sister, Violet, was calling.

“Hey Violet.  What’s up,” she said.

“Are you home?  How was Rockport?”

“Rockport is great.  I’m still here.  I love the inn where I’m staying.  A lot of famous people have stayed there.  Like Paul Newman.  Can you believe it?  Also, they have a salt water pool!” Poppy stretched her legs out and settled back in her chair.  “Right now, I’m sitting in a beautiful garden in the sun, eating some creamy and tart key lime pie ice cream.  I’m going home tomorrow.”

“Sounds delightful.” Violet always sprinkled her conversation with nostalgic words like delightful or splendid or swell. “What else have you done?”

“I’ve gone to a bunch of fabulous art galleries.  Yesterday, I spent more than an hour in a gallery of an amazing glass artist.  Mom would have loved it.  You know how she raves over the Glass Museum in Sandwich and she’s featured glass artists in her own gallery all the time.”

Violet laughed and said, “I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself.”

“Oh, and I did a bit of family research at the library and historical society here.  I found out that some of our ancestors worked in the granite quarries here on Cape Ann.  It was really cool to visit the quarries where they worked.  This morning, I took a bike ride to the state park where one of the quarries was.  I walked around imagining what it must have been like two hundred years ago and took a lot of pictures.”

“You’re really making progress on our family history.  First in Ireland and now in Rockport.”

“Our trip to Ireland was unforgettable.”

“It certainly was,” Violet agreed.

“My favorite day was when we were in Cork and found all those church records listing Mom’s great great grandparents.”

“And then we visited the house where they worked as a maid and stable hand.  Our family history came alive that day.  What are you going to do with all this information you’re collecting?” Violet asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps you should write a book,” Violet suggested.  “We seem to have some intriguing characters in our family tree.”

“Really?  Do you think I could do that?” Poppy twirled a strand of red-gold hair around her finger as her mind began racing with ideas.

“Of course you can.  You’re a marvelous storyteller and an excellent writer.”

“Thanks, Violet.”

Poppy smiled and hugged herself after finishing the phone call.  Maybe Violet was right.  Writing her family history could be just the challenge she needed.