Once they invented the Internet, I had my choice of any city or town on the planet to live in, because as a freelance writer, I could deliver my work instantly to and from just about anywhere, and I chose to live in Ipswich, Massachusetts, and although I have not lived here long, I have lived here long enough to see that this town is exemplary.
Yes, Ipswich has many of the same problems that other towns have, but not many compared to other towns around the world. We have it pretty good here.
Certainly we have issues — like with whether to put a public safety building in a swamp, or how many elementary schools are too many, or whether the Ipswich River was God’s mistake and should remain forever dammed.
Fortunately, however, Ipswich is home to sensible people, who address issues with clear thinking, via civil discourse, in a genial spirit of practical compromise, so that even the most complicated problems are typically resolved after only a decade or two of debate.
So not many serious problems remain. At the moment, in my view, the single most disturbing problems, the problems which truly require urgent remedy, are my problems. If we solve my problems, Ipswich will be perfect.
The most pressing Ipswich problem at the moment is the lack of speed limit signs on the way back from the beach.
There’s only one way to get to our celebrated Ipswich waterfront, Crane Beach, and that’s by way of Argilla Road. If you head east from the center of town, you’ll begin at the designated 25 mph downtown, and you’ll see a 30 mph sign pretty soon, while the houses still sport two-digit numbers.
Before long, as the twisty-turny road relaxes a bit and tends to straighten somewhat, you’ll encounter your first 35 mph sign. On some long, straightish stretches, it sure feels like you could be going 40, but all the way past Russell Orchards, it’s still officially 35, as you’re repeatedly reminded by the signage.
Then, finally, that first blessed “40” sign appears, and from there on, you can rocket toward the beach at more than 58 feet per second.
Of course if you’re a local, you know all this by heart. You remember where the speed limits change, you know how far over the limit you’re willing to go, and most important of all, you know where the cops hide out.
But if you’re a tourist, you’re at a distinct disadvantage. You need the speed limit signs, not only to tell you how fast not to go, but also to tell you how fast it’s safe to go.
So when you turn around at the beach to head home, you naturally expect to find the same helpful signage that you relied on as you drove toward the beach.
Uh, no, sorry.
As you depart the beach (or the Crane Estate, the last stop prior to the beach), there’s no 40 mph sign. Maybe there used to be, back in the day, when President Taft vacationed on the North Shore. Perhaps a reckless teenager knocked the sign over after a particularly rambunctious prom night at the Crane Estate. In any case, there’s no 40 mph sign. Nothing to indicate this critically important bit of information: YOU CAN GO 40.
If you’re the common tourist, unfamiliar with the terrain — since you didn’t know you needed to memorize the speed limits along your approach route — and especially as you have a bit of a buzz thanks to the thermos of Bacardi you sneaked onto the beach — you are now obligated to navigate a winding, rolling road, a series of bends and rises and limited-visibility moments that naturally make you ask yourself why you didn’t call Uber instead.
Which, perhaps, inclines you to drive a timid 30 mph.
The major issue, however, is that I’m right behind you.
The typical tourist driving west on Argilla Road is in a gray Volvo. (Why is it always a Volvo? I don’t know. Volvo has a reputation as the safest car on the road. You’d think that Volvo drivers would feel free to take some chances. Then again, maybe Volvo is statistically the safest car because timid folk drive Volvos.)
So the Volvo creeps along — and the center line is a double yellow, so there’s no passing the creeping Volvo, at least legally. It’s brake lights, inch forward, brake lights, advance nervously, brake lights, proceed cautiously, brake lights, brake lights, brake lights.
When at long last a speed limit sign appears, well beyond Russell Orchards, you’re already well into 35 mph territory. But by this time, the seemingly endless nightmare of Argilla Road has left the hapless Volvo driver in a state of extreme timorousness. Do not expect acceleration. Ain’t gonna happen. When the 30 mph sign comes up, the Volvo driver has no worries because that Volvo hasn’t been going much over 25 for the past 20 minutes.
It won’t take much to make Ipswich perfect. A sign on Argilla Road, for people heading back toward town. That’s all that’s needed.
The sign can be very simple. Here’s what it should say:
Citizens’ Mental Health Zone
GO 40.
AT LEAST.
Doug Brendel lives on outer Linebrook Road in Ipswich, loves going to Crane, dreads heading back. Follow Doug at Outsidah.Substack.com.
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