Mount Vernon

GEORGE WASHINGTON'S

Virginia Home

Peaches and cream, liver and onions, sausages and eventual open-heart surgery, these are words that cannot be said without the other. They are soup and sandwich phrases; likewise, can one say Mount Vernon without mentioning George and Martha Washington? Sure, but it would mess up my whole paragraph's tie-in to the subjoined story.

MOUNT VERNON

Mount Vernon rests upon high ground that oversees Virginia’s side of the Potomac River. It is a sprawling estate with all the 18th Century comforts a person of that time might desire; unless they were there as a resident slave.

Servant's Hall (slaves of visiting guests of the Washington's) stayed in this large, two room dwelling. From a distance it appears to be faced in stone, but it is actually a wood facade.

FARMER WASHINGTON

Our first President valued himself as an agrarian, and his elaborate, formal dining room made note of this fact. Slender farm implements (probably cast delicately in plaster and painted white) are incorporated into finely lined trappings that decorate the ceiling and walls of this spacious room. Citizen Washington wanted his guests to know that above all the positions he held in his long career, he was foremost a farmer.

POPLAR TREES

One of the many massive poplar trees that line Mount Vernon’s bowling green, and curvaceous dual driveway, is said to have been planted by Washington himself. The likelihood of his actually having dug the hole and planted the tree in 1785 may be a tad suspect. Why would he lift a spade being that he had a plentiful and captive workforce at his beckoning? My guess is that in his waning years (he died in 1799), gentlemen George the farmer, may have soiled a knee plucking a radish from out of his garden, but slaves did the rest.

One interesting feature of these trees was the cables that ran up their substantial trunks and forked at the trees’ huge scaffolding branches. At first glance I reckoned they were electrical wires for flood lights, but upon a closer examination I realized they were ground wires for lightening rods. My gaze at that point left the canopy of towering trees, and perused the thickening sky.

Note the tiny adult and child at the tree's trunk far right.

PAINTED INFLUENCE

The recognition of Washington’s financial sway could be seen in the choice of paint used to embolden a room; the more rare and costly the paint (some used lead or arsenic) the more jolting its affect. The first floor of the Mansion is the house's showcase, and the original color scheme has been restored to its fully glory. One striking room on this lower floor is the guest bedroom. It is painted a deep, brilliant blue that jerks one's head in surprise. Whereas his informal dining room, painted a disturbing hue of bile green, is far more bothersome. Upon seeing these two rooms one's senses are electrified if not nauseated.

Washington’s west parlor is painted a silky Prussian blue, and is more gentle on the senses; the house's formal dinning room was tad more prim, but not completely out of the woods, for it too has a wild element.

From the floor and two thirds of the way up, this room was painted a green bean green, while the few remaining feet that curved inward toward the white ceiling, is painted a damned-if-I-know-green.

THE FRONT PORCH

The view from George and Martha’s expansive front porch (the winding driveway leads you up to the rear entrance of the mansion) is striking. The Potomac River curves gently beneath your view, and is squeezed in by a heavy forest of mixed woods. Although I would have liked to have seen more of the estate, the impressive view on this mid-spring day was matched by the heat, and humidity. The humidity was such that it made song birds peep, and one’s interest wane.

Potomac side of the Mansion

IT'S SHOW AND TELL

The first view of Mount Vernon is from the rear of the house (and if you have been reading all that I had written above you would have known that). The original building extended from the center door, and two windows over from the left, and to its right. The rooms beyond the dormers were later additions as was the cupola, and high pitched roof.

I asked our guide if what she called a cupola was not in fact a belvedere, and she emphatically stated that it was a cupola. Methinks it is a belvedere.

Visitors to Mount Vernon enjoy having their picture taken with these two life-size sculptures of tourists. Their identity has been masked to protect their privacy.

The several black smiths I have seen at different exhibits have seemingly mastered one project--they can all hammer out an iron "J-hook." Just once I would like to see one bang out a nail or a horse shoe or Washington's teeth--anything but a damn J-hook. The sweaty young man's hand is on the pump arm for the large coal fire bellow; and yes, it was hot and humid in there.

SLEEPING QUARTERS

The difference between the horse stable (above) and the Slave's Quarter (below) was the advent of a brick floor.


Slave Quarter's kitchen. Note the generous window that was provided for inadequate ventilation.

This photograph was smuggled out of Mount Vernon at great risk to the taker. Photos of the interior of the mansion were prohibited because they want you to buy their postcards of the various rooms within.

Boy reading book is unaware that behind him stands a woman wearing a polychromatic tiara. It remains a mystery as to why she had donned this unusual crest. Furthermore, any conclusion drawn is subject to silly speculation.

Transportation varied according to one's financial base. However, the chair cart (below) was used by the wealthy and the poor alike. It was a horse drawn scooter of its day.


GHOSTLY IMAGES

In this incredible photograph spirit orbs drift from room to room--are they the tormented souls of slaves? Perhaps it is George Washington cursed to wander the estate for his disregard for the tenet that all men are created equal? Or are they just dust partials that the flash on my camera illuminated?

The botanical garden with greenhouse in background.

His greenhouse held a number of tropical plants that needed to be kept warm throughout the winter months. A fire tender kept a sub-floor fireplace stoked, and its exhaust traveled through a series of brick lined heating ducts.


Copyright © 2009 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.

Short Stories by Alabaster Hickey

Once upon a time a little pooh bear observed a panda.

Likewise, the panda observed the pooh bear, and afterwords picked its teeth.
THEND

The Pharmacy

The small waiting area of the grocery store’s pharmacy displayed the usual items of importance: there were vitamins, diet aids, cold packs, enemas, and so on. The tall man, with the white hair, mustache, and bearded chin, stood quietly perusing the shelves with detached interest. That was until his eyes scanned the bold print on a label announcing a new flavor. Peering over the counter toward the pharmacist, the tall man remarked in a low voice, “F-f-flavored condoms? Pray tell, do they come in jalapeño?” The pharmacist looked up and chuckled. The tall man seeing an opportunity to do some investigative reporting, pressed the pharmacist further, “Do you stay up late at night pondering what ‘flavor’ your customers might want to wear?” Again the pharmacist chuckled, only this time his cheeks reddened as he dipped his head in apparent embarrassment.

The tall man grinned satisfactorily, turned around and sauntered out into a passing aisle. Turning back toward the waiting area he noted the presence of a peculiar woman whom he had seen around town. He sized her up momentarily, and then detoured his gaze. With his back toward her, the tall man observed a customer reaching for a bottle of men’s body wash. “What in the hell is men’s body wash,” thought the tall man, “and what can it do that a can of cleanser can’t?”

The tall man’s indirect attention was diverted back to the woman as she commenced to detail her immediate life’s problems. Her audience, a heavily tattooed man with closely cropped hair, listened attentively as she laid her case before him. "They think I'm bipolar,” the woman said, a diagnosis given by some ambiguous authority, “but I don't think so! I just have ADHD, and I think it’s all the stuff I’m going through with the way my parents treat me--I think they’re my problem, they don’t treat me nice.” The tattooed man bobbed his head in silent confirmation. “My brother,” she continued, “won't let me see my nephew; I don’t know why, they don’t trust me around him.” She paused pensively, “They took pictures of his baptism--in a church, but I didn't go; they took my camera and took the pictures of him being baptized. And I know what they're going to say when they find out the pictures aren’t on my camera anymore. They’re going to say I de-e-e-leted them, but I didn't,” she insisted. Another pause, another segue, “I’m not going with anyone right now,” she offered for no apparent reason, “but I am seeing someone, but they don’t know it” They, meaning whom, I wondered? “I don't let men in my house anymore because one stole from me $4,000, and raped me. I think all my problems are because of my family. I don't think I'm bipolar, I just have ADHD."

The tattooed man turned toward her and sympathetically said, "Ye-e-eah, I used to have all that too.” A suspension in their conversation followed as their eyes locked upon the other’s. “But one thing I learned is, if you don't have to take the medication--don't take it."

The pharmacist called the tattooed man’s name, and he left with his prescription. The woman approached the counter, her eyes fixed upon the pharmacist alone. Meanwhile, the tall man stepped back to an even greater distance not wishing to be engaged in her conversation at all. “Should I take the antibiotic twice a day or once in the morning?” she asked the pharmacist. He glanced up but said nothing. She then repeated (nearly verbatim) her perceived problems and their cause.

The pharmacist called my name and the troubled woman fell silent. Upon taking leave with my stapled bag of medication, I looked the pharmacist squarely in the eyes, smiled, and said in a low, jesting tone, "I envy you." He smiled broadly and laughed.

The Elevator

The elevator door slowly pulled aside and everyone wishing to go up, walked in. The hospital’s deep, bed size elevator was full of men in suits, and women dressed to the hilt in modest splendor. A few, the tall man included, were dressed down in casual garb, and looked the part of a patient.

As the doors closed behind him, the tall man stepped to the side. Facing the crowded elevator room, the tall man smiled, looked at the blank faces staring back at him, and said, “You’re probably wondering why I called this meeting?” The elevator exploded in laughter. “Ding!” The door opened, and the tall man walked out.

Alabaster Hickey

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.

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.

The Invisible Bandage and Homeless Harold

A leading bandage manufacturer that touts their bandage as an invisible strip that, “blends in with your skin,” has made me a believer!

Homelessness here in Baltimore affects an estimated 3,000 people. One fellow whom I have dubbed, “Homeless Harold,” has his living quarters at the base of an interstate facing a very busy roadway. I have watched him over the months collect a small apartment's worth of household items. He has a broom and a dustpan, a mattress, countless blankets (the middle ground heap is him in bed) and bags of clothing neatly stored in trash bags around his “bedroom.” He also had a five gallon pail with a lid that I assumed he used as a commode or perhaps a bedside end table (It has since been removed). But what really caught my attention was the orderly display of twelve pairs of shoes. That strand of shoes speaks a volume about his character.

UPDATE:After having his belonging removed by the city, only to see him return with more "furnishings", the city has once again cleared him off the street, and thus far he has not returned. He certainly was a colorful addition to a dull intersection.

Copyright © 2007 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 Virgin Harry

The other day a group of us were outside looking up at the clouds when several of us began to pick out familiar shapes. There was a horse’s head, a few dragons, and one duck with a Donald Trump comb over. Then, to the shock of us all, an image of the Virgin Harry appeared in the clouds.

Copyright © 2007 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.

Off To Montana

THE GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS

When we left Baltimore last July we headed down for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park in Tennessee, and exited in North Carolina, but before we did either we had to pass through Gatlinburg, Tennessee—which is near the center of the universe for seekers of Dollywood (Dolly Parton’s version of Disneyland at Pigeon Forge). Gatlinburg’s unavoidable main street was swarming with google-eyed tourists buying souvenirs with various hillbilly themes and searching for other prized collectables, such as: Dolly’s Triple D Double Doozey T-shirts with extra foam inserts (I look really good in mine), and of course people were lining up to buy the Singing Dolly P Toilet Seat that plays her song, “A Few Old Memories,” when you conclude your business. There is also an Elvis museum, and a “live” Elvis dinner theatre. But if that does not catch your fancy then you may opt to have dinner with an Oral Roberts look-a-like Gospel singer who belts out the old hymns with the gusto of a beer commercial.

I lost count of the numerous kitschy hillbilly memorabilia shops, arcades, and fast-food restaurants in town, but I do recall (through the blur of neon signs and flashy billboards) an advertisement for the Pigeon Forge, Black Bear Jamboree: “Get ready to clap your hands, stamp your feet and get your groove on!” This dinner and show fandango is hailed as even bigger than before!

The Great Smoky Mountains was an interesting drive with unusually tall stands of trees, a few vistas overlooking more vistas, and miles of blooming rhododendrons. In the morning when we left we enjoyed the region’s namesake when the humidity veiled the hollers in fog and mystery. It was truly beautiful—and dreadfully humid.

ALABAMA--TENNESSEE--KENTUCKY--IOWA--ILLINOIS

Our next stop was in Equality, Alabama for Ceilon’s family reunion. Alabama, if you did not already know, is in the Bible Belt of these United States and it was common to drive past crosses and billboards warning us of Hell’s fire, eternal damnation, and have a “Happy Day.” Several years back when I first visited Alabama we drove past the Pentecostal Fire Baptized Holiness Campground; this time we found the Congregational Holiness Church and Campground. That inspired me to think about starting my own church, I would call it: The First Assembly of the Congregational Pentecostal Holiness Fire Baptized Eat a Bug Car Wash Church and Campground. Alabamian’s take their old time religion very seriously.

When we were leaving Alabama and about to enter Tennessee, we came upon two billboards (set one atop of the other) that were unique to say in the least. The bottom one advertised Tennessee’s own, “Big Jim’s Boobie Bungalow” and stacked above that was an advertisement lauding the redemptive value of the blood of Christ. Only in Alabama did I see such a commercial dichotomy as this.

After Tennessee, and Kentucky we entered the Corn Belt of Illinois and spent the night along the banks of the Mississippi (mosquito infested) River. This was at Nauvoo, Illinois where Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith brought his beleaguered adherents. His overall plan was to establish a theocracy with him as its Earthly centerpiece. Instead, it became his grave. More on that in pictures--

NEBRASKA

As we headed west through Iowa (which I found to be a quaint and beautiful State) we crossed into Nebraska. Toward the northwestern center of this State we entered the inhospitable Sand Hill region and left behind the seemingly endless fields of corn. It was there that we picked up the Oregon Trail and visited its renowned monuments.

The first sight of interest was Jail and Courthouse Rock, these geologic features reminded the law abiding citizens (who were trespassing Indian land) that civilization as they knew it was long behind them. The Oregon Trail, if you did not know, was first charted in 1830 by William Sublette, who through his knowledge of the vast plains and mountain passes wove a trail west to Ore-GON. In so doing, Sublette made it possible for my grandparents (at that time they were ages 7 and 5) and their parents to follow behind him 65 years later. The only story I ever heard of their two month slog across the Oregon Trail to Idaho was of their encounter with railroad trestles. When their lengthy wagon train came to a river crossing and a trestle availed itself, the wagon master would dispatch several men a mile fore, and a mile aft to watch for approaching locomotives. Once these lookouts were in position, groups of able bodied men and boys would drive the teams of horses or mules across the river while the remaining men folk would push the loaded wagons across the trestle. For a large wagon train, as was theirs, it must have taken a full day of laborious heaving to bridge the distance required.

Leaving Jail and Courthouse Rock we came upon Chimney Rock. This sandstone column that once aspired to touch the heavens now stands in ruins. Time has whittled the spire to a nub, and in the very near future it will be nothing more than a button.

On crossing the border into Wyoming we followed the Oregon Trail to Independence Rock. This massive loaf of granite was the site of a Fourth of July celebration in 1850 and was for this reason named. Once thousands of names and messages were chalked on its stone face, but now only those who had the time to chisel their monikers are left. A little beyond Independence Rock is Devil’s Gate which is a large fissure through which the Sweetwater River flows and below that is Martin’s Cove.

Martin’s Cove is where Mormon converts, mainly from England, held up in the winter of 1856 after pushing handcarts half way across this continent through deep drifts of snow, and across icy creeks that froze their clothes to their sides. Not all of these Mormon converts made it to Martin’s Cove, some succumbed to exposure; still others fell to starvation and among those that did survive a number of them lost digits, and limbs to frostbite. However, when news of their plight reached the ears of Brigham Young in Salt Lake City, he promptly dispatched a rescue party that saved the remaining Saints from certain death. Once in Salt Lake City the men who could afford the costly practice of polygamy did so in relative isolation, but of course what does “relative isolation” mean when you have 3 wives and a passel of children?

WYOMING--MONTANA

The stories of lost lives and dashed hopes litter the Oregon Trail, not only for the Mormons, but for those who dreamed of escaping Baltimore—er’ah—life in the East to find a new one in the unfettered West. Upon leaving the Oregon Trail we struck a course for Rawlins (Haliburton), Wyoming, from there we headed northwest for the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone National Parks. Outside of the Grand Tetons we had lunch at a fancy restaurant that rolled our silverware into these thick, cloth logs or as they appeared to me to be a burrito. I made the comment to the waiter that my complementary appetizer (the burrito) was “damn tough to chew, but once down it was satisfying.”

We stopped and I ogled at the Grand Tetons (something I cannot keep myself from doing) and then drove through Yellowstone with little more than a glance. We have been there a dozen times and although Ceilon marveled at the wonders I would occasionally look out of the window and say in a drawn out nasal drone, “O-o-o-oh, look, there’s another gey-ey-ey-eyser.” Now and then Ceilon would poke me in the ribs and say, “WAKE UP! You’re sleeping through the most beautiful part of the drive! -- There isn’t any corn here!” Our final destination of Bozeman, Montana was my focus, everything after the Tetons seemed dreary.

12 hours after leaving our KOA campsite at Rawlins (Halliburton), Wyoming, we arrived “home,” intact, and very tired, but happy. WAIT! One last observation concerning our KOA stay in Wyoming. An amiable fellow and his two boys camped in the slot next to us, and in the morning I walked over to chat with him and when I said something, he agreed with he would bob his head and say, “Yup, yup, yup, yup, yup.” When he first fired off this flurry of yups, I took a step back and surveyed the situation. I then dared once more to extract from him an affable response, and sure enough a ribbon of yups with the cadence of a gatling gun shot forth. He truly was an odd fellow--yup, yup.

ALABAMA--

Rural swimming hole provides some relief from the heat and humidity of the day, near the former location of Sykes’ Mill in Titus, AL—


Classic Alabama homestead with “dog trot” breezeway. This pre air-conditioning configuration effectively cooled off the house by allowing air to flow between its living spaces. There is one separate bedroom to the left and one to the right. Directly behind the bedroom to the right is a dining room and behind that was the kitchen. The house was placed facing the north to catch any summer breeze that might happen by. The 11 foot ceilings also helped to keep the heat above head level. Heating in the winter months was provided by the chimneys at the apex at either ends of the roof. One for each bedroom and the kitchen.


This is another homestead that is even older in style and comes with two front doors; I was told that the door to the right was for the kitchen and the door to the left was a bedroom. It originally it had a cedar shake roof and porch, but when the tin roof was put on the porch was torn off—


A turkey vulture lives within this clapboard old tenement house turned barn. As I approached it vomited, which is a typical response of these birds to an intrusion on its territory. To show my displeasure at its welcoming behavior I too commenced to vomit, and that set in motion a pukeathon that would have continued throughout the afternoon had the buzzard not passed out first—

KENTUCKY--


This was taken in Kentucky where it is common place for there to be three suns setting over any given lake. What do you mean I fudged the picture?

ILLINOIS--


Joseph Smith’s Nauvoo Mansion which is owned by the Community of Christ Church, formally known as the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Mansion does not always mean opulent, it was fairly straight forward and practical—


CARTHAGE JAIL: After being jailed for destroying a print shop that opposed the Mormon’s dominance in the area, Joseph, his brother Hyrum and several Church leaders languished in these modest confines to await their trial. However, a mob of self-righteous citizens took it upon themselves to fast-track the trial and murder the prisoners prior to a verdict. To keep the murderous do-gooders from breaking into the room his older brother Hyrum barricaded the door with his body. As a result someone in the mob fired a shot through the door and the large caliber ball slammed into Hyrum’s face. His final words on this 27th day of June, 1844. were, “I am a dead man.” The window in the rear of the above picture is the one Joseph Smith bolted for in a bid to escape. However, several lead balls hit their mark blowing him out the window to his demise on the pavement below.


Second story window out of which the Mormon Prophet Joseph Smith hastily took his egress—

NEBRASKA--


1849 drawing of Chimney Rock and a current photo taken by world renowned photographer Alabaster Hickey—Note the heavy erosion at Chimney Rock’s base in contrast to the drawing made 158 years ago.


Here is an overlay I did to help you see what has been lost to erosion.


Jail and Courthouse Rocks—

WYOMING—


Countless wagons cut this trench in the soft sandstone along the Oregon Trail—


Sweetwater River’s Devil’s Gate at Martin’s Cove—


Independence Rock—


The finger points toward three teenie-weenie tourists, which gives you some idea as to this monolith’s mass—


This poor girl (whom I presume to be a Latter-Day Saint) is re-enacting a stretch of LDS history and could not figure out whether to pull the cart, tow the cart or shove the cart. Shoving it was of course the correct answer. Her aerobic gesticulations were most humorous--teehee.


The purple striation is volcanic ash that settled to the bottom of a shallow sea that covered this area about the time when dinosaurs called Montana home and our kind was but a thought in Mr. Consonant’s (YWYH’s) mind.


Grand Tetons from a highway pull-off—


This, my friend—is a mountain. If you have never looked upon the Grand Tetons then you may rest assured that you have never seen a mountain—

MONTANA—


When reality would seep into my mind and I came to the realization that I was living in BaltoSTINK, and not Bozeman, Montana, I would go to the Bozeman newspaper’s website and click on their webcam. I would then spin the camera around and take a look at the 8-10,000 foot range of the Bridger’s and see what the weather was outside. On this particular morning I did as prescribed and was thunderstruck to look out our kitchen window and see the very same scene—but in REAL TIME. Was I dreaming? “Could it be that I’m actually in Montana?” I said to myself.

Sometimes my wife surprises me with a witty remark and when we went to purchase my out of State fishing license the clerk read on his register’s monitor that my address was such and such in Bozeman, Montana, to which I replied,

“Yes, we used to live here, but now we live in Baltimore, Maryland. Have you ever been to Baltimore?”

“No,” replied the clerk, “but once I drove through Maryland on the interstate.”

“That counts, I guess.”

She then chimed in, “We vacation in Maryland for 10 months out of the school year, but we live here (Montana)------------we’re still in a state of denial,” she confessed. The clerk shot her a glance, looked me squarely in the eyes and I nodded in confirmation. “Yeah—we vacation there.”

FITCHIN’, FITCHIN’, and MORE FITCHIN’ (Fishing, Fishing, and More Fishing)—

As I write this [I wrote this in August] I can hear the deep, chopping drone of a World War ll B-17 bomber flying overhead. An air show is in town and what a thrill it is for me to hear and see this vintage craft aloft. Although I suspect that my excitement was probably not as profound as were the residents of Dresden, Germany in 1945. Last year a B-29 flew over the house, but enough on that—onto FITCHING (fishing). I love to fitch, there is honor and prestige in the art of bamboozling a fish to take your artificial fly and then reel them in for the dinner plate. I tried several artificial flies without so much as a nibble, and then I looked down on my arm and noticed that I had several mayflies on it. That was purely an AH-HA moment, and shortly thereafter I was banking in trout.

After a 5 mile bike ride up a mountain and then ditching the bikes in the weeds, we set off on foot along a trail 2.5 miles long until we came to our destination—Mystic Lake.


My fitching companéro, Mike, is investigating a creek for “holes” where trout like to hide; Mystic Lake is in the background. We fitched ALL DAY LONG for these aquatic delights and, I have the sunburn and a gashed elbow prove it. I stepped onto, slipped off of, and landed upon a rock with my elbow as the leading buffer. My elbow worked fabulously in this capacity and the swelling, bruising, tears and pain established this fact—


U bend in Mystic Creek that feeds Mystic Lake, no mystery there—


String of fitches held up by one happy fitcherman. I brought home my legal limit of cutthroats and a load of brown trout. Consequently, I had trout for breakfast, trout for lunch, trout for dinner and for a mid-night snack I had still more trout. I released back into the lake nearly as many as I took home. I pooh poohed any trout that was not over 3 feet in length—


During a lull in the fitching I paused to take in the magnificent view and the wafting stench from the mud. It reminded me of putrefied Swedish meatballs, sautéed in a light sewage sauce with a delicate hint of herbal notes—


Big, nasty brown trout. The mouth and throats of these predatory fish are black and inside they hide a series of tiny, needle sharp teeth. They also have cute little pink circles that dot their flanks to emphasize their feminine side. Note that on the anal fin(s) there is a white bar at the bottom edge. When you see that white bar flash in the water you know that you have hooked one fine dinner.


A view of Baltimore a hundred-thousand million years ago—


Composition: Tree with Moss and the Virgin Mary—


The happy, tubby hiker. To lighten my load I left my boots at home. I should have left me at home and let my boots (which were in better shape) go alone.


Sitting on the banks of the Madison River at sunset; the orange reflection on the water is smoke from the numerous forest fires that have Baltimore’d our air quality worse than LA’s. The first thing I did on smoky mornings was to walk outside, take in a deep lungful of the chowder-thick air, and exhale a whirl of glowing cinders—

This road trip took us through West Virginia, Virginia (Blue Ridge Mountains), Tennessee, North Carolina (Great Smoky Mountains), Georgia (yeah, we ate some peaches, but the ones of Chilton County, Alabama were tastier), Alabama (foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains), Kentucky, Illinois (vast stretches planted in corn the likes of which I have never seen), Iowa (popcorn, soy beans by the mile), Nebraska (more corn), Wyoming (no corn), Montana (some corn, when we could see it through the smoke), North Dakota (cows), and then across the 10,000 lakes of Minnesota (beautiful, marshy), Wisconsin (cheese orchards; and yes, we missed all the flooded areas by a mere day), Indiana (boring), Ohio (the southern route bordering Missouri is pretty), Pennsylvania (looks like Maryland), and finally we arrived in Maryland (resembles Pennsylvania). I cannot wait until we recuperate and are back on the road again next summer.

Alabaster of Hickey

I would have posted this sooner, but after reading the first draft, and quaffing subsequent drafts, I was in no condition to edit.

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