HouseofKel: Old Cape Cod

In early summer of 1990, I travelled with my partner and a few close friends throughout New England. I had been there previously with my family in late summer 1976. Just after the American Bi-Centennial, my parents, along with me and my four siblings, spent our vacation in New Brunswick, Canada. The hills of Rexton were our home for a few glorious weeks of camped out real country. As a kid from Toronto, I was surprised how well I took to the place and to the people. We all made friendships that lasted as long as the car ride home. Having crossed Ontario and Quebec on route, my folks decided to take the surprisingly shorter way home through New England, New York and eventually Canada. Our adventure began when we crossed over the Canadian/American border and into Maine. The mountains of New Hampshire and Vermont acted like guide posts as we journeyed back towards Ontario. New York State felt like a welcome mat, a harbinger of almost being there. Unfortunately, this trip homeward did not allow for much sightseeing outside of the van by which we travelled. We did not stop in many places instead each monument, each grand sight skipped by with an urgent need to just get the hell home. My trip in 1990, however, allowed me the more tactile experience of actually getting out and absorbing my environment in person rather than quicksilver. .

Of all the places I visited that summer of 1990, the most memorable, for me, was Cape Cod. While my friends fixated on spending time in Provincetown, I only wanted to see the famous sand dunes which had inspired countless artists and poets. Provincetown, located at the northern peak of the Cape Cod peninsula, maintains status as a much favoured vacation destination for the LGBTQ community. While curious to see such a spectacle, the natural beauty of the easternmost portion of the state of Massachusetts held my true interest. The only spectacle I planned on indulging in was the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay and the beaches along its seashore.

The Cape Cod National Seashore is comprised of 43,604 acres, 4,000 of which make up the majority of the village known as Provincetown, which sits at the very tip of the Cape. It is this area, part of the Province Lands Reserve, where you find the most dramatic and plentiful dunes. Cape Cod, like other parts of Massachusetts, is heavily affected by wind erosion and the formation or deformation of sand dunes. These natural phenomena have long acted as an inspiration, a wondrous muse. Every year, travelers come from all over the world to taste of the Cape's natural beauty and share in the history, and culture, of this 40-mile scope of protected land. Come summer, artisans, such as painters and ornithologists, find themselves hunting for the perfect scene through which to apply their craft.

Sand areas, on the appendage of Cape Cod, make up 6,000 acres in magnitude. Erosion and the natural shifting of dunes, by elemental forces, have always been a serious issue for local citizens. The conservation of Cape Cod itself is at stake. Dating back to the 1920s-30s, the matter found voice among locals and the Cape Cod Conservation District was established in 1947 to address the "concerns of soil, water and other resources." Erosion became such a concern that Massachusetts pioneered as "the first American state to institute control methods for wind erosion and the stabilization of sand dunes." The raw, potent gales, which whip across the bodies of water that surround the Cape, carry sands into the harbour, constantly reshaping dune after dune, shifting the loose flow. The ocean, along the shoreline, is literally washing the beaches away.

These enormous sand deposits were left behind when Ice Age glaciers receded approximately 30,000 years ago. The Cape, an exposed location, is a sandy peninsula which formed during this period. The land mass juts into the Atlantic Ocean like a "crooked arm." It is of primary interest to geologists "because it was formed, by glaciers, very recently in terms of geologic time and because of the ever changing shore as the Cape adjusts to the rising sea." Bartholomew Gosnold, an English explorer, gave Cape Cod its name in 1602 and the greater scenery, the geographic land itself has changed little since then. Villages are separated by large areas of forest, marsh, beach and dune. Cape Cod is one of the more popular "vacation areas for the people living in the thickly settled north-eastern [United] States." The unspoiled natural beauty only enhances the almost isolated appeal of the area. Each year, the sands of Cape Cod are transported and re-deposited by water and wind. These natural factors, the remaining glacial deposits, and the landforms created by the rise in sea level, make up the modern landscape of this rather dusty destination.

The most beautiful dune beach is located on Race Point, part of Provincetown. Huge monoliths of sand loom over each other, like giant ripples touching, then parting, as if waves made of dust. If you close your eyes and ears to the ocean, for a moment you can find yourself lost in the Sahara Desert in Africa or the Mojave Desert in southeastern California. At the end of Route 6, the dunes surrounding Pilgrim Lake are close enough to touch from your car, close enough that they spill over onto the highway. The largest dunes can be found at Cahoon Hollow Beach and Marconi Beach in Wellfleet, south of Provincetown. On the outer side of the peninsula, and not as accessible as other areas, these tremendous and staggeringly large deposits dwarf the most formidable of men. The more interesting parabolic dunes are found in Provincetown and Truro. Parabolic dunes are generally "horseshoe-shaped, with a concave windward slope and a convex leeward slope." You can actually see where the wind has been. In the off season, the beaches thrive with a different kind of life. Come the winter winds, the dunes shift and move like living earth. The air is filled with particles of frozen dust, and fine debris, and mist. It is thick and malleable, almost pliable or elastic. They say the sand stings in its caress against the skin, like needles. In constant flux, the dunes of Cape Cod toss and turn, each one ever reshaping their features of height, girth and location. They hold a special place for returning artists, determined to rediscover the pleasure of days gone by. Every year holds something new for them, as the world they witnessed the season before has drifted into something changed but no less stunning.

"If you're fond of sand dunes and salty air
Quaint little villages, here and there
You're sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
If you like the taste of a lobster stew
Served by a window with an ocean view,
You're sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod
Winding roads that seem to beckon you
Miles of green beneath the skies of blue
Church bells chiming on a Sunday morn,
Remind you of the town where you were born
If you spend an evening, you'll want to stay
Watching the moonlight on Cape Cod Bay
You're sure to fall in love with old Cape Cod"
(Old Cape Cod, Patti Page 1957)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HT2ao0rcxoA&list=RDHT2ao0rcxoA&start_radio=1

July 2^nd, 1990 was not as warm as my partner and I would have liked it to be. The extreme heat we experienced in Boston the week before seemed more appropriate for the Province Lands and the dunes which called out for our attention. With a long journey to Cooperstown, New York set for the next day, we declined the invitation from our travelling companions to later paint the town, and instead we headed down towards the beach. We had both spotted tiny little shacks sporadically placed among the dunes on the outer eastern edge of Provincetown and were intent on investigation. It had been difficult to get down to the water during our stay. My partner had never learned to swim properly, so even the shallow waves that crashed about shore seemed a little too much for his liking. With the promise of a wet-free day, we set out to explore.

The Dune Shacks of the Province Lands are scattered throughout this State Reservation. Varying in size and shape, 17 have been designated historic Dune Shacks within the boundaries of the Cape Cod National Seashore. Encompassing Provincetown, the Lands include the outer beaches and the inner forests and marshland. The Province Lands comprise the entire tip of Cape Cod. Historians believe that the shack's original purpose may have been as part of the "survival huts" that were built for sailors who found themselves shipwrecked along deserted parts of the coastline. From the first recorded wreck in 1626, so many ships have been destroyed on the hidden sandbars off the coast that this area of seashore is known as an "ocean graveyard." With more than 1,000 wrecks having occurred along this area, manned Life Saving Stations were established in the shacks. In the early 1900s, the dune shacks may have been used for families visiting nautical working men. Many of these dune shacks were built near the Peaked Hill Bars Life Saving Station. The shacks still in existence today were "built in the 1920's and 1940’s when Provincetown was becoming not only a vacation place, but also an art colony."
The huts stand alone, quaint little wooden places that rent out a week at a time or for the season. Many have no heat, no running water, not even a toilet. Any modern convenience you must bring yourself. In modern times, the dune shacks act as a summer getaway for naturalists and as a retreat for artists. On almost any given day, the dunes around the Peak Hill Station are riddled with easels, garden hats and lawn chairs. Artisans striving to capture the beauty of this place, mix with beachcombers and seagulls, all watching the waves blow in and the shifting sands blow about.

"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." (Bruce Barton, Canadian playwright)

Just past Peaked Hill, we laid out our blanket and dropped onto the sand. The sun was bright, but not as intense as one would imagine it could be at the beginning of July on the Cape. The sea air whistled a slight chill, so we decided to recreate just past a dainty little dune shack, the mounds about us useful for blocking the wind. We had looked for a spot in between a few of the larger dunes, hoping to lounge on the side of a sandy hill. Without proper footwear, we were forced to walk barefoot on this carpet and realized quickly that the temperature off the air has little to do with the sun baking the ground and eventually your sole.

The shack was not much to look at. It sat all alone at the base of a long sloping dune, looking out over the waters about 1000 feet away. It was no bigger than a small living room, with a small side door, a few tiny provincial windows and a steam pipe topping a tin roof, which sat patched and rusting. Out back, a porch swing found residence on a wooden platform. Out front, an easel and wooden chair, facing away from the ocean, revealed the proclivity of their owner for sand dunes. An old Coca Cola tin held many brushes, the tips of each floating in an unknown solution. A palette, well used, sat protected by the chair, undisturbed by the sun and the wind and the strangers now pondering its history and the location of its owner. It had sand all about it. You could smell the Atlantic and almost taste the salty air. The roar of the crashing waves mixed with the sound of children laughing and seagulls very much annoying. The sand felt like a waterbed, moving beneath our blanket, so we both settled in easily, intent on an afternoon of good food, a few books to read and the best of company. I look back on these days with a mixture of relish and sorrow, both mingling with the waves and the sands like some type of meant to be. It is moments like this that have made my life worth living. I lit a cigarette, having to shield it from the sea breeze. Almost in sync with my lighter, the door to that old shack swung open, then slammed closed with the wind. Out from that noise came a slender woman, well aged by time and well tanned by the season. I wasn't sure if smoking was allowed on the beach, so I went to put out my cancer stick when she yelled, "Hey, you!!"

            To our surprise, this approaching figure was not intent on chastising anyone. Instead, she approached gently, bid us a "good afternoon" and politely requested a spare smoke. As if we were old friends, she informed us that she had yet to get the chance to head into town again for more supplies. The moment I gave her one from my pack, she asked to buy a few more from me, if I had them to spare. As I produced them, she sharply asked, "Are you both Canadians?" We had looked at her strangely enough, so she noted my brand of cigarette as the giveaway. She then smiled as if to welcome us to her beach.  Her name was Gwen, a self-proclaimed painter, who once taught drama at a high school in Portland, Maine. At 71, she spent her summers between the Cape and a cottage outside Portland. She was petite, but you could tell her strength from the way she carried herself. She was still rather pretty, under years of wear and tear. She was so friendly that we invited her to join us for some food on our blanket. For the longest time we talked about Ontario and Maine and other places.
            Eventually, we wandered over for a quick tour of her "home away from home." We soon realized the space inside was even smaller than it appeared from an outward view. A small cot lay covered in the far corner with bags and luggage underneath. A counter made of old barn wood carried the meager belongings that seemed alien to this antique-like place. An old basin sat beside a jug of water, a few feet away from a bucket whose purpose I could only imagine. The walls were heavy with canvas and frames. Each painting captured a different view of the beach and a unique perspective of individual dunes. No matter where you looked, not one was the same.
            With the tour complete, she sat straight down on her wooden chair, facing the sea of sand and picked up a paintbrush. We stood like schoolgirls, smoking cigarettes and hanging on her every word. She talked about her life, and all the pain that comes with living. She talked about her joy, the husband she had for 46 years, who passed away in 1987 from cancer. She shared her anguish incurred when her only child, a daughter of 15 years old, drowned in a lagoon near the place she owns in Portland. She talked about painting and how it freed her from a life of grief and sadness. She revealed that the Cape was her favourite place, as the dunes are always shifting, changing with the rhythm of the each season. "They are life," she said, stroking the canvas with brown and red. "Because things are as they are," she paused, "things never stay the way they are." She talked about the dunes, as a metaphor for the life we all live. She told us that each year, upon her return, the sands and the wind remind her that everything changes and that is how it will always be. Apparently, there is always something new to discover, even if you have been that way before. We left her painting, watching the sands go by.

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” (Ralph Waldo Emerson, American essayist)

I am not sure if Gwen outlived my partner but she would be more than 100 years old if she still lives. When the wind is right and the sand is too hot, I go back to that day on the Cape. I hope that she is somehow aware that I think of her and the revelation she brought to my philosophies. Life is strange, how it lifts and molds each one of us as if we are victims, yet we conquer the storm and the sea just the same.

It is a human condition to not only endure change, but to cause it as well.

Sand is the very lifeblood of Cape Cod. The very forces, such as ocean tides and erosion, which steal the sands, also renew the sands in the very same way. Without this change, sand would blow in circles on the highway that we travel down. Whether for good or bad, such change brings new experiences to explore. I guess, in a way, the dunes of Old Cape Cod are very much like our living. The constant flux of our humanity shifts in the ebb and flow, like windblown dunes. Unless we transform, we too may be dust in the wind.

View the Cape @

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rM2Xa4RUBCk&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eW-B0SIOq8&feature=relmfu

Photo

https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-print/Entering-CAPE-COD-Commonwealth-of-Massachusetts-Road-Sign-by-NewNomads/23086700.1G4ZT

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Brooklyn_Museum_-_Sand_Dunes,_Cape_Cod_-_Dodge_MacKnight_-_overall.jpg

https://remaininginprovincetown.com/2013/04/12/provincetown-poet-of-the-dunes-early-cape-cod-publisher/

https://northwatergallery.com/artist-item.php?itemId=6113495&title=Dune+Shack&artistId=196761&artist=Craig+Mooney&fromCart=1

https://mybarnwoodframes.com/vintage-latitude-cape-cod-sign/

Sources

http://pubs.usgs.gov/gip/capecod/index.html

http://people.brandeis.edu/~dkew/David/Kucinski-dunes-1943.pdf

http://gonewengland.about.com/cs/capecodsights/l/aa082301a.htm