The lane to Sunny Slope Farm. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Sunny Slope Farm is a popular venue for weddings, banquets, fundraisers, and other gatherings in Harrisonburg, Virginia.
I go there to shoot sunset photos during all four seasons. They are friendly folks, for certain. It’s less than a mile from my home, which makes it handy for me if the western sky suddenly erupts with a stunning sunset.
Such was the case recently. I captured the above photo before the sunset peaked. The lane goes west and then turns sharply southwest, where this image was shot. Ironically, the southwestern sky was brighter than that of the west.
The combination of the fence and the farm lane leads the eye right to the old farm buildings. With all the clouds, the photo had to be taken in low-light conditions.
My wife and I are still exploring Rockingham County, Virginia, where we have lived for seven years. That may sound hard to believe, but Rockingham is the third-largest county in Virginia. It covers 853 square miles, so there’s a lot of area to see.
We recently toured with friends an area of the mostly rural, agricultural county that we had never seen before. They were as curious as we were.
We chose the remote northwest section, where wildfires scorched thousands of acres of mountainous terrain in the George Washington National Forest during the first week of spring. We were pleasantly surprised with what we found.
Recent rains have greened up most of the area, with only a few burned spots visible from roadways. Thanks to firefighters’ efforts, an abandoned cabin was the only structure burned.
The areas of Bergton and Criders are set in a wide-open, fairly flat valley floor surrounded by mostly deciduous forests. It was a lovely scene.
The background of wooded hillsides and the building storm clouds behind this abandoned schoolhouse made an idyllic landscape portrait. It was one of many finds of the day.
Cherry blossoms line the western Tidal Basin with Arlington, Virginia, in the background. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Since childhood, I have wanted to see the beautiful cherry blossoms around the Tidal Basin in Washington, D.C.. That was a long time ago for this grandfather.
I saw calendar photos displaying these historic trees’ beauty year after year. It wasn’t just the trees’ pleasing pink color. The symmetry of the blooming ornamentals, as they curved around the Tidal Basin, drew me into the photo. Add in the Washington Monument in the background, and I was hooked. I had to see that inspiring scene for myself.
As much as my wife and I like to travel over our 53 years of marriage, I’m not sure what took me so long to make the trip. Age and the process of life’s activities getting in the way of my pursuit dulled my desire.
Living in Ohio most of my life, the nation’s capital seemed so far away. Plus, I hesitated about traveling from our rural home to the city to view the trees. In retrospect, I realized how silly that was. But, other than television news reports, we only had a few opportunities to know the exact timing of the cherry trees’ blooming. The Internet changed that in a big way.
I discovered a blossom cam of the flowers. The National Park Service had predicted March 23 as the peak blooming time this year, but watching the bloom cam made it clear that the peak would occur much earlier.
I had no excuse this time, mainly since we now lived less than three hours away in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. We moved there seven years ago to be close to three of our four active grandchildren.
Along the walkway to the Jefferson Memorial. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The first full day of spring promised to be mostly sunny and warm, perfect for snapping photos. The morning sunshine would highlight the trees along the western rim.
I left home early, but it needed to be earlier. The drive in heavy traffic took me three and a half hours to arrive at a parking lot near the Jefferson Memorial.
Everything was perfect. The crowds were yet to appear, giving me and many other photographers plenty of space to capture our desired angles and subject matters.
Forsythia, weeping cherry, and pink magnolia.
Students gather at the Jefferson Memorial.
The walkway around the western rim of the Tidal Basin.
Beneath the blossoms.
Cherry blossoms in different stages.
A walkway at the FDR Memorial.
Photo op.
The view from a bridge.
Walking the dog.
Against the sky.
Several people in various attire mingled at the Jefferson Memorial. Professional and amateur photographers clicked away at couples in frilly gowns and fancy suits and high school and college graduates in flowing robes. Teachers and adult chaperones of elementary, middle, and high school student groups herded their darlings into huddles for impromptu lessons.
Blossoms against the sky.Pretty in pinklSanta on spring break.The Jefferson Memorial.An artist’s vieew.On the way out.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
As I continued my stroll around the basin, the blossoms brought out the best in people. Strangers offered to take photos of couples trying to take the perfect selfie. A man dressed as Santa Claus strolled beneath the blossoms, bringing unexpected cheer to young and old alike.
The best time for photographs waned as the sun drew higher in the sky. People greeted me with smiles and verbal hellos as I walked beneath canopies of blossoms, returning to my car.
Such pleasantries sweetened the fragrance of the thousands upon thousands of pale pink blossoms. Witnessing humanity’s kindness stirred a joyous surprise that put photography into its proper perspective.
The iconic shot of the Washington Monument through the cherry blossoms. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our suburban home near Harrisonburg, Virginia, faces north. That requires me to constantly check east and west around dawn and dusk for any hint of a colorful sunrise or sunset.
My chances of catching a lovely sunrise have to be more intentional. The older I get, the easier it is for me to sleep past the sun’s morning appearance. Seniors seem to have a sleep cycle similar to that of newborns. I fall asleep fine, but staying asleep is another matter. Consequently, my awakenings in the middle of the night contribute to my sleeping pattern. I toss and turn and then sleep soundly until sun up.
So, I have many more Virginia sunset photos than sunrises. I walk in the neighborhood as often as I can, and I especially like doing so in the morning.
The morning sun highlighted a farmstead on Mole Hill. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The other day, my wife and I were about to begin our morning stroll when I noticed the sun shining on a farmstead on the eastern slope of Mole Hill, a local landmark. Mole Hill is the remnant of a volcanic core from millions of years ago. Over millennia, nature’s elements have weathered and withered the basalt down into a gently sloping geographic feature resembling a molehill, thus its name.
With my camera at the ready, I captured the sun highlighting this old homestead. I didn’t think much of it then, but that changed the following evening.
I wasn’t too hopeful for a glowing sunset, yet when I looked out, the sky radiated orange across the western sky. I knew my only chance for a photo was from the middle of the street in front of our home. So, I did that, standing at nearly the same spot as the morning photo of Mole Hill.
The farmstead stood out even with the setting sun behind it. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
In one of the photos, the same farmstead stood out, even on the shaded side of the historic hill. I don’t tinker with my photos, so this eerie highlight simultaneously puzzled and intrigued me.
Call it what you will. I’m glad the sun shines on Mole Hill morning and evening.
A reflective sunset in the eastern sky in Rockingham Co., Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
No two sunsets are alike. That should be no startling revelation. Each sunset has its unique evolution, however. Some last just seconds with only a hint of orange, while others splash the western sky with a painter’s palette’s worth of colors.
Sometimes, a sunset defies both stereotypes and logic. That’s when a photographer’s fun begins.
Our home in Virginia’s verdant Shenandoah Valley faces north. Consequently, I need to check the western sky well before dusk for the ingredients for a decent sunset. If I spot puffy clouds hovering over the Allegheny Mountains, I get ready to head west.
I often gather my camera gear and drive a few miles southwest to a ridge overlooking a fertile valley dotted with Old Order Mennonite farms. Only the Dry River splits the gently rolling farm fields. Its tree-lined banks make its southward path easy to spot.
A favorite photo location for a mountain view is the aptly named Pleasant View Old Order Mennonite Church. Look west from its grounds, and the aged, rolling ridgeline of the Allegheny Mountains endlessly fills the horizon. Look east, and Massanutten Mountain dominates the landscape, with the Blue Ridge Mountains 40 miles beyond.
The western view.The view north.Massanutten Mountain to the east.
Please click the photos from the church to enlarge them.
There are no guarantees with sunsets, of course. Atmospheric conditions play good cop bad cop with the sunsets’ outcomes. I’ve been fooled and disappointed too many times to have high expectations. I set out with the joy of simply being able to witness whatever develops.
As a septuagenarian, I have learned to be patient with sunsets. I have headed home long after sunset’s time had expired, only to see a blooming garden of pastels fill the western horizon in the rearview mirror. So, even if the initial stages of the evening glow are less than spectacular, I persevere. Too often, I leave disappointed. Still, my time wasn’t wasted. I enjoyed the fresh air and American Robins and Eastern Bluebirds singing as they settled into their nighttime roosting positions.
Such was the case recently when I spied a patchwork of clouds hovering over the Alleghenies. When I arrived at the old church, the sun was nearly hidden behind those old, weathered peaks. Still, I snapped a few shots and then moved lower into the valley to hopefully catch a colorful reflection in a roadside farm pond or the Dry River, which had plenty of running water from recent rains.
The western glow perfectly silhouetted the lines of trees along the river banks. I stopped my vehicle by the cemetery of a historic country church. As I exited my car, my eyes were drawn southeast. I was stunned. The beautiful blues and pinks of a prized sunset flooded the eastern sky. I snapped away from different angles as quickly as possible, knowing the colorful array before me wouldn’t last long.
My first view of the reflective sunset in the east. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Had I not stopped for a photo looking west, I would have missed the glorious beauty as far as I could see north to south. As a photographer, it always pays to look over your shoulder before putting away your camera. Satisfied with the many eastern-facing shots, I turned to the tree line and got my intended but less colorful photos.
The view southeast.The view east.The view northeastAn Old Order Mennonite school south of the church.
Then, I remembered Slab Road, a quarter of a mile away. Rural road names in Virginia are about as practical as they come. Instead of a bridge over the Dry River, the highway department poured a narrow two-lane cement surface over the riverbed since the river was indeed dry more often than wet.
I stopped short of the river and quickly exited to catch the last light of the day reflecting on the water dammed up by the slab. The scene was breathtaking but not nearly as dramatic as the sunset reflected against the eastern clouds over Shenandoah National Park.
The Dry River flows over Slab Road. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A milk truck with a shiny, 3,000-gallon stainless steel tank forged through the running water over the slab. I followed, hoping to capture one more decent landscape shot. But my prime time was up, and I came away with a bland photo of a farmstead with powerlines running through the sky.
Nevertheless, the evolution of this sunset couldn’t have played out better. My heart overflowed with joy and gratitude for a beautiful ending to another precious day on earth.
The tree line that marks the Dry River. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Lanterns lit in the cupula of this home led people on the underground railway to safety. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Would you be surprised if I told you that the great Jackie Robinson wasn’t the first African American person to play in Major League Baseball? Would you be even more surprised if I said he wasn’t even the second black player?
Hard to believe as it is, both comments are fact. Moses Fleetwood Walker, better known as Fleet, was the first Black player in the major leagues. He played catcher for the Toledo Blue Stockings in 1884. He signed with the team in 1883 after playing on the baseball teams of Oberlin College and the University of Michigan. Fleet’s brother Welday played a few games that same year, becoming the second Black player. That was 63 years before Jackie Robinson debuted with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
In the post-Civil War era, signing and playing Fleet and his brother was a bold move for the Toledo club, a member of the American Association, now the American League. In the Jim Crow era, it met with great hostility from Whites and, in an odd way, led to Fleet’s short career.
The plaque honoring Fleet Walker in the baseball Hall of Fame. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Hall of Famer Cap Anson, the star player and emboldened racist for the Chicago White Stockings, now the Chicago Cubs, refused to play with a Negro on the field. Toledo’s manager called his bluff, however. Knowing he wouldn’t get paid unless his team played, Anson relented. However, Fleet was injured and wasn’t scheduled to play that game. But because of the tense situation, his manager had Fleet play anyhow.
So, why isn’t Fleet recognized as the first Black Major League Baseball player? John Husman, a leading baseball historian, cites two reasons. Records in that era of baseball were not well kept. But more importantly, Jackie Robinson was a star player who played 10 seasons for the Dodgers, plus years in the Negro Leagues before that. The Negro Leagues didn’t exist when Walker and his brother played. Consequently, history forgot them.
Of course, Hall of Famer Jackie Robinson is rightly credited with being the first Black player in baseball. He broke the color barrier with his amazing baseball skills and longevity as a major league player. He earned his Hall of Fame enshrinement in Cooperstown, New York, and the annual recognition of Jackie Robinson Day every April 15th. It was the day he joined the Dodgers in 1947.
Moses Fleetwood Walker has a plaque in the Hall of Fame with a photo of him and his wife, recognizing his pioneer playing days. The plague also includes part of a threatening letter from the Richmond, Virginia, team. It is only one example of what he, his brother, and the teams he played for endured.
Part of one of the threatening letters Fleet Walker’s team received. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Despite the progress made by Robinson’s historic breakthrough, injustices to people and athletes of color continue. Only recently, a bronze statue of Jackie Robinson was stolen from a park in Wichita, Kansas. The perpetrators cut off the life-sized statue at the ankles, leaving only his shoes. The statue, valued at $75,000, was later found mutilated and burned at another area park. Clearly, the racist hatred expressed in the Richmond letter toward Fleet Walker so long ago still flares its ugly head too often today.
Ironically, Moses Fleetwood Walker was born in 1856 in the then-Quaker town of Mt. Pleasant, Ohio, a noted station on the underground railroad. Lantern-lite signals from the glass windows of a cupula atop a large brick home on the main street of the small village led travelers on the underground railroad to safety from the nearby Ohio River. Could his parents have been among them? It’s a query likely never to be answered.
At least their oldest son has a touch of recognition with a plague in the National Baseball Hall of Fame. It’s a footnote of baseball history, but at least he isn’t forgotten.
Blue sky and dark blue shadows on snow. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
You don’t need me to tell you that the winter weather has been brutal in the first few weeks of 2024. And yet, it has its serenity, too.
I always loved how the long shadows of winter played across snowy landscapes. Even in suburban settings, the sky, trees, and shadows mark stark but lovely contrasts against the snow.
Such beauty helps us through blizzards, snow drifts, wind chills, and freezing temperatures. Altogether, they help chase away the winter blues.
Swartzentruber Amish sled riding at recess in Wayne Co., Ohio.
There is “snow” better way to enjoy the January cold than sledriding. These Swartzentruber Amish students certainly enjoyed their afternoon recess gliding down a slippery hillside near their one-room schoolhouse.
After attending a meeting in Kidron, Ohio, 11 years ago, I decided to take some back roads home. It had snowed a few inches overnight, but the clouds had moved out by afternoon. The clear sky’s bright sun warmed the cold January day.
This scene came into view as I rounded a bend on a narrow township road. I knew I had to get a photo of these Amish schoolchildren sledding at recess. I also knew that I had to be discreet since I always tried to honor the Amish position of no photography.
I secured one photo undetected before moving on. The joyous laughter of the happy scholars made the satisfaction of this photo all the more enjoyable.
Fishing under the first quarter moon during the Georgetown Glow holiday lighting.
My wife and I recently enjoyed a few days in Washington, D.C., with our family. It was the first holiday gathering with everyone present since we moved from Ohio to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
When visiting our nation’s capital, expect to walk. Yes, the Metro network of trains and buses gets you to the general area of where you want to be. But walking gets you exactly where you need to go. And together, our family walked and walked.
That enabled me to do some fun street photography, although I couldn’t linger long if I wanted to keep up with the others. So, I took photos as efficiently as possible.
I was impressed by the collage of architectural styles, often standing on the same city block. The following photos are a few of my favorites, from monuments to residences to embassies to commercial buildings.
On DuPont Circle.Beautiful in brick.The Washington Monument at dusk.The U.S. Capitol building at the golden hour.The White House from Lafayette Square.The U.S. Supreme Court.The U.S. Botanic Garden at the U.S. Botanic Garden.Lafayette Square.A bookstore in DuPont Circle.On DuPont Circle.Stunning brick.The lighting of Georgetown Glow.I failed to visit this museum.Brunch.Foggy Bottom Metro stop.The U.S. Capitol building, east entrance.The Library of Congress.The U.S. Capitol.The U.S. Capitol at the U.S. Botanic Gardens.The Lincoln Memorial at the U.S. Botanic Gardens.The Mexican Embassy.On New Hampshire Ave.The Egyptian Embassy.A curious grandson.The Call Your Mother Deli.
As you can see, Washington, D.C., is a photographer’s paradise for street photography.
Ice skaters skate around the holiday light display of Enchant inside the Washington Nationals baseball stadium.
For the first time in seven years, our entire family gathered last week for the holidays in Washington, D.C. Our son, his wife, and toddler flew in from Rochester, New York, while our daughter’s family and my wife and I drove from Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley to our nation’s capital.
The chilly air didn’t stop us from enjoying the sights and participating in outdoor activities like the one pictured. We ate and laughed much and immensely enjoyed one another’s company. We had a glorious time.
As we celebrated, we didn’t forget the distress of too many global humans amid the blessedness of Christmastime. The African American pastor and theologian Howard Thurman expertly expressed the paradox of the season in the following poem:
Roadkill Crossing 
You must be logged in to post a comment.