New England Leaf Peeping--

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FALL IN NEW ENGLAND

When I reached an age that I could fully appreciate the glossy photos of a calendar, I was enamored by the autumn colors of New England. I thought what a treat it would be to travel the back roads of rural Vermont or New Hampshire, and ogle at the changing hues of fall. This October on the "peak weekend" for color, Daisy and Alabaster Hickey became what New Englanders call "Leaf Peepers." We were not disappointed by any measure at the glory autumn brings to this quiet region of small villages and old traditions. The photos of rolling hills and mountainsides covered in the rusty foliage of fall were as brilliant and as wonderful as I had imagined. The setting sun's low shafts of light intensified the oxidized hues, and caused one's head to be in constant motion so as not to miss a hidden splash of brilliance.

Leaf Peeper's Delight

Good friends from Montana, now residing in wilds of New Hampshire, invited us to experience New England with them; an offer we gleefully accepted. The small university town of Plymouth, New Hampshire was our destination.

BRONX

We anticipated that the drive up would be an uneventful slog through New Jersey's Industrial Corridor, which is an eye-burning, gas emitting complex of oil refineries and general, mechanized ugliness; and I am happy to report that we were not disappointed—in the least. However, once in New York our GPS suggested a shortcut across the Bronx. This unscheduled detour at 10:30pm took us down narrow, car-packed, unlit streets with shadowy creatures loitering in the dark. It was downright unnerving!

QUALITY

Once north of New York's foulest, we pulled into a Quality "Ain't" Inn, and looked forward to a good night's sleep. It was in Newburgh, New York, and I would sleep in a ditch before I considered lodging there again. The walls of this sprawling motel were constructed of paper, and the finest details of our neighbor's conversations could easily be heard. At three in the morning, Daisy had had enough, and requested that we be relocated to a quieter room (I was too tired to care).

Our new room had two pictures over each bed, and at a glance my mind registered seeing a horse drawn coach, leafless trees, and what appeared to be the silhouette of the canyon walls of Utah's Zion National Park. Upon closer examination I came to the realization that it was not Zion, but New York's Central Park. All part of the quality deception.

Before sunrise I heard a gentle rap on a door. It was our neighbor trying to encourage her husband to expedite his business in the bathroom. Shortly thereafter, we packed up our belongings and headed north, away from the Bronx and the absence of quality. After breakfast at Neptune's Diner (a first rate eatery) we skirted New York State's lower Adirondack Mountains, turned east and headed across the girth of Vermont. In case you were wondering, it was not until we got to New Hampshire that I spied my first Adirondack chair.

VERMONT/NEW HAMPSHIRE

These diminutive States encircle some of the most beautiful country the Northeast has to offer. Vermont is my favorite, and it is maple syrup that now courses through my veins. Gawd, I love Vermont!

BREAKFAST ON MAIN STREET

After an evening of fine dinning, great conversation, and an honest, restful night's sleep, we met our friends at an honest-to-gawd diner, and resumed our marathon praise of New England. The diner car, turned restaurant, is named Fracher's Diner, but do not let that fool you; its current owner renamed it the Main Street Diner. And thus it shall remain until someone else buys it, and names it something else.

The interior of the diner car turned restaurant

CAMP ON GILDED POND

After a fine breakfast, our hosts invited us out to their "camp" to sit, and enjoy the pond. The pond was a small lake which fed a larger lake (at which, incidentally, the movie “On Golden Pond” was filmed), which poured into another lake, which emptied into yet another lake, and so on, and so forth right down to the Atlantic Ocean. At least that is my romantic assumption.

The view from their lake front property

As we sat on the banks of "Gilded Pond," a name I gave it, I could not help but engorge my mind with the fabulous view before me. Although a glance around the lake would indicate little going on, a closer assessment would reveal evidence of considerable activity on this quiet body of water.


There were rising fish snagging hapless bugs from the water, kayakers leisurely paddling the lake's circumference, a fisherman languidly casting his line, a couple in a canoe heading for their hideaway cabin on a small, wooded island, and of course the twitter of birds. What were we all doing, you may ask? I cannot speak for the others, but I was disengaged, lost in reflective rumination. Not unlike a cow eating grass--in a meadow--in New England.

Various Houses, Store Fronts, and Curiosities Along Our New England Journey

Passing vehicles were channeled through these friendly blockades to solicit donations for the volunteer fire department or the humane society, they either had a boot or bucket in hand. I stopped a little beyond the sight of the township's constable, and held out a camera bag soliciting for leaf peeper donations. I got one Twinkie and a half eaten bolony sandwich. My only complaint was they used too much mustard.

Robert Frost, Norman Rockwell, and Daniel Webster all called New England their home at one time or another. This man was none of the aforementioned people of history.

Need I comment?

Our GREAT accommodations at the Plymouth, New Hampshire's Pilgrim Inn

I have not a clue as to what the cut-out cows were all about, but people were taking pictures of them--like me!

The white court house(now museum) in the background is where Daniel Webster defended his first legal case in 1805. And lost.

Our trip back home was less eventful, and safely took us through the Bronx. However, the next time we travel north we are going to go farther inland, and bypass all this wonderfulness.

Projects at Twilight

Bridge Over Troubled Water

And on Monday it was back at work with oodles of buses and traffic with nowhere to go, but to wait.

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 Work of Frank Frazetta--

The FRAZETTA STONE--A Translation of Fantasy

I first came in contact with Frank Frazetta's work back in the 1950's and early '60's when he cartooned for Al Capp's, Lil' Abner. Of all the Sunday funnies that I admired as a child, his work is foremost in my memory. Who could forget the queer menagerie of characters that called Dogpatch home?

Frazetta's work has influenced many artists over the decades, and I strongly suspect that the body of his work will continue to do so for centuries to come. His work is the standard by which fantasy/realism is measured. In “Painting with Fire,” the film autobiography of Frank Frazetta revealed that his primary publisher once told him to just paint a picture, and that they would find a book that fit it—that’s how marketable his paintings were as fantasy book covers. I suspect that if one were to place his cover art on Darwin's research into the varied design of barnacles, it would become a New York Times best seller.

His insightful study of good and evil, and their many incarnations, has made an obvious impact on the monsters and heroes people go to the cinema to see. Would his rendering of Conan the Barbarian have been as convincing if this hero had resembled Elmer Fudd? The movie sets and costumes in “Conan the Barbarian” were designed based on the benchmark set by Frazetta in his paintings of the same.

FARZETTA'S (almost) WHOLESOME WOMEN

When you are looking at a Frazetta painting of a woman, no reference could possible be drawn to a Gibson Girl with their high, laced collar, balloon sleeved blouses, and Victorian values (not in the least); Frazetta's lassies are scantily clad, if they are wearing any clothing at all, and often they find themselves either in peril or as a warrior in pursuit of peril. Whichever, they are unmistakably Frazetta.

His male audience (for the most part) looks upon his women as desirable; whereas women (some women), find them to be unrealistic, and sexist. They are unquestionably buxom, and in some cases are as formidable as their male counterparts or the monsters that guard or imprison them. I would rather face one of Frazetta's glowing-eyed monsters than to come face to face with one of his seductive, sword wielding vixens.

Upon learning that a museum showcasing his work (http://www.frazettaartgallery.com/) was within a morning's drive from us (200 miles to our north—one way), we loaded into the car, and headed for Pennsylvania. When we arrived at his property there was little to indicate that we had arrived at our desired destination. No billboards, no flashing neon signs, not even a stick painted red! It was not until we entered his curvaceous driveway (how apropos), that we were greeted by a small sign that read, "Museum." A crude arrow pointed to the left; that was it.

We each paid our $10.00 entrance fee, signed the guestbook, and were free to wander around viewing the wonders of his talent. Later his grandson introduced himself, and filled us in a few more details concerning his grandfather's paintings.

His teenage grandson was a congenial, red-headed lad with a ready smile that would have disarmed any one of his grandfather's most ferocious beasts. As we chatted I gazed up at a painting of a lass with a prodigious a'…er'ah…fanny, and asked his grandson if he knew the name of the model? "I could make a lot of money taking her on the road," said I, "just by cracking coconuts with that butt of hers!" He looked up at the painting, slapped his hand over his mouth, and convulsed with laughter. Moments later he regained his composure, and told us that he had wanted to take some of his grandfather's work to his school's show-and-tell, but that his teacher would not allow him to do so. Such paintings would not be in compliance with school policy. Imagine that. I was about to offer a suggestion that he could have placed upon the parts of questionable reveal, a Band-Aid swimsuit, but I decided to leave well enough alone.

I studied Frazetta's technique in nearly every painting, I followed the brush strokes of his oil paintings, and I meandered the smooth wash of his watercolors, and I have to say that I left his gallery enthralled, and satisfied that I had visited a Master's work.

Here is the link to Frazetta's official website; enjoy, but be forewarned, his work ain't for the priggish to view:   http://frankfrazettamuseum.com/

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.