Amish – Page 18 – Roadkill Crossing

Sweetness found in more than maple syrup

By Bruce Stambaugh

I left a voicemail message for Elmer, a former elementary student of mine. I told him that I would arrive at his sugar shack between 9 and 10 on Saturday morning.

No longer the fourth grader I fondly remembered, Elmer was now a husband, father, grandfather and entrepreneur. I considered it a privilege to be invited into this unpretentious but productive workplace.

The process of making maple syrup has to be done in a timely fashion. When the sap’s running, it’s time to get busy.

Above the sugar shack, a billowy blend of steam and smoke filtered through barren branches and into the morning’s overcast, and signaled that Elmer and his crew were already hard at work. The smoke meant the wood-fired boiler was stoked. The steam said the sap was boiling.

Strands of thin blue tubing zigzagged downhill from maple tree to maple tree, converging at the weathered wood building. Lid-covered buckets marked the taps on the trees and served as junctions for the plastic tubing.

A lazy, little stream split the handsome, steep hillside farm fields on either side of the hollow. Even after all of the moisture we had had, the creek just trickled softly as if it didn’t want to disturb the bucolic setting. Near the entrance a small sign welcomed one and all to the Yoder’s sugar camp.

The annual effort clearly was a family affair, too. With my arrival, the close quarters of Elmer’s operation soon filled with curious family members. Some were there to work and visit, others, mainly to scope me out.

Elmer’s apples.

Quiet stream.

Grades of amber.

Reverse osmosis.

Into the tank.

Tied up.

Stoking the fire.

Welcome sign.

The sugar shack.

Buckets and beyond.

When he’s not making maple syrup, Elmer has his fingers in several other operations. He makes wooden slats for the interiors of utility trucks as well as nylon pockets for tools and electronic parts.

In addition, Elmer makes wood clocks in the shape of Ohio with each of the state’s 88 counties a different wood. Elmer has developed his own variety of sweet, tart apple. I can attest that they are delicious. Elmer is a multi-talented man.

As Elmer showed me the various aspects of his sugaring operation, I marveled at his ingenuity, and his acute knowledge. He talked while he worked, once using the hydrometer to check the percentage of brix in the bubbling solution.

Outside large stainless steel tanks captured the sweet liquid until it was pumped into the reverse osmosis system that made his sugaring operation so efficient and kept the finished product consistent.

All the while young sons and pretty daughters scurried about their tasks, too. They stoked the fire frequently to maintain the proper temperature to keep the boiling sap boiling.

Elmer demonstrated how syrup is graded by both flavor and color. Apparently, lovers of maple syrup have their preferences.

Soon more family members entered, including two that I should have recognized but did not. Sister Fannie, and younger brother, Harry, arrived just minutes apart. Like Elmer, I had taught them, too. I had no idea they were coming.

That’s when the stories really started to flow faster than the maple sap. They reminded me of events and interactions I had long forgotten. Their smiles told me they had waited a long time for this opportunity.

Teachers live for moments like this. To have former students chatter on and on in heart-felt contentment overwhelmed me with abundant joy.

The apples and syrup each had their own special sweetness. No instrument, however, has yet been made to gauge the sweetness of the hospitality shown to me.

maplesyrupbybrucestambaugh — The signs said it all.

Spring’s first day: Winter coat to no coat

By Bruce Stambaugh

Winter just wouldn’t let go, even on the first full day of spring.

The day dawned with glorious anticipation. A rosy sunrise filtered through the cumulous clouds hanging low on the eastern horizon. It was down hill from there for much of the rest of the morning.

After the welcoming daybreak came the discovery of a horseshoe nail in the sidewall of a relatively new tire. It’s just one of the hazards of living in Holmes County, Ohio.

Next came the snow, which the weather forecast seemed to have overlooked. By the time my wife and I had reached our morning’s destination, nearly an inch had fallen.

plowinginthesnowbybrucestambaugh — Plowing in the snow.

A former student of mine had invited us to view his maple sugaring operation at the southern end of the county. It had been a long time since I had seen Elmer, a quiet, studious youngster when I taught him in fourth grade. That was 44 years ago.

Elmer had called earlier in the week to tell me he’d be boiling sap. Unfortunately, this day wasn’t one of them. Instead, we had a very nice visit with Elmer and his wife, reminiscing about those long ago school days.

After a while, Elmer’s mother joined us shortly before we needed to leave. By then an overcast sky had replaced the springtime squalls.

thinningskybybrucestambaugh — Thinning sky.

Up hill, down dale, around curves left and right, the further north we drove towards home, the stronger the sun became. At lunchtime, with the heavens still hazy, the sun hung overhead like a bare light bulb trying to illuminate an entire gymnasium.

I had a couple of appointments to keep in the afternoon, which required further driving. I enjoyed my visits, and was pleased to see no line at the usually busy carwash. I needed to clean off the mud from the morning’s foray.

When I returned home, my workaholic wife was outside cleaning up the yard and flowerbeds. Out of chivalry and my own desire to enjoy the remainder of the day, I donned a light jacket and joined her.

I needed to do my part in collecting winter’s litter. When you propagate a mini-forest of various deciduous and evergreen species, a lot of dead leaves and windblown sticks need to be gathered.

This surge of warmth and sunshine had energized me. I decided to trim some of the wiry lower branches of the jumble of trees and scrubs I had planted over three decades.

afternoonshimmeringbybrucestambaugh — Afternoon shimmering.

I knew when I had snipped a sugar maple limb. The sap dripped like a leaky faucet. Right then and there I decided I would head back to Elmer’s sugar shack the next day. I definitely wanted to see his outfit in operation.

All the while, the afternoon sun grew stronger and stronger. It was good to be outside again enjoying the sights, sounds and odorous whiffs of the springtime countryside.

Every few minutes, the song sparrows let loose a few bars of their cheery chorus. Not to be outdone, the cardinals called, too, first from a fir tree, and then they flitted to the bare branches of the oaks and maples.

I was enjoying myself so much, I pitched my jacket altogether. In a matter of hours, it had gone from a winter coat day to a no coat day.

I was glad that winter had finally let go its hoary hold, even if it was only a brief interlude on spring’s first afternoon.

The winter of our youth has returned

By Bruce Stambaugh

When it comes to winter weather, the younger generations now have something to brag about. They have finally experienced a good old-fashioned winter.

It’s been a long time coming, too. Sure, we’ve had bitter cold snaps, and heavy snows in the past few decades. But nothing has resembled the winters of my youth or those older then me for that matter.

The worst back-to-back winters that I can recall were those of 1976-77 and 1977-78. They were record breaking, unforgettable winters. Once we went from tornado warnings to blizzard warnings in a matter of minutes. Extreme cold followed the blizzard. Those storms brought wide-ranging effects with no exaggeration needed.

amishsleddingbybrucestambaugh — Amish children sled riding.

We had 22 foot snow drifts behind our house. A front-end loader shoveled the snow out of our driveway. The driver of a semi-tractor trailer truck was buried for days in the cab of his truck. The tip of his radio antenna sticking out of the snow enabled rescuers to find him. Given today’s digital gizmos, do I need to explain what a radio antenna was?

The severe weather closed school for 17 days. Those of you who lived through those fateful winter storms have your own amazing stories.

Of course, I was a young man then, not a youngster. Youth tend to remember the upsides of harsh winters. They leave the negatives for the adults to unravel. I was no different.

When heavy snows hit and extended cold spells settled in when I was a kid, the outdoors was our playground. I’m sure mothers everywhere were grateful for that.

We would bundle up as best we could, layered with jackets, stocking caps, scarves and fur-lined gloves. Off we would go, sledding, ice skating, making snow angels and snowmen, snow forts, and firing volley after volley of snowballs. We never had to worry about running out of ammunition.

We played until we got too cold or too wet or both. We went home, and hung the soaked clothing as close to the furnace as possible where it was likely to dry the quickest. At school, kids’ clothing covered the old steam radiators until the next recess.

Heavy snow.

Winter’s beauty.

Snow play.

Snow angel.

Snowman.

Snowstorm.

All quiet.

Having fun.

Fun finish.

Snow farm.

Snow branches.

Winter sunset.

“Look out!”

Snowball fight.

Winter road.

Old-fashioned winter.

One-room school.

These memories weren’t from one-time storms either. This was the way winter went. It was extremely unusual if snow didn’t cover the ground for a majority of the winter.

This wasn’t true for just my youth. I remember seeing pictures and hearing stories from my parents and grandparents about how difficult their winters had persistently been. I recall seeing pictures of gangs of volunteers clearing the state route in Mt. Hope, Ohio by hand with shovels, not plows. The snow was piled well above their heads.

That hasn’t happened in recent years. In fact, records show that nine out of the last 10 years global records have been set for above average annual temperatures. That did not bode well for a sustained winter anywhere.

For a multitude of climatological reasons, that has all changed this winter. Storm after storm, often following similar tracks, have pelted most of North America, especially areas east of the Rocky Mountains.
Snowplows have worked overtime clearing the roads. Road salt has become a precious commodity.

This winter certainly has been a doozy. My guess is it will leave the kind of lasting impressions on the younger generations like it did for my generation and those previous.

There is one minor problem that I hate to even mention. Winter isn’t over yet. More memories may yet be made.

onthetrailbybrucestambaugh — Amish buggies regularly use the Holmes Co. Trail, even in winter.

A happy ending for a confused waterfowl

By Bruce Stambaugh

My good friend Robert phoned again recently. When Robert calls me, I listen.

Known as the go to bird guy, Robert gets all kinds of calls regarding birds, especially rare species since he hosts the rare bird phone alert for Holmes and surrounding counties in Ohio’s Amish Country. Sometimes he even serves as a conduit for rescuing birds.

That was the nature of this call. A bird had landed on a gleaming, long farm lane, obviously mistaking it for a stream or water-filled ditch. The young mother of the family that found the floundering bird had called Robert out of desperation.

The family had easily captured the bird and, recognizing it as a waterfowl species, placed it in a basement utility tub half filled with water. That’s where it still was when Robert, his son and I arrived the next morning.

Robert immediately identified the bird as a Horned Grebe all decked out in its spiffy winter plumage. It’s red eyes looked like bright buttons against its clean, white cheeks and charcoal head.

Not only was this an unusual situation, it was an unusual bird for this area for this time of year. Horned Grebes need long stretches of water to get airborne. The shiny, wet driveway had apparently confused the poor bird.

Fortunately, the grebe appeared to be fine. But with the extreme cold of early January, large, open water spaces were scarce. I called another noted area birder who told us she had seen a good section of the Killbuck Creek free of ice near Holmesville in northern Holmes County.

Robert donned his gloves, and carefully lifted the Horned Grebe out of its watery confinement and wrapped the bird in towels to protect it from any human contaminants. Off we went with the grebe perched patiently on Robert’s lap. We’ll discount the several attempts to drill Robert with its thick, pointed bill.

When we arrived at the creek, we found a couple of good release points. We chose a large ice-free spot 100-yards south of the bridge that crosses the Killbuck. It appeared to be the best place to release the bird back to its proper habitat.

Robert slowly approached the creek bank, and gently tossed the grebe toward the stream. The Horned Grebe flapped its way to the murky water. It swam a short distance, pecked the surface as if in disbelief, and made a quick dive to the bottom. Even though the Amish family had dropped bits of frozen fish into the tub’s water, the Horned Grebe was naturally hungry.

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After a few seconds, the natty bird resurfaced, leaned back, shook its wings and head simultaneously. If birds can express emotions, this fortunate fellow was down right ecstatic.

The Horned Grebe swam and dove, swam and dove. The three of us headed back to the car satisfied that the bird was uninjured and would be just fine.

Once it had gained its strength, the Horned Grebe would likely take its long, running start across the water’s surface and lift into the air. Hopefully, when and wherever it landed, it would pick a real pond or stream this time.

On land, the Horned Grebe was simply helpless, completely out of its element. On water, it was a graceful and stately wonder. As proof, the grebe was placidly floating in the center of the stream as we left.

We took one last glance as we crossed back over the bridge in the car. The grebe was gone. Either it was down for another food forage or it had taken off for another locale.

There is great satisfaction in helping the helpless, confused birds included.

lastlookbybrucestambaugh — This was the last time we saw the Horned Grebe as we walked back to my vehicle.

Chasing the elusive but beautiful Snowy Owls

By Bruce Stambaugh

Birding is one of my many hobbies. I’m not the best birder by any stretch of the imagination. But I consider it a compliment to be called a birder.

I’m not alone. Believe it or not, birding is one of the most popular sports in the world. Birding is an international activity that can be enjoyed by anyone, any age at anytime. All you need are birds and an awareness to see and hear what is flitting right around you.

Birders have long been interconnected. That’s because it’s equally fun witnessing the enthusiasm and excitement of others experiencing the same bird you got to see. Ask my wife. I’ve called her to the kitchen window many a time to view the beauty and antics of our backyard birds.

Today birders connect in many ways. Bird alerts via phone, texts, email and Internet posts keep avid and amateur birders alike apprized of any rarity that arrives. Organizations and clubs also promote birds and birding.

spottedtowheebybrucestambaugh — A Spotted Towhee recently spent several weeks at a feeder at an Amish home west of Holmesville , OH.

Over the years, we’ve had our fair share of rare birds appear in Ohio’s Amish Country. They get noticed here more than other places perhaps because we have so many good birders who live here. Many of them are young Amish folks.

We’ve had Wood Storks, Rufous Hummingbirds, Northern Wheatears, Spotted Towhees and Swallow-tailed Kites. The latest rarity influx has been Snowy Owls.

When my friend, Robert, called just before Christmas and asked if I wanted to see a Snowy Owl that was reported near Mt. Hope, I was elated. I stopped what I was doing, gathered my binoculars and cameras, and picked him up.

Snowy Owls normally winter in southern Canada. Once in a great while, the impressive white birds will wander farther south into Ohio and other states.

sunpillarbybrucestambaugh — The Thanksgiving Day sunrise produced a marvelous sun pillar.

Robert had also called about a Snowy Owl the day before Thanksgiving. It had been seen between Berlin and Walnut Creek. When we arrived at the location given for the bird, it was gone. We drove around scouting for it without success.

As soon as we arrived back home, Robert received another call that the Snowy Owl had returned to its original spot. It was close to dusk, and we both decided not to retrace our tracks, thinking we could see it the next day.

We were wrong. We were up early Thanksgiving morning. It was frigid, but a beautiful sunrise brightened the horizon with a spectacular sun pillar thrown in for good measure. But no Snowy Owl.

I wasn’t about to miss this latest opportunity. When we arrived at the reported location north of Mt. Hope, the Snowy Owl was right where it was supposed to be. The large white bird with gray speckles sat unconcerned in the middle of a corn stubble field. I took several pictures of the astonishing bird while Robert used my cell phone to call others to confirm the bird’s sighting.

snowyowlbybrucestambaugh — The Snowy Owl seen Dec. 23, 2013 near Mt. Hope, OH.

After soaking in the beautiful bird and quietly celebrating our success, we returned to our respective homes. I alerted other birders about the Snowy Owl. Half the fun in birding is sharing what is found.

Since November, several other Snowy Owls have appeared in more than half of Ohio’s 88 counties. Such an invasion of rare birds is called an irruption. People were reporting and photographing Snowy Owls all around Ohio, and even in other states, including Florida.

I’m glad Robert and I got a second chance at the Snowy Owl. I hope you get to see one, too.

Another year, another 12 months of human folly

By Bruce Stambaugh

Yep, I did it again. Like previous years, I noted daily wacky news throughout this year. So much craziness ensued that I actually had a hard time picking which salaciousness merited mention.

I focused on human-interest stories that didn’t always make the headlines. I think you’ll agree that once again in 2013 truth was stranger than fiction.

Jan. 11 – An elderly man in Lincoln, Nebraska accidently drove his car through the plate glass windows of a pizzeria, and then ordered a pizza.

Feb. 12 – Undercover detectives defused a meth lab discovered in a porta-potty on a golf course near Purcell, Oklahoma.

Feb. 13 – The 52 year-old volunteer greeter at the Heart Attack Grill in Las Vegas died of a heart attack.

March 22 – China and Russia signed nine trade agreements, including one to raise rabbits.

April 16 – Chris Holmes, a noted cake baker in London, England, quit his full-time airport security job by writing his resignation on a cake.

May 3 – Schools in normally cloudy Bellingham, Washington closed for a “sun day” because the weather was unusually sunny.

June 4 – About 100 high school students and their chaperones were kicked off of an AirTran flight from New York City to Atlanta when some of the students refused to sit down and turn off their cell phones.

June 16 – Lonnie Whitener and his 13-year old son both made a hole-in-one on the same hole in the same round on Father’s Day at a golf course in Richmond, Texas.

July 18 – Shortly after being declared the champion of a beer-drinking contest by consuming six liters of brew in Spain, the winner became violently sick and died.

August 8 – A 21-year old Vicksburg, Mississippi man, who had been arrested by police, escaped handcuffed, and then was rescued from the Yazoo Canal as he tried to swim to freedom.

August 9 – An 82 year-old man and his 41 year-old son were found in the Vietnam jungle after fleeing their home 40 years earlier during the Vietnam War.

August 10 – A 73 year-old gun safety instructor in Lancaster, Ohio accidentally shot a student when the handgun he was demonstrating discharged a bullet.

September 17 – A 26 year-old Russian man was charged with shooting his companion over beers after they got into a fight about the deeper meaning of the works of German philosopher Immanuel Kant.

September 23 – A study showed that 49 percent of the Internet links cited since 1996 in 555 decisions by the U.S. Supreme Court didn’t work.

September 25 – A zoo in England banned visitors from wearing any kind of clothing that imitated animal print because it confused the zoo animals.

October 3 – A local bar owner found a treasure trove of Ron Santo memorabilia that the Chicago Cubs say was accidentally discarded in a dumpster.

October 10 – A German man’s marriage got off to a bad start when he drove for two hours after refueling his car, only to realize he had left his bride back at the gas station.

November 12 – A coyote joined the leaders running in the Arizona high school cross-country state championships for 50 meters before dropping out of the race.

December 2 – A stolen prosthetic hand and arm were recovered in a second hand shop in Bournemouth, England.

December 3 – Based on data from 600,000 phone calls, the research firm Marchex Institute found that people in Ohio swore more than any other state.

I swear I’m ready for 2014.

Christmastime is gathering time

By Bruce Stambaugh

Christmastime is gathering time. The very origins of the holiday make it so.

Though we may not think about it, those who gather in celebration replicate the inexplicable cast of characters that assembled for the first Christmas. Paying homage for this special birth, their lot represented a cross-section of social, political and religious backgrounds, not unlike today.

To be sure, they were a motley bunch, unassuming, even unaware of the tradition being created. Of course, we have no way of knowing the exact date or even time of year for the birth of the Christ child. We can only follow the story as it has been transcribed and translated for us.

Over time, the traditions of Christmas have been handed down and culturally adjusted to fit the changing times. There’s no documentation for tinseled evergreen trees or a jolly St. Nick in Bethlehem that ancient night.

An angelic troupe serenaded stunned shepherds huddled in a field, watching over their flocks. Astute individuals, long on the lookout for a messiah, offered praise and prayer. A ruler trembled. Later, wise kings traveled from afar to worship the boy, and offered precious gifts.

Mary and Joseph themselves were among the throngs reassembling in their hometowns on governmental orders of the day. Harsh as their journey may have been, they complied. History wouldn’t be the same if they had not.

Centuries later millions travel by modern means to celebrate Christmas, and not always on Dec. 25th either. That fits the Advent model as well. Perhaps, because of schedules or availability, you have already gathered for the holidays.

Here in the largest Amish population in the world, both traditional Christmas Day and the more reverent Old Christmas, always Jan. 6, will find families and friends gathering and sharing food, fellowship, and gifts. You might know Old Christmas as Epiphany or Three Kings Day.

Our own families will make merry on several occasions. Christmas Eve morning two kinships are blended into one for a festive breakfast, a holiday custom spanning three decades.

On Christmas Day, we’ll repeat the family ritual of enjoying a tasty holiday meal, and opening gifts. Those traditions have been toned down a bit from my childhood days when my good parents splurged beyond their means to make Christmas merry.

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Some of us will eat tofu instead of turkey or ham, and the gift giving has been reigned in as well. We set a reasonable spending limit, pick a name out of a hat, and that’s that. Of course Santa still fills the stockings hanging from the fireplace mantel.

Later, the five Stambaugh siblings and any available family members will met at our little sister’s home to honor the season and our folks. After all, Mom and Dad instilled in us a fervent love for Christmas.

Myriads of global families will mirror my own, each in their own traditions and styles. Others have already gathered to bake cookies, or attended school programs, or a holiday concert. Still others packed food and clothing for the needy or served meals to too many homeless peoples around the world.

A curious collection of peoples was drawn to that original anointed Nativity scene. Once the event’s date was arbitrarily fixed as Dec. 25, families have been assembling ever since.

Centuries later, Christmas is still for gathering. The modes and means of doing so may have changed, but the reason has not.
In that, let us all rejoice and be glad that we can gather together indeed.

Appreciating the daily gifts we are given

By Bruce Stambaugh

For much too long already we’ve been enduring an avalanche of cutesy commercials and gimmicky advertisements foisting an assortment of products from A to Z on us. Each one is pitched as the perfect Christmas gift to give.

Catalogues, newspapers, magazines, radio, television, the Internet, even emails push various products for us to purchase for our loved ones. I do my best to ignore them. It’s a bold statement from someone who spent part of his career in marketing.

I understand why all the product promotions are done. Retailers often need productive holiday sales to ensure a profit for the year. I certainly don’t begrudge them for trying.

At my stage in life, I find greater joy in a brilliant but brief sunrise than a glitzy ad. Sometimes on the coldest rural Ohio mornings, the pinks and blues that quickly morph into warm oranges, reds and yellows stir me more than any new car wrapped in a big red bow could.

Joy comes in many packages if we just take the time to notice them, even on the grayest of days. Amid this entire holiday hullabaloo, I have to remind myself to stop and take a deep breath.

Advent is the perfect time to slow down our lives, not speed them up, rushing around trying to find just the proper gift. It might already be right in front of us.

Ruby-throated Hummingbirds on nest.

Leaning on Daddy.

Raking hay.

August sunset.

Winter scene.

Building their nest.

Song Sparrow.

Hoar frost.

Cold plowing.

Rainbow.

I speak from experience.

When our daughter, now a mother with young children of her own, was two-years old, she would stand on the kitchen counter at our home in Killbuck, Ohio. Together we would watch the birds devour the birdseed we had put out for them. Young as she was, Carrie could correctly identify each species.

Teetering on the rim of the Grand Canyon is an awesome feeling. Sharing that incredible vista with a person who is viewing it for the first time is even better. When it’s your son, seeing his smile is priceless.

When my wife and I braved a frigid winter’s night with a dear couple to search the dark sky for a rare comet, I was cold but hopeful. We rejoiced when we found it, quietly celebrating the event together. No words were needed.

When you go in search of a Snowy Owl, a rare avian visitor to our area, your hopes are high. Even when the bird can’t be located, the camaraderie of other birders on the same search makes up for the whiff. There are no wild goose chases in birding.

When you receive a hand-made card that includes drawings of a cardinal, an eagle and a blue jay, all appropriately colored by your grandchild, you know you are loved. You keep and display that precious gift where you can see it daily.

lookingupbybrucestambaugh — The gifts of life are all around us. We just have to look for them.

When a long-lost relative unexpectedly contacts you, you rejoice and reconnect with someone you may have only ever met once or maybe never. Surprise gifts rule.

When you stand in line for an hour or more to offer your condolences to the family of someone you have never met, you are blessed by the grace and appreciation shown to you by the mourners. Even in grief, great gifts are exchanged.

Advent is a time for reflection, renewing, remembering. It is a holy gift, freely given, gladly embraced.

The din of commercials not withstanding, Christmastime models what it means to give and to receive. I wonder what gifts will unwrap themselves for you and me today.

How did we get to November already?

By Bruce Stambaugh

It’s November, the eleventh month of the year. How did we get here already?

Only yesterday we were putting away our holiday trappings, thankful for the fun times with family. With the winter full upon us, we wistfully anticipated warmer days ahead.

And now it’s November again. How did that happen?

Our house is built on an Amish farm, and we have an excellent view of the sweeping farm fields between the farmhouse and our own. After the year’s first significant snowfall, out came the manure spreader creating a Currier and Ives brown on white painting, horses snorting steam as they pulled the spewing wagon through the cold air.

Spreading sunshine.

Backyard birds.

One bottom plow.

Spring cleaning.

Spring storm.

Pileated Woodpecker.

The backyard birds raided the many feeders deployed in strategic locations for them and me. They eat in the cold. I photographed through the windows from the warmth of our home. That was yesterday, right?

The snows came, melted, and came again. The cycle of freezing and thawing and freezing again took a toll on the roads. The orange barrels are still up, and yet snowplows are already being prepared for another go-round. Can it be already?

It seems like just the other day horses pulling the one-bottom plows retraced their manure spreading steps. Dark, rich soil turned one row at a time. They went, and they went until the upturned richness embraced the sun and the rain, sometimes both in the same day. Didn’t that just happen, too?

As a fundraiser, the youth group from our church picked up winter’s debris deposited by gale after gale. I’m glad we didn’t have to pay them per pinecone. I thought we just wrote that check.

I remember distinctly how long, chilly and wet the spring was. It seemed like it hung around until last week. Obviously it didn’t. We haven’t had summer yet. Or did we?

A pair of Pileated Woodpeckers began to raid the peanut butter suet feeders in the backyard. I was astonished the huge, shy birds would even come that close to a home. But they did. A few weeks later, mother and dad led their youngster to the free food. I’m positive it was just the other day that happened.

Maybe not.

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Once the field corn sprouted, it shot up, the tallest corn I can remember. The ears were long and full, and now they are being picked. Did I miss something?

I know our energetic granddaughter spent a few glorious days with us just before her preschool started. We had loads of fun together before I returned Maren to her Virginia home. Was that really at the end of August?

How is it that I distinctly remember sitting on our favorite porch in Lakeside, Ohio, playing dominoes with our usual gang, and yet, the calendar says it is November? Something is not right here.

I can still taste those amazing homemade glazed donuts at the customer appreciation day at the produce stand we frequented time and again during growing season. Yet, checking my records, that was at September’s end. That can’t be right.

I do remember October was filled with meetings and appointments and celebrations, all intertwined around a little travel. In fact, without looking it up, I can tell you exactly the time and date of my last doctor’s appointment. I didn’t have to wait long, and I recall it went really well. But that was a month ago.

Someone please tell me, how did we get to November already? Anybody?

novembersunrisebybrucestambaugh — A November sunrise in Ohio’s Amish country.

All quiet on the home front

By Bruce Stambaugh

We live in a frazzled world, full of hustle and bustle and lots of noise. Even in the country, the noise of a busy world drowns out the normal peace and quiet.

Of course there are people that seem to prefer noise. They’re the ones that can’t stand a natural lull in a conversation, or dead silence in a room full of people, so they feel obliged to fill the air with idle chitchat. They’re happy as long as someone is talking, even if it’s them.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been a bit long winded at times myself. But having lived in rural America all these years, I’ll take peace and quiet every time.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I enjoy music, though I’m no musician. I enjoy cheering for my favorite sports teams. I enjoy lively table talk, especially around a meal.

But age has a way of shushing you, quietly encouraging you to embrace the silence. I’ve learned to feel comfortable in absolute quietness, whether I’m home alone or with a congregation of contemplators.

quietbarnbybrucestambaugh — The normally bustling barn was even quiet.

Silence is good. I was reminded of that recently. Since it was a Sunday morning, the traffic on our busy county highway was minimal. In fact, only one car and one horse and buggy passed me on my regular two-mile stroll.

Normally I dodge construction trucks, straight bed trucks, semis, cars, bicycles, and several horse and buggies. This day was astonishingly different.

Less traffic meant less noise. And less noise meant the few sounds that I did hear really, really stood out. I heard a motorcycle accelerating far off in the distance, and a horse clopping on the county road a half-mile from where I was walking.

It was at that point that I stopped and realized the full breadth and depth of the stillness around me. The compressor from the neighbor’s barn wasn’t running. No cows were mooing. Not even a bird so much as chirped.

For a minute I thought the rapture had come, and I figured I had indeed been left behind. I smiled at the idea, and continued my lonely, but not lonesome walk.

Walking affords me more than physical exercise. It clears my mind, fills my body with bountiful goodness, and sharpens my senses. Even my age-diminished hearing seemed more keen. I could hear crickets and the last of the season’s katydids singing in the tree-lined stream that meandered through the crops and pasturelands.

On the return trip home, I fully embraced the quietness. I felt richer, fuller, and more alive, all because of hearing nothing at all. I was reminded of the importance of listening, of paying attention, of appreciating the good earth of which we have been assigned to nurture.

Our world is filled with too much noise. Televisions and radios blast away with the talking heads, stirring up people when life’s recipe says to let the sauce simmer.

Even from my countryside home, I see too many people with cell phones pressed to their ears while driving their cars, or cords from ear buds leading to a denim pocket of a passing biker.

That Sunday morning walk instilled in me just how important a little quietness is in our clamorous world. That silent experience said stillness is more than golden. It is a priceless pearl to the soul.

I’m glad I’ve come to appreciate the quality and value of silence. Please kindly remind me of that next time I start to ramble.