Rockport, Massachusetts has been a part of my family’s history since, well, before I can even remember. And well before that. I vaguely recall spending an early birthday (maybe my sixth?) in Rockport and for many, many summers after that I asked to celebrate my birthdays in “good old Rockport.” I worked in restaurants and hotels in town during summers, explored the trails in the woods all the way to Gloucester, watched my idiot friends atop their bikes drive off rock ledges into the quarries, played the crazy, boulder-strewn nine-hole golf course, sailed out to the breakwater, tried to climb the water tower, battled unsuccessfully with the raccoons for dominion over the trash, watched Navy cadets ground an aging destroyer on the Dry Salvages (and the warship had to be dismantled because it could not be saved), and waited in numbing cold at the end of Bearskin Neck to see the Comet Kahoutek rise from the sea before dawn. And, yes, I met my first girlfriend here. I first brought Carol here when we were dating. And we brought Fiona and Brenna here in strollers before they could walk. As the gals grew up, I remember the big moment of budding independence when Carol and I - gulp! - let them walk from our place down Bearskin Neck by themselves. My parents, who grew up in nearby Haverhill, spent a lot of time in childhood and adulthood, as did their parents, enjoying the glittering ocean, the quaint shops, the crooked and meandering streets, the morning seagulls screeching from the roof of Motif No. 1, the boat tackles tinkling songs across the harbor, the blazing and dramatic sunrises, the canopy of stars down to the horizon, the smell of fires in the fall and winter (ok, in spring, too), the occasional wandering seal, the surprise visits of whales, and generations of artists working their canvasses for the latest takes on our beloved town. The memories and traditions continue! — Jim (Fiona’s dad)