Leg 65 From Indian Creek, just opposited the Lanes Island lobster Pound, across the bridge, around Indian Creek, back out and on to the Lanes Island Bridge. This walk required tramping across backyards and in some cases I wasn't comfortable, felt too much like an intruder and so skirted those properties. Except for a little stretch around the east side of Armbrust Hill, the entire walk was through residential areas. I figure I've got six walks left till I get back to where I started and parts or all except the next one (Lanes Island) will be in and around residential areas so photography will be selective and discreet. From the Indian Creek Bridge I looked across the Creek to the little house at the head of the cove where so many of my own memories rest comfortably.
When I was about 12 we moved into 'The Bucket', short for 'The Bucket of Blood'. This authentic little cape was supposedly the sight of a terrible death in the previous century. I heard so many stories of how that came to be I don't know what to believe. The Bucket was our fifth and last island rental since moving back to the island in 1948. We were hard pressed to find a place to live and so couldn't be too selective. My mother's way of dealing with her children's unavoidable (everyone talked about it all the time) awareness that they were living in a house where such an awful thing occurred was to attribute the many odd noises we heard every night to a ghost, a friendly ghost, and to name him Uncle Tim. Uncle Tim joined us some nights for dinner, coming stealthly down the attic stairs right next to the kitchen table, opening the thumb latched door and settling himself on the bottom step. We couldn't see him and he usually didn't say anything but his presence was unmistakable. Ultimately he followed us to our next home, the Moses Webster House and became a memorable presence there.
I walked around the east shore of the Creek then turned west and , in a few minutes, was standing in the 'Bucket's' back yard. Behind me, a hundred feet or so out in the water, stood the'Johnny Boulder', a big rock we named thus for reason's that escape me but which was our destination during cold water dares and upon which I liked to strand my little brother, who couldn't swim yet, as the tide came in and surrounded it.
Now I could look west to the little firth that crept up into Frog Hollow and above that, lording over everything, was the Moses Webster House, our final home, one we finally purchased (for $6000) around 1958. It was in rough shape, wet, moldy and in need of every imaginable repair but it was a castle to us, four boys each with his own room. We stayed here until all the boys were up, grown and gone. Matt was an infant so it was about 18 years before my folks had the place to themselves and by then it was way too big for them and so they moved on to another enormous reclamation elsewhere on the island. When they left, though, the place had been completely restored by my father. Here in the Moses Webster House are our freshest memories, we four brothers, and they could and perhaps will fill a volume. Suffice for now that Uncle Tim followed us here from the Bucket and put in some memorable appearances. Surely his presence on the night the Masonic Hall burned was the most significant and was chronicled in a New York Times story my mother wrote wrote.
I turned east then south and skirted the Armbrose Hill Preserve, climbing up, when I could no longer get along the quarry rubble at the shoreline, to the trees about 50 feet above the water. Here in this acre or so of Spruce I constructed a tree house with friends and had a major confrontation with my mother who insisted on coming to see what we were doing and how far aloft she feared we were dangling.
Next leg, 66, around Lanes Island.