After a poker game one night, at the artists' club, we got gabbing about cards, art and women. A fellow artist, Ken Gore and I decided to go on a sketching trip, as the run of cards left us in a low state of mind, and we figured sketching might do something to cheer us up and help our ego.

We had always sketched at odd times but this time we were going all out--nothing but sketching, eating and sleeping.

We decided on the locality of the New England states. We filled the old Ford with gas, water, water colors, oil paints, paper, canvas, easels and plenty of brushes. We crossed into Canada, and we were started on a trip that was one of the happiest trips in my life.

This Ford had weak lungs, and its circulation was bad, and a service station man told us this model was not built for mountain driving. Ford had made these cars strictly for city driving with very little pep, but lots of miles per gallon. I don't know how many of these cars Ford built, but I hope they are all in the junk pile by now. This car had character, and with all the equipment and a couple of artists, or guys who looked like artists, we attracted attention as we soon found out.

We had hardly left Windsor, when a young blond creature called to us and inquired where were we going and could we give her a lift to a small town on the road to Buffalo. We asked her why she didn't beg a ride in a larger up-to-date car. She assured us that our outfit had an appeal that gave her a feeling of adventure and romance and that made us feel proud, so we made room for her. We dropped her off at her father's farm, and I had a feeling that she wished she could go along, but you know how those things are and I kept my idea to myself.

On the mountain roads that car developed a kind of a bronchial cough, and gave the impression of going into a decline as one notices in people who get too old. We made all the inclines, but were warned by truck drivers, and other drivers, who thought they were born with a sense of humor.

We did not know exactly where we were going, or what we would sketch, and after two and a half days, we arrived in Gloucester, Massachusetts, and believe me we saw plenty of wonderful country on the way.

This was late in September 1941, as the date on my sketches show and most of the summer motels and hotels were closed. We picked the biggest and oldest summer hotel and walked into the place and asked for a room. The man and his wife looked at us and said they were closing up for the season and all the help had left. After looking at us, and noticing the dumb look of an artist, the wife said she had a room we could have, no meals, we would have to make our own beds but we could stay while they were closing up. We got well acquainted with this wonderful couples, and learned about the history and romance that filled this place. The old registers showed as guests: Teddy Roosevelt, Vanderbilts, and presidents galore. Plus all the great yacht owners of the earlier days when sailing was the real thing.

The place was loaded with painting by all the great painters of earlier days, models of great sailing vessels, wonderful old antiques and memories filled every nook and cranny of that old hotel.

Of course the floors sagged, some of the windows didn't open, you could get lost in the hallways and for fire escapes, there was a box with a knotted rope inside, to be used during an emergency. When I looked out of our bedroom window, all I saw below was ocean, but I guess it would have been all right when the tide was out.

We sketched every day and made two paintings a day. We sketched all over on the docks, in the mud, on old deserted fishing boats, in the hills and in the town of Kenneybuck Port and Rockport with its old fishing dock, lighthouses, old homes. There were pictures all over the place, and lots of artists of all ages from eighteen to eighty. Nights we visited the studios and talked are, and got acquainted with some of the best painters in this country.

It all seemed like a dream, and we learned how to buy food for a whole day's sketching trip. This consisted of Swiss cheese, crackers and a few bottles of Rhine wine which proved to be a meal that kept you in good condition without making you sleepy.

In the towns we could always get real clam chowder, lobsters or any kind of fish you wanted, and we thrived on it. One thing I noticed was that the girls from this locality usually talked art instead of the usual things girls like to talk about and that was a relief.

From Cape Cod, with its Province Town beaches and sand dunes, to Cape Ann, with its wonderful harbors, light house and fishing boats, all the way up the coast of Maine are ideal painting grounds. You can wonder back from the shore into the rocky granite mountains with the wonderful streams, pine forests and find good sketching grounds. The distances are short, no long pulls, and you can find places to stay in motels or Old New England homes that will thrill you with their architecture and interior antiques and furnishings. This is the home of the most beautiful elms in the country and it's hard to beat an elm tree for pure decoration.

The old homes, doorways, fences and gables are of pure design, maybe not modern, but they fin this land and have aged and become a part of the New England landscape.

Plymouth Rock, beds slept in by George Washington, battle grounds, caves, the gingerbread house, the witch house are for people who like that sort of thing, but there's an odor of publicity and profits that hang around them.

I have made many sketching trips to other localities in later years. Brown County in Indiana where a grand painter, Bowen lives and paints, with its quality all its own of dreamy hills, misty mornings and wonderful woods makes it a quiet peaceful place with colorful pictures.

Detroit has wonderful spots with its water front. The Rouge River, a beautiful stream, is owned by the Ford family. Ford and art aren't in the same dictionary.

Nova Scotia is wonderful, Ottawa, Canada is a beautiful town very close to wild country with the Ottawa River and its logs, booms, paper mills and beautiful gardens is worthy of any artist.

Winnipeg, Canada with its Red River valley, a flat country but lots of lakes and old mud homes with a coat of rust stained white wash make for a happy artist.

In fact you can find fit subjects like scenery and city views right around your won home, and get lots of enjoyment painting them--it's a little harder when your close to home--business troubles and relatives.

Ken Gore was an ideal sketching partner--a hard worker, even tempered, a good sense of humor and we had many a grand sketching trips.

Among others I sketched with, and traveled with, was a good artist ---- Konnersman; a wonderful companion with a little excitable streak, a lucky card player. He argued with sailors when they wanted to move their boats, didn't like the tides and did not like to get up early.

Another artist, Hal Burris, a very prolific artist, who has sketched from Mexico up into Canada, made a wonderful companion on many sketching trips. He was the best salesman of this group, and sold a lot of his water colors so he must have been good.

I think the artists club should have a folder telling of suitable sketching spots in and around Detroit, and up in the state, for both local and visiting artists. It should also give them advice on how to act and behave when sketching out-doors as an artist can be a good guy besides being a good painter. Never over three in a sketching group, and they should bring a paper bag for all their oil rags, paper and leave the place cleaner than they do their own studios. Don't forget a cow will eat a pint-soaked rag, get a stomach ache and maybe pass out and the owner never seems to like that. Try to be a gentleman and be especially careful of your cigarettes as other artists might want to sketch it later on. Never destroy or cut limbs off trees and if possible always ask permission to sketch and if sketching on private property show the owner the finished sketch. Sometimes the owner will like the picture and buy it or as one artist did--trade it for potatoes and canned goods so you kids will have plenty to eat.

There are lots of happy small adventures while sketching. The kids and people you meet are interested in you work, and you can learn something from them.

I remember sketching North Port light house, and it is a pleasant place. There were mothers and kids all over the place and after talking to some of them, I got a welcome surprise. Twenty, or so, of them went home, got out their water colors and started to sketch asking my advice. You never saw a better behaved bunch of kids in your life. One mother said, "This has been a peaceful day and I thank you for starting something."

In the ease, I was never refused permission to sketch. I have sketched from porches, back yards, in barns and often sat in the street and let the traffic run around me. I have had people invite me in for coffee or tea. I think people feel sorry for an artist and put art in the category of unnecessary occupations.

One elderly lady, in a chauffeur driven Cadillac, got out of her car, watched me paint, criticized some features, told me it was going to be fine when I put all the details in and then asked me if I knew a good place to eat. I remember the "Peg Leg", a very fine restaurant as I had eaten there one time while trying to make a hit with a red headed model. She had her doubts as the name to her suggested a one-armed joint. She invited me to join her for dinner, and an artist never refuses an invitation to eat, so I gathered my sketching outfit and we enjoyed a very fine meal and discussion of are. To this day, I think she thought I needed a good meal, but I have always looked that way all my life and I think I would make a good pan handler, if need be.

Another time, I was sketching a beautiful old home, with beautiful grounds. I noticed an elderly lady sitting under one of the trees with a table and paper and a telephone with a cable running back to her home, a matter of fifty years or so. She saw me and sent her servant over with a request that I show her my sketch when finished. She looked the picture over, made some comments and took me in her house and showed me a wonderful group of paintings and sculpture as nice as I have ever seen in a home, and the servant brought tea and crumpets. She was a very refined gentle woman with all the dignity you only can find in the New England states. "These you can hardly find any more."

Sketching one day on the edge of a dock, there were two young Portuguese who were laughing very loudly behind me and talking in their own language. I asked one of them what the joke was, and he said his friend suggested pushing the old coots in the ocean and see if they could swim. We were lucky they were Portuguese, for if they had been Americans, they would have pushed us in and grinned.

Picking up a Gloucester paper one day, I read a current event column and noticed an article about a grandfather, father and son who were sketching in the locality and doing rather well. It never dawned on me, but they meant the three of us as one of my friends told a reporter about us. The funny thing was that we were all about sixty-five years old, and we never found out who was the grandfather.

The Portuguese fishermen are a happy, singing people, and to hear them sing while fixing their nets, with the ocean as a sounding board, is something that sounds better than the Grand Opera to me. They are also argumentative, rough and start fighting very easily--the cops break up group arguing as quickly as they can. Their church parades, on holidays, always carry a statue of the Blessed Virgin with the priest marching right behind with vestments and chalice. After him, the people with all the colorful clothes they love--it is something to remember. Once a year, the priest blesses the fishing fleet. The boats are all decorated with flags and the crews are dressed up, as they can be, and with the crowd on the docks, it's enough to make your blood run faster. These people recognize the dangers in their business, but they fear nothing. No fishing boat ever leaves on Sunday, although when out they continue fishing and come in on Sunday.

One Catholic church in Gloucester has a large statue of the Blessed Virgin in a niche in the front wall, and she holds a fishing boat in her hands in place of the Christ Child.

Originally the fishermen were all Italians, but in late years the Italians when to California, and took over the fishing there.

The lobster fishermen are a different breed and are of all nationalities--some war veterans. It reminds me of Detroit's "skid-row", living in small lobster shacks which usually are dirty, never painted, made of most anything the builder could find, but they make good sketching material. They never go far out in the ocean as lobster stay on the bottom and the water does not have to be too deep.

In Maine, and along the coast, the lobster fishermen are a different class. They look at their jobs differently, and are really sailors and business men.

One thing that annoys artists, is the continuous moving of the fishing boats and the tides. You have to know whether it is an ebb tide or a flood tide. I still can remember one artist who started to paint a light house, from a rock along the shore, and finished it with his rear end in the water.

When the fishermen decides to go fishing, he goes and the artist can beg, holler or threaten them, but it does no good. All the sailors do is laugh, and I have seen artists almost weep after one of these episodes. The thing to do is to use your Polaroid camera, take a picture, and if they move--laugh at them

There have find galleries in the east, and lots of good art teachers, both modern and academic, find are clubs and sell lots of good paintings. These pictures are mainly of the sea, the rocky shore, light houses, the old pure architecture of the towns, and winter scenes both of the lumber camps and harbors. Artists like Woodward Kowskii have made names for themselves, and have their studios along the coast.

One gallery I loved was in the small town of ----------, and I think it has one of the finest collections of paintings of all periods. It is a small gallery, a beautiful building, wonderful lights, and you can spend an hour or two and come out feeling refreshed and with recharged batteries. If you are ever close to this town, drop in and see it--you'll enjoy it.

It seems to me galleries donated by a rich man, with an upkeep fund, are better and more enjoyable that a gallery run by a city and its officials. They don't have as much junk, and the employees are not politicians. They do away with the pictures bought back from European trips by women who pick them up in out of the way places and donate them to the gallery--who can't refuse them because their husbands are big shots in the machine business.

When I think of galleries, my mind goes back to Toledo, Ohio. That gallery is a pleasure to visit, and the people of Toledo really attend the shows and they have a lot of them and the art sales for Toledo artists are always big at the shows.

When traveling, and looking for sketching subjects, I have found the best way is to go to some artist's studio, or to the art gallery, and ask them about it and you usually will get lots of help. In a small town in Connecticut, we were looking for covered bridges. We stopped in their art gallery and a women, working there, drew us a map with directions and we found two covered bridges and the first steel bridge built in this country. In fact, a farmer, who stopped and watched us paint, told us we were lucky as the bridge was to be removed to the Washington Historical Society in a few weeks. he said he hated to see it go, as he had been crossing the bridge all his life.

Policemen and gas station men are of no help and hardly ever know the best road out of town.

The best time to pint is from seven-thirty to eleven in the morning and from two-thirty to six in the afternoon-so bring along an alarm clock if you are a heavy sleeper.

Never take a wife along on a sketching trip, that does not paint, as it isn't fair to her or yourself. When going with another artist, try to get one with a sense of humor, one who gets up early and has a philosophical way of looking at life--of course you won't find one but it feels good to look for that kind.

All these activities kept me in the open and my lungs full of clear oxygen--making me feel younger and gave me an appetite for the lobsters, clams and fish and other good foods I ate along the trail.