family – Page 35 – Roadkill Crossing

Mixed emotions about joining the Medicare crowd

By Bruce Stambaugh

There is a difference between thinking young and thinking that you are young.

Despite what I see in the mirror every morning and my occasional childish behavior, I believe that I still think young. I readily acknowledge that I am no longer young. The baldhead, gray whiskers and skin creases are obvious hints.

My body reminds me I’m no longer a spring chicken as well. With apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I could count the ways. I am pretty sure, however, no one wants to hear about my aches and pains. Mine are insignificant compared to those of others.

Nevertheless, with my 65th birthday on the horizon, I am now a certified, card-carrying member of Medicare. When the card came in the mail recently, I didn’t know whether to smile or cry. It was sobering to see my name boldly printed on that red, white and blue card. Reality, as difficult as it was to accept, hit hard.

Facts are facts. The truth is that I am entering the last quarter of my life, assuming the best. I have to be realistic about who I am and what possibly lies ahead. I know I could get hit crossing the road retrieving the mail. However, with longevity in my family, I expect to live another 20 to 30 years.

The key of course is how I live them, not how long I live them. Isn’t that the case for each and every one of us?

I try to take good care of myself in every aspect of my life, physically, mentally, and spiritually. When the weather permits, I try to walk at least 30 minutes everyday. Walking not only exercises my body, but stirs my mind as well.

The brisk stroll invigorates my muscles and gets my blood flowing. The soft, cheery call of the White-crowned Sparrows singing from the creek-side brush uplifts my mood.

Greeting the scholars gathering for another day of lessons at the one-room Amish school I pass brings back many fond memories of my own days in the classroom, both as a student and an educator. The hearty wave of my friend, Martha, reminds me how blessed I am and have been. Like a brilliant double rainbow, friends enrich my spirit.

Inspirations like those keep me going. I think back and recall the good times, allowing them to override any and all negative experiences, and there have been plenty. It is easy to come to a simple conclusion. I am grateful.

The secret to living a full, happy life is no secret at all. Bringing joy to others is really what it’s all about. In life’s daily clamor, it’s easy to lose sight of that basic fact.

If I have learned anything in my first 64 years, it is this: Blessing others by what I do, say and write blesses me. I know I have fallen short too many times. The key is to keep on trying. A simple kindness like holding the door for someone will suffice.

I didn’t expect signing up for Medicare to be so traumatic or reflective. I sighed to myself, accepted the card and tucked it away in the most appropriate place in my wallet, right behind the pictures of my grandchildren.

That way whenever I need to pull out the card that says I’m old, the shining eyes and effusive smiles of my grandchildren will keep me young.

Grandsons by Bruce Stambaugh — Davis, 6, and Evan, 8.

This column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

A Thanksgiving tradition comes to an end

By Bruce Stambaugh

For years, the extended Stambaugh family gathered as one at Thanksgiving. Not this year.

When I was a youngster, we had a rip roaring good time on Thanksgiving Day. Usually we celebrated with our cousins, the offspring of my mother and her two sisters. We would assemble at the old farmhouse of Uncle Kenny and Aunt Vivian, who we affectionately called Auntie Bibbles.

It was like Christmas before Christmas. With 17 cousins ranging from teenagers to toddlers, we relished the day together. We would play games inside and out, if the weather cooperated. I’m sure the adults privately prayed that it would.

Marvelous fragrances filled the old farmhouse from the array of good food cooking. The adults chatted while they prepared the savory meal. The family matriarch, Grandma Frith, oversaw all the action in her reserved but proud southern hospitable manner.

We occasionally had to wait on my father to arrive before we ate. Much to my mothers chagrin, Dad loved to hunt rabbits and pheasants on Thanksgiving morning. It wasn’t the hunting so much as being habitually late that drew Mom’s ire. Of course Dad has his tales to tell.

Once the meal was over and the kitchen and dishes cleaned, the adults joined in the merriment. If I remember correctly, they often raised more clamor than the kids. That’s because they were all good sports and lovingly embraced each other’s company.

As the families grew, the Thanksgiving tradition underwent a logical metamorphosis. Each of the three families began to celebrate the blessed day on their own. Most of the cousins were no longer children, but adults with spouses or significant others of their own. The rambunctious cousins were beginning to bear rambunctious children of their own, too.

My family would gather at the home where we were raised. Somehow we all managed to squeeze in the little brick bungalow. Realizing their place was a bit tight for the growing family, Mom and Dad added on to make more space for holiday gatherings.

Each family chipped in with their specialty dishes to make the feast complete. Roast turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, candied sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and, of course, pumpkin pie filled the table of plenty.

After the meal, Dad always had to turn on the Thanksgiving Day football game on the TV. No matter what else the assembled masses wanted to do, the game was part of the ritual.

Over the years the grandchildren, as they tend to do, grew into teenagers themselves. Today, they are all mature adults, productively contributing to society, using their various skills. Some with children of their own, they are scattered geographically from New York City to Atlanta, Ga. to Chicago, Ill. to Wooster, Ohio and places in between.

For our family, for the first time for as long as I can remember, there will be no collective Thanksgiving gathering for the Stambaugh side. Our mother died last April, and Dad has been gone since Christmas 2009. I think we all made every effort to meet for them as much as for the meal. Now that need is gone.

This Thanksgiving the families of my four siblings and mine will each do their own things. We are all right with that. We will embrace this new transition in our lives and be thankful for the day, the memories of the past and those to come.

It just may be our new Thanksgiving tradition.

This column was published in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

The good, bad and ugly of Super Storm Sandy

By Bruce Stambaugh

I’m both a news and weather junky. When the weather is the news, I’m fixated. So it was with Hurricane Sandy.

From the time the hurricane entered the Caribbean until it finally dissipated in Canada many days later, I focused on news of what came to be known as Super Storm Sandy. Between her alpha and omega, Sandy stormed up the east coast. Once she turned inland, the destruction intensified.

Initially the media focused on a breaking story of a severely damaged construction crane in New York City. I watched in awe as video showed hurricane force winds bending the towering, monster crane like it were a twig. The damaged section dangled precariously several stories above a busy street while police and firefighters evacuated the area. News cameras zoomed in on the scene for the entire world to see. Much more serious incidents were occurring unknowingly far out of the cameras’ lens.

Sandy was one massive storm, just as predicted by the professional severe storm forecasters. Perhaps that is one positive to take away from this major weather event. Knowing that weather scientists were able to project accurately the intensity and path of the storm may convince people to take better precautions when future storm warnings are issued.

A huge geographic swath impacting millions of people got hammered. Sandy merged with an interior cold front, creating a hybrid storm with fierce winds, torrential rains, flooding, storm surges and even heavy snow in the Appalachian Mountains.

Sandy’s aftermath told an ugly, unfortunate story. Major metropolitan areas, including New York City, were particularly hit hard. As Sandy moved inland, the consequential events unfolded, and the media coverage began to expand.

Sandy’s winds, rains and high tide storm surges had obliterated once pristine places and popular vacation spots. Those who failed to heed the warnings either were stranded or rescued. Unfortunately others paid with their lives. Beaches where sun worshippers once lounged and children romped were simply gone. Beachfront homes and businesses disappeared.

Millions of people were without electricity, potable water, food, transportation and heat. Schools were closed. Businesses shut. Ruptured gas lines burst into flames, destroying entire blocks of homes. It was a mess to say the least.

The high winds and heavy rains we experienced here were minor compared to most affected communities. In fact, we were happy for the quenching rains.

Emotions and responses to the super storm became paradoxical. While snow resorts in West Virginia opened earlier than ever, several storm-related deaths occurred from auto crashes on slippery roads.

Birds seldom seen in Ohio were blown into the Buckeye State ahead of the intense storm. Birders here were ecstatic. All the while thousands upon thousands of people in northern Ohio were without power.

As the reality of the breadth and depth of the storm became known, the media ranged far and wide to cover the catastrophe. Both heart-warming and heart-wrenching stories of people helping people developed. The damaged crane seemed inconsequential compared to other ongoing calamities and heroic acts of goodwill.

Jessica by Bruce Stambaugh — Jessica Stambaugh

As massive and destructive as Sandy was, it seemed to affect each of us personally. That was certainly true for my family and me. A niece, Jessica, lives in Manhattan, and was among the throngs without power and heat for days.

I never did hear what happened to that dangling crane. I just know that Jessica was safe. Unfortunately, scores of others couldn’t say that about their loved ones.

This column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Ready for the election to be over

By Bruce Stambaugh

I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for this election to be over. Even if I were a hermit, I think I would have gotten robo phone calls and unsolicited political mail and email this year.

These elections, especially the ones with national implications, seem to be getting worse each round. The rhetoric, promises and character assassinations get sharper and sharper. As much as I love democracy, I am more than ready for this nonsensical noisiness to end. All the nasty, negative political ads, especially the ones on TV, make you yearn for the days of the Veg-O-Matic commercials.

It didn’t used to be that way. Back in the days of smoke filled rooms and paper ballots politics were politics. Elections were elections. We weren’t blasted at every turn with extreme commentary of distorted and misapplied sound bites or publically aired criticisms that border on slander.

I remember when my father took me along when he voted in the gym of the elementary school where my brothers and sisters and I attended. It was a simple ordeal. Dad signed in, was given a paper ballot, walked to a vacant voting booth draped with red and white striped curtains, and marked his ballot. After doing so, he folded it and placed it in a box or can at the exit.

The precinct workers didn’t blink at allowing me to tag along with Dad. That wouldn’t happen today. They understood his desire to show me first hand how the process worked, how to properly exercise his citizen’s right and duty to vote. His modeling worked. I have voted in every election I could since I registered at age 21, the legal Ohio voting age then.

Mom and Dad by Bruce Stambaugh — My late parents, Marian and Richard Stambaugh, both modeled what it meant to be an active citizen.

My parents also did their civic duty by working as precinct workers. Dad was a precinct committeeman. My wife’s parents also served as poll workers.

Dad actively campaigned for particular people he wanted in office. I even volunteered to post campaign signs for him. In recent years, both my wife and I have served as poll workers. In fact, my wife will be a precinct judge in the Nov. 6 election here in the world’s largest Amish population. And yes, many of the Amish vote, even for president.

As a teenager, a metropolitan newspaper hired me each election to check particular precinct tallies, which were simply posted on the door of the polling place. Long before the computer and Internet age, hand-tabulated results were phoned in from a phone booth to gauge trends and declare winners and losers.

Today, things are so much different and sometimes difficult.

Concerted efforts have been made to insure that voters are who they say they are, despite little evidence of past voter deception or fraud. Fortunately in most cases, those attempts have been overturned by the courts. Professional political pollsters churn out poll after poll, week after week to tell the public what they are thinking. Politicians and their teams of advisors live or die with every revelation. News media lead with the poll results.

Kettle of vultures by Bruce Stambaugh — I couldn’t help thinking about the negative politics being conducted in the current presidential campaign when I recently saw this kettle of Black and Turkey Vultures circling overhead.

Being inundated with constant slanted political rancor has its ugly consequences. Heated discussions transpire on social media, and the “conversations” can get ugly and are not very social at all.

That said I realize there is no going back in time. Heaven forbid we return to those days of smoke filled room decision-making. Instead of paper ballots and canvas curtains, we now have programed cards and touch screen voting. But still we vote.

I am extremely thankful for the exemplary lessons my folks provided in what it means to be a citizen in this great country. Each of us simply needs to do our part in making this convoluted world a better place. To do that, we must keep moving forward.

I hope that means in part that the mailed partisan circulars will greatly decrease and the annoying phone calls will soon cease.

This column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Adoptions bring joy and miracles

By Bruce Stambaugh

Joe and Amy Yoder of rural Sugarcreek, Ohio wanted to start a family. When they were advised that pregnancy might be a questionable option for them, they had a lot to think about.

In the fall of 2003, they chose adoption. They could not know how much that decision would positively impact their lives and the lives of others. All the way, they sensed God’s leading.

Joe and Amy had decided on an international adoption. Only two months later, little Matthew in Guatemala entered their lives.

“The entire process was tedious,” Amy said. “There was major paperwork, and lots of bureaucracy to work through there.”

They applied in January and were approved in April. But they still couldn’t get custody of Matthew until October.

“We couldn’t have done it without the support of Millersburg Mennonite Church,” Amy said of the church they attended then. “They really chipped in and helped us raise funds to defer expensive adoption.”

That was eight years ago. Matthew is a growing boy and enjoying being in third grade. He also watches over his brother and sisters.

That’s right. The Yoders have adopted three other children, all from Ohio, in the last three years.

Cameron is three. Hayley is two, and the latest addition to their family, Sophia, is 3 months old. If there is such a thing, she was a surprise adoption.

When Matthew was three, Joe and Amy decided to move ahead with adopting another child, only this time doing a domestic adoption. After interviewing several adoption agencies, Just three months after applying they received a call to adopt Cameron. That was 2009. A little more than 10 months later, the adoption agency called about Hayley.

Even after the first three adoptions, Joe and Amy said they felt like God was leading them to being foster parents. On June 28, that changed. Their social worker called. Amy said she thought the call was for an Amish neighbor couple that they were helping with the adoption process.

But no, the social worker told them they had another baby if they wanted it.

“Sophia was ready to leave the hospital,” Amy said, “and they didn’t have a placement for her yet.”

Knowing that each adoption, whether foreign or domestic, is costly, the Yoders hesitated, too.

“I asked the social worker how much money and how soon they needed it?” Amy shared. Having already adopted through the agency, Amy really knew the answer to the money question.

“She told us we needed $20,000 by Saturday,” Amy said, “and this was Friday afternoon.”

The Yoders said that they prayed about it all night. By morning they had their answer.

“For some reason, we had a real peace about the decision,” Amy said, although they had no idea how they would come up with that much money on such short notice.

Yoder children by Bruce Stambaugh — Hayley, 2, Sophia, 3 months, Matthew, 8, and Cameron, 3, gathered on the living room couch long enough for a photograph before running off to play.

They agreed to take Sophia on the condition that they would pay half of the money up front, and the other half in a week. The social worker agreed.

On Monday Amy was sitting on the front porch with the four children when she received another call from the social worker. It was more good news. But Amy couldn’t believe the message.

“Don’t send us anymore money,” the social worker said. “It’s all taken care of.”

Joe and Amy had no idea what had happened. The agency wouldn’t say. The Yoders simply consider it all a miracle, the process, the money, and of course Sophia.

But wait. There is yet one more miracle, according to Amy. The final adoption always takes place exactly six months after receiving the baby, which would be Dec. 31, when the courthouse in Columbus would be closed.

“Somehow,” Amy said, “we were told that the courthouse would be open for us.”

Their appointment to officially adopt Sophia is 3 p.m., New Year’s Eve. It will likely be one more joyous celebration in the Yoder household.

This article appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Politeness among 100,000 people

By Bruce Stambaugh

Living in rural Holmes County, Ohio, I normally am not part of a group that tops 100,000 people. A recent Saturday afternoon, however, found my son, Nathan, and I in just such a crowd.

For both of us, it was only our second time watching an Ohio State University football game in storied Ohio Stadium. We had gone to our first contest 25 years ago. We considered it an honor to be able to go again. For what we observed, so did everyone else.

Though the forecast wasn’t the most promising, I expected we’d see a decent game and enjoy a lively half-time show. By kick off, the skies had cleared to a pure blue with only a few puffy white clouds zooming overhead at game’s end. The weather wasn’t the only pleasant surprise.

Given all the focus on Buckeye football in Ohio, I was expecting a rousing if not a raucous crowd decked out in scarlet and gray in the fabled horseshoe stadium. They indeed were colorful, but mostly because of their home team garb.

Something else impressed us besides the sea of scarlet. Although they won, what caught our attention certainly wasn’t the lackluster play of the Buckeye team, though their overmatched opponent gave a spirited effort.

My son and I were both amazed at the demeanor of the packed house. The crowd was exceedingly polite. From our seats in the first level near the middle of the north end zone, we had a very good view of most of the proceedings.

These were loyal Buckeye fans to be sure. We had walked through parking lot after parking lot of tailgating parties prior to the game. People were having a genuinely good time. Youngsters tossed footballs. Young adults huddled together laughing and talking. Older generations watched over the grilling of brats and burgers.

The throngs of people funneling to the entrances were equally congenial. People patiently lined up. Ushers were courteous and helpful.

Prior to finding our seats, we watched the boisterous student cheering section clamor down the sloping ramp to the field. The famous OSU marching band closely followed them. The students were painted and dressed for victory, the band energetic to the point of periodic chest thumping. They were pumped.

Script Ohio by Bruce Stambaugh — The Ohio State Marching Band and the Alumni Band played out four script Ohios simultaneously on the field.

Save for one couple that sat a few rows in front of us, no one seemed to have partied too hard or too long. Fans were there to watch their team and the band. And that’s exactly what they did.

Sure there were a few boos at the officials when a call or two went against Ohio State. For the most part, people were just plain mannerly. When the lady sitting beside me accidentally bumped my arm, she kindly apologized. I did the same when I bumped her, too. With that many people squeezed into bleacher seats, a little unintentional elbowing could be expected.

Throughout the game, most everyone was well behaved. People urged on the team by yelling, “Come on boys,” as if they knew them personally. Foul language was non-existent.

The crowd reverently sat for most of the game and enthusiastically stood for the entire halftime show. With more than 400 alumni band members present, it was a special treat to watch four different script Ohio’s simultaneously unfold on the field.

I could readily see why OSU tickets are so hard to come by. Attendance there just isn’t solely for football. It’s a time-honored, refined tradition.

The column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Photos courtesy of Nathan Stambaugh.

Viewing the leaves in Ohio’s Amish country

By Bruce Stambaugh

Ohio’s Amish Country, particularly Holmes County, is a great place to be when the autumn leaves are at their finest. With its many stands of mixed hardwoods throughout the area, the colors can be spectacular if all the conditions are right.

The leaves are usually at their colorful peak by mid-October. Though the summer’s drought may have caused some trees to already change, they seem to be on a normal timetable for coloration. Now through the next two weeks will provide marvelous viewing.

Several great routes can be driven to see the rainbow of leaves. Just consider the rolling hills, rows of corn shocks, grazing cows, romping horses, Amish buggies and silvery streams as backdrops to the main event.

Simply traveling the main highways that lead into the Holmes County area and crisscross the county will guarantee beautiful scenery. That’s especially true in the fall.

State Route 39 cuts Holmes County in half east to west. In many places, the road roughly follows the terminal moraine of the Wisconsin Glacier. To the south, hillsides loaded with maple, oak, walnut, beech and hickory trees are steeper than their counterparts on the opposite side of the road. The glacier filled in the valleys on the north side 10,000 years ago, leaving a gently undulating geography, with rich soil that farmers pamper for excellent crops and lush pasturelands. Stands of woodlots and tree-studded fence lines create magnificent leaf viewing.

State Route 83 bisects Holmes County in half north to south. You will be dazzled by the vistas that change seemingly at every curve. Both north and south of Millersburg, the county seat, the route hugs the eastern edge of the Killbuck Valley. Impressive slopes with ample forests east and west nestle golden marshlands teeming with wildlife in between.

U.S. 62 runs diagonally across the county. From the northeast, pastoral views are aplenty, meandering through Amish farmland on each side. Because the wood industry surpassed agriculture as the number one employer in Holmes County a few years ago, trees are treasured and properly cared for.

Follow U.S. 62 from Millersburg southwest toward Killbuck and on to Danville in Knox County and you might think you are in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains. In truth, you are. The road follows the area’s main waterway, Killbuck Creek, and then climbs the hills into the Mohican River watershed.

The lesser traveled state, county and township roads provide equal opportunity viewing when it comes to autumn leaves. State Route 520 from Killbuck through Glenmont’s seven hills and on to State Route 514 especially provides a pretty show if the timing is right.

In the east, State Routes 241, 515, 557 and 643 all are winding, hilly and gorgeous in the fall. Farmsteads with white houses and coffin red barns are the norm in any direction on these roads.

For those who desire more than just riding and looking, the area has plenty to offer. At the Wilderness Center off of U.S. 250 west of Wilmot, you can hike through prairie grass and virgin forests, and explore an education center, where there is fun for all ages.

Mohican State Park near Loudonville affords numerous trails with incredible overlooks to the steep Mohican River gorge. The greens of the thousands of white pines nicely compliment the colorful mixed hardwood forest.

For bicyclists, the Holmes County Trail offers 16 miles of lovely trials from Fredericksburg to Killbuck. Hikers are welcome, too. The trail runs along the Killbuck through the center of the county until it turns southwest toward Killbuck. The wildlife, birding and leaf viewing can all be consumed simultaneously. A note of caution, however. Horse and buggies also use the trail on one side while bikers and hikers are on the other.

Everyone has their favorite spot to view the changing leaves. You’ll enjoy finding yours.

This article appeared in Ohio’s Amish Country magazine.

Bible antiquities on display

By Bruce Stambaugh

During October, Holmes County, Ohio area residents have a unique opportunity to view firsthand biblical antiquity items dating back to 2,000 B.C.

The church’s pastor for the past 15 years, the Rev. Dr. Kenneth Walther has arranged for multiple items representative of the first five books of the Bible to be viewed by the public and members of his congregation. All of the items are on loan from Ashland Theological Seminary in Ashland.

How was a church of 100 parishioners in Millersburg able to acquire such a collection, even on a loan basis? The answer is easy. In addition to serving as the pastor of the church, Walther is also an adjunct professor at the Ashland Seminary. He had taught Bible courses there for 33 years prior to his retirement in 2009.

“Really, the reason the artifacts are here is in conjunction with The Story Bible study project we are holding in the church through April,” Walther said. “The entire church, youth through adults, is studying the same scriptural passages each week.”

Walther said the antiquity items, which range from samples of parchment writing to clay vessels, are part of a 1,500-item collection at the seminary. He said he gives tours on a regular basis there.

“This was really a spontaneous idea,” he explained, “to give people a firsthand look at what some of the Old Testament Bible characters would have used in their everyday life.”

Items will be on display each Sunday in October at the church from 9 a.m. until 1 p.m. On Oct. 28, a special open house will be held where additional artifacts can be viewed between noon and 5 p.m. Walther will be available from 3-5 p.m. that same day to take questions.

Walther said the items span the lives of Abraham, Joshua, David and Solomon. He said the items represent three specific cultural areas, Cuneiform tablets from Mesopotamia, pieces from Egypt and artifacts from the land of Canaan.

“Mesopotamia is the land from where Abraham originated,” Walther said. “We have pieces of colored mummy wrapping from Egypt, and various practical items like jugs from Canaan.”

Specifically, Walther said, the display includes clay tablets from Ancient Mesopotamia, scribe boxes, stone inscriptions in hieroglyphics, and fragments of pottery from Egypt. Items from Canaan include water jugs, lamps, bowls, pilgrim flasks and a variety of cosmetic items that were used thousands of years ago.

Walther said the church decided to share both the study and the artifacts with the general public. He said people could participate in The Story, which is an international study, each Sunday.

“We will discuss the lessons including some of the objects during Sunday school, which begins at 9 a.m.,” he said. His sermon will expand on the themes presented each Sunday.

Walther said the seminary purchased all of the items from private collections and antiquities dealers. All items were obtained by those sources prior to the 1967 six-day war in Israel. Since then, he said, such items are prohibited from being taken from the country.

Walther said The Story is an attempt to introduce people to the Bible, history, and background and interpretation of the cultures of biblical times. He said study materials are available for entire families. The Story was written by scholars from various denominations and published by Zondervan Press.

“We even have a special New International Version Bible to accompany The Story materials that focus on particular events of the Bible,” Walther said.

He said the sampling of items on display at St. John’s Church provides a physical handle on the picture of the Bible. The church is located at 8670 state Route 39 west of Millersburg.

Church by Bruce Stambaugh — St. John’s Church of Millersburg, OH.

The story appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

In this household, pink is the “in” color

By Bruce Stambaugh

Forget what the color coordinating gurus in New York City and Paris have to say. Pink is the in color, at least at our daughter’s house.

Her daughter, Maren, our three-year old granddaughter, has her own fashion priority, especially when it comes to color. There is only one. Pink.

Our daughter doesn’t say much. Then, again, what can she say? Her daughter is as independent as she was at that age, and just as blonde.

As soon as our daughter and son-in-law knew that their third child would be their first girl, I distinctly recall that pink clothing for her daughter was discouraged. I think there was a serendipitous association of pink with prissy.

Well, three years later, guess what? Maren’s favorite color is pink. Pink may have been her first spoken word. Maren just loves everything pinkish.

Pink balloons by Bruce Stambaugh — Maren loves everything pink.

That really shouldn’t be any surprise at all. When she was born three years ago in Austin, Texas, Maren was a pink bundle of squealing joy. Everything about her was pink, her hands, her feet, her tiny toes, her long, skinny fingers, her lips, her nose, and her rosy ears. Her face was pink until it changed to red when she wasn’t real happy or necessitated a diaper change.

I have a picture of Nana holding Maren wrapped in a white baby blanket with blue and pink strips. The sign attached to her hospital nursery crib with her name and birth statistics was printed in black letters on pink paper. A delicate pink rose even adorned her mother’s hospital room.

The sleeper Maren wore home from the hospital was infused with dainty pink flowers. The decorations, wall hangings and fabrics in Maren’s room were brown, silver and, yes, pink. The baby blanket Nana made for her was brown and pink. A pair of pink cowgirl boots sat upon her pink-trimmed dresser. The girl never had a chance.

Second birthday by Bruce Stambaugh — Maren with her pink Razor.

Less than a year later, the pink Texan became a pink Virginian when her family moved to the beautiful Shenandoah Valley. Maren celebrated her first birthday with a pink barrette atop her towhead.

For her second birthday she wanted a Razor scooter just like her big brothers had. She had conditions of course. The wheels and handlebars had to be pink. What option did Nana and Poppy have other than to gladly comply?

If there was any doubt about Maren’s color preference, it evaporated when Nana recently took her shopping for her third birthday present from us. Maren wanted a CD player, a pink soccer ball, or a pink bicycle helmet. She got all three, plus a pair of pink polka dot shoes.

Pink helmet by Bruce Stambaugh — Maren, ready to roll with her pink “Barbie” safety helmet.

What really got me though was that the pink helmet had “Barbie” scrolled across the front if it. And this from a girly little girl who wears only pants. Maren likes dresses, and they don’t have to be pink. She just doesn’t wear them.

Like most grandfathers, I enjoy teaching the grandchildren their colors. They must tire of me always asking, “What color is this?” Not Maren. For her, everything is pink even if it really is red or green.

If the sunrise in the near future comes up all pink, don’t blame New York or Paris. You’ll know that Maren’s birthday wish came true.

This column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Celebrating something good out of something bad

By Bruce Stambaugh

We were rowdy without realizing it. What would you expect from three baby boomer couples?

About every month I meet with two other long-time friends for breakfast. Besides our age bracket, we all have something very special in common. All three of us are prostate cancer survivors.

Randy is a pastor. Kim co-owns his own business with his wife. Through a crisscrossing, intertwined past, we have known each other for most of our adult lives. It was the cancer, however, that brought us even closer together.

We jokingly call ourselves the Blue Men’s group. Blue is the official color for prostate cancer, juxtaposed to pink for breast cancer in women. There’s no joking about either.

We meet at a local restaurant to share. Finding others who have gone through the cancer experience is critical to full recovery, especially emotionally. We are our own support group.

We were all diagnosed within a year of one another. Like so many other cancer patients, we had the same disease in the same location. However, we all had our differences, and each chose, to use the term loosely, a different route for treatment.

Randy had radiation treatments and has stayed cancer-free. Because his cancer had escaped his prostate, Kim’s options were not as simple. He had chemotherapy, radiation and Lupron shots. He has just recently been given better news regarding his long-term recovery, and has good reason for a much more optimistic outlook than he did only a few months ago.

Based on my situation and diagnosis, I chose robotic prostate surgery. I was in the hospital one day and out the next. My PSA tests continue to be immeasurable, just like my compatriots.

We meet to share our progress, and to encourage one another. All three of us are in long-term marriages, and cancer, no matter which kind, affects the spouses, too.

We have been meeting for two years now. Because our spouses are such an integral part of our recovery, we annually do a nice dinner out with the wives. We did so recently, and this time we had even more than our trio of good reports to celebrate.

Happy couple by Bruce Stambaugh — Mr. and Mrs. Stambaugh.

On this particular occasion, we were exulting with Randy’s wife, Amy. Like too many other women, Amy has breast cancer. She just recently completed a lengthy series of challenging radiation treatments. Amy said she was really rejoicing because she now had more hair than I do. That wouldn’t take much.

Her journey isn’t over. But it was a joy to sit around a table and laugh and share instead of worry and dread the unknown. By communing together, we lifted each other’s spirits in a way that none of us could have alone.

My wife and Kim’s needed support, too. As faithful wives, they have had to endure the consequences of both treatment and recovery. They also cared greatly for Amy, with whom they could easily identify.

There is nothing good about cancer. There is no good cancer. There is only cancer.

This night, in this restaurant, gathered with comrades in loving arms and warm hearts, we were as one. Around that dinner table an unspoken common spirit of celebrative unity reigned. Gratitude overcame dread. Communal relief replaced disquieting uncertainty. Laughter was our dessert.

Finally, something good had transformed out of something really bad. We only hoped the restaurant staff and other patrons understood our irrepressible joy.