Baltimore's NORTH Avenue

Weeds Reclaim Land

The Narrows

Wide enough for one school bus, and a view of downtown.

Cemetery At The End Of North Avenue

Cheese Bus On Hold

The Community's Hub

Death of A Neighborhood


Curbside Choir with Trumpet Solo

Victorian Row Houses Abandoned and burnt

The Row Houses Two Weeks Later

North Avenue in the Year 9008

Old Tree on Rock

Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.

The Baltimore Tourists Do Not See-

Sunrise On A Baltimore Street

Girl in Blue

Waiting For Something

Stormy Street

Seen Better Days

Wheeler Dealers

Strung Shoes, Turf and Trash

They Watch The Streets
(Christmas Lights Over Baltimore)

Run, Don't Walk

Row House with Sky Light

Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.

>MORE TO COME<

Golly Gothom Gunther!

Old Bohemian Church Established in 1704

Our journey started off simple enough; it was late Saturday morning, and we wanted to visit the Old Bohemian Church on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. The church was established in 1704 to serve this rural community’s Roman Catholic population. Judging from the name “Bohemian” there must have been Czechs around, and after reading the names on the various tombstones there were Germans, and Poles there as well.

Crypt Top left: 1853; Bottom left: 1731; Top Right 1813

Life's Tour of Duty Ended for "PN" in 1789

After the visit to the cemetery we decided to jaunt over to Delaware and look for a place to have lunch. Heading north after we toured a shaving of this sliver of a State, I was asked if I had ever been to New Jersey. I replied that I had not, and the next thing I knew we were crossing a bridge on the New Jersey Turnpike looking down upon the Delaware River. I met a woman in Baltimore who hailed from New Jersey, and I said, “Nu’Joisey? How come you don’t talk like dis?” She frowned and replied, “I ain’t from HO-boken!”

The rivers here in the east are far broader and deeper than they are in the west, if you have ever seen the Mississippi River as it saunters through Missouri then you certainly know what I am talking about. Upon entering New Jersey we shortly found ourselves crossing the Hudson River, and driving over Staten Island. I was astonished to see rolling hills of a fair height and girth; when considering that the surrounding countryside was flat and forested, where it was not paved, this was astonishing. “Mound Builders perhaps? Did the ancient Mississippian culture expand this far east?” I wondered. It did not take long before I became suspicious as to the origin of these hillocks. I became skeptical when I observed a series of tall, white pipes poking out of the hillsides. “Those are vent pipes to exhaust the methane.” I drolly stated. “For cryin’ out loud, this is a garbage dump!” “Yes,” said my wife, “New York City is right over there.” Pointing northeast I could see the distant cutout forms that distinguish Lower Manhattan from the Rocky Mountains. “There’s the Statue of Liberty!------It sure is small.” After we passed the countless rows of houses of Brooklyn we suddenly came face to brick with the iconic masthead of the Big Apple--we were crossing into New York, on New York’s Brooklyn Bridge! My mind was swiped with an abrasive, surrealistic crash of reality, “Good gawd, I’m in New York City! The fabled, GOTHOM CITY!

Brooklyn Bridge

It was not long before my wide-eyed enthusiasm began to burn with the harsh smog of rush hour traffic. Couple that with rude and aggressive taxi drivers; sirens wailing; car horns honking. waves of gawking, oblivious pedestrians; bicycle couriers that know no fear, and a skateboarder that pushed himself from taxi to taxi only to grab onto the back of a transit bus for an additional few hundred feet. I was astonished. Then I forgot about my blazing eyes as glimpse of the Empire State Building poked in and out of view. “Holy donut holes, Batman! There’s the Chrysler Building, the Theatre District; Central Park; Carnegie Hall---Oooo, a bagel shop!”

I wanted to drive past the foot of the Empire State Building to see if the pavement still bore the imprint of King Kong’s massive hulk, but the wife informed me that that was strictly Hollywood, and that the Empire State Building was only a prop. I was dismayed.

Playing Peek-a-Boo with the Empire State Building

Standing Alone

The Taxi Cab Whistle Man

The U.N.



My First Impression

We returned home at mid-night, and together had a glass of burgundy. We shall return.

"There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them."

Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.

Colonial House--

If I were to instruct you to put your John Hancock on the dotted line you would know exactly what I meant--your signature. But if I were to ask you to put your Thomas Strong down instead of your John Hancock, chances are you would look at me and say, “My what?” Having seen for myself the Declaration of Independence, I, would have studiously answered (if asked the same question), “Ah, yes; his signature--Thomas Strong's-- appears on the Declaration of Independence, and is the third name down from Mr. Hancock’s.” Actually, I would not have known his name from that of "Charles Carroll of Carrollton" (Carroll’s name appears just below Stone’s).

Okay, now to the reason for which I write: Most recently I toured Mr. Strong’s house in Southeast Maryland, and got a clear picture of how the Colonial hoity-toity of the hoi polloi lived. I have to say that I was amazed at the home’s matter-of-fact, functionality--of course, I have yet to visit Mount Vernon or Monticello. Strong’s home was modestly adorned inside with restrained, detailed molding, and a flash of color; not opulent by any means. Nope, it t’weren’t much to gawk at.

Front of Colonial House with Wings called "Hyphens"

Strong began to build onto the original house in the latter half of the 1770’s, and he named his plantation, Haberdeventure, which translates to: “dwelling place of the winds.” I was a little windy myself that day!

You will have to admit that they sure loved their coffee or is that a soup bowl at the head of their bed?

Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.

DC in a Month of Saturdays--

Jefferson Memorial and Cherry Blossoms.

It would be an epic triathlon of galleries, monuments, and museums if one were to endeavor a whirlwind tour of DC in a day. You would be hard pressed to see it all in a week. It would take a month full of Saturdays to put a dent in the long list of historic interests the District of Columbia offers. But we chose to surmount this monumental task believing as we do that a grain of sand begins as a boulder (I know, it is a real lame analogy, but I am tired and that was the best I could come up with).

Cherry Blossom at Potomac River Tidal Basin

We began our forced march to conquer the National Mall four weeks ago at the commencement of the Cherry Blossom Festival. We have thus slogged through hundreds of years of magnificent works of art, some hanging, others standing, but all of them worthy of our time. In the National Gallery there is a paintings by Leonardo Di Vinci (the only one in the Western Hemisphere); that painting was something to behold. There were paintings by Raphael, Whistler, Degas, Monet, Van Gogh, and far more than I could or you would want me to mention. We also saw a number of the works by the Dutch Masters, and not a one of them were promoting cigars.

In the Natural History Museum we fluttered through a live butterfly enclosure that was typically tropical; by that I mean to say, it was hot and humid. Early on I had a butterfly land on my shoulder and it rode through the entire exhibit on me. It thought I smelled like a flower. Imagine that.

One of the many beautiful butterflies in the exhibit.

They handed you a large illustrated card that aided in identifying what butterfly was what.

Upon leaving the Museum of Natural History, we sauntered over to the Metro and rode to Capitol Hill. Within a short walk I found myself ogling at the Fabergé egg of all of DC’s treasures. In beauty it dwarfed the Hope Diamond, it put to shame anything Tiffany had ever manufactured, and it rivaled the splendor of the Grand Canyon. What was it? It was the Grand Hall of the Library of Congress. My head was rolling from side to side, and up and down surveying the mosaic ceiling and floors. It was a massive canvas of inlaid tiles, classical style paintings, and sculptured figurines too many to mention. I was agog.

We walked the circular enclosure that housed Thomas Jefferson’s library, and read in the dim light the gold print on leather bound books that Lewis and Clark could have studied. One book, old and tattered, stained by years of use caught my attention. It was entitled, “Little Tommy’s Colouring Book.” (I put that in just to see if you were still with me). I asked at the information desk if I could come in and just read the morning paper in one of the grand halls of study, and the man behind the counter grinned, and said, “Just sign in.” Now I want you to close your eyes and picture me reading the morning news in the grandeur and stone pageantry of Sovereigns. Envision me picking my teeth in the finery crowned heads of Europe took for granted. I missed my calling; I should have been born in festooned pomp and regalia! Lord Alabaster of Hickey! But nay!

Our Library of Congress (LOC)

I believe this nautical scene is of Neptune and friends

The ceiling in the MEN'S room of the LOC. It is the foyer, actually.

One of the four Saturdays was spent walking the hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery. We paid our respects to JFK, Robert Kennedy, the Unknown Solider, Audie Murphy, and the Tuskeegee Air Men. We passed by a boat load of multi-starred generals, politicians, judiciaries, and scores upon scores upon scores of service personnel that fell in various conflicts. We also walked the halls of Robert E. Lee's mansion--the Arlington House.

For those of you who are vague on some of the finer points of American history, Lee's wife's inherited property (her father's stepfather was George Washington) was confiscated by the Federal Government in 1864 due to unpaid taxes. There was in place a law that required the land owner to appear in person, and pay their taxes. At the time of the notification, Robert E. Lee apparently thought that his appearance might be a distraction to the war efforts; thus, he declined to honor the law, and he lost the family farm--plantation. It was decided that their 1,100 acre spread be appropriated for use as a Union cemetery. And so it was.
Beginning with the Lee's front yard and his wife's acclaimed rose garden, the solders in blue were laid to rest. It is also assumed that some of the battlefield bones that were collected were those of Confederate solders as well. Later, much later, as a gesture of reconciliation, Confederate solders were interred upon the property.

The Lee's never again occupied their home overlooking the Potomac.

What is unusual about this artist's painting? Give up?
How many artist do field work with their painting already
framed? And in the back of his "nearly finished work" the frame
has been papered and strung with a wire ready to be hung on
some tourists wall--what a clever fellow.



The massive sandstone pillars of the Arlington House portico.
Incidentally, the sandstone is painted stucco over brick, along with
the marble at the top.
The Lawn at Arlington with the Pentagon in the background. It made me wonder if the
Brass at the Pentagon ever looked outside their windows before they made a decision.

"Pardon me ma'am. May I take a picture of those cigarette butts
between you shoes?"

Copyright © 2008 Jonathan Aspensen All rights reserved. No part of this website, nor any of its contents, may be
reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Jonathan Aspensen.