family – Page 5 – Roadkill Crossing

Recalling a Rare Family Vacation

My older brother and I hauled in the walleye. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I fondly remember my family vacations in the 1950s and ’60s. I vividly recall them because we didn’t take many. We were a lower-middle-class family from a blue-collar city in northeast Ohio. My folks didn’t have the money to travel around the country too often, especially with five active and vocal children.

My most memorable trip as a youngster was a week on Pelee Island, Ontario, Canada, in Lake Erie. It was the middle of summer, sunny, hot, and humid.

As a 10-year-old, I was excited about our trip for multiple reasons. First, we had to take a ferry from Sandusky, Ohio, to the island. In those days, no passports or IDs were needed. You just paid the ferry fee and boarded the ship. I remember leaning over the side of the boat that foggy morning to watch crew members load cars and trucks onto the ferry.

Our dear mother couldn’t bear to watch because the drivers had to ease the vehicles from the dock to the ship over two unattached, thick wooden planks. I paid particular attention when our 1947 cream-colored, two-door Chevy coupe slipped across the void. Even as a kid, I saw that the car wasn’t centered on the planks. Still, it made it.

Our cousins and their parents accompanied us on the trip, along with our mother’s mother. Their three juveniles were nearly the same age as our three oldest. It was a guaranteed good time.

We enjoyed the voyage around other islands and through Lake Erie’s whitecaps. When we sighted Pelee, our excitement multiplied. From a distance, all I could make out were trees. A little cluster of attractive buildings appeared when the ferry drew closer to the dock. We disembarked and waited for our vehicles. I noted a general store with toys in its nine-pane front window during the downtime.

We piled in the car and headed south and then east on dirt roads, swirling dust clouds into the cerulean sky. As he drove, our outdoorsman father spotted pheasants in fields on the way to our little cottage without slowing down. How we all managed to fit into that two-bedroom, one-bath lake house, I don’t know. As a kid, it wasn’t my problem.

That week’s weather was sunny, hot, and humid, perfect for eight children ages four to 14 to play on the beach that served as our front yard. We enjoyed wading in the warm Lake Erie water when the tide went out. We built sand castles and took turns burying one another in the sand.

We spent hours scouring the beach for sea glass. My young mind couldn’t comprehend how the combination of water and sand could smooth sharp, jagged broken glass. I held the evidence in my hand, nevertheless.

A trio of fishermen rented the cottage south of ours. They used a beautiful wooden Lyman boat with an inboard motor to come and go. One afternoon, the fish must not have been biting because the boat came charging in at low tide.

Even as a kid, I could see by the men’s actions that they were drunk. One guy even fell overboard into the shallow water. Of course, the high-speed approach mired the boat into the wet sand. No matter how hard they tried, the boat wouldn’t budge until the tide came in.

Later, with the boat freed, I moseyed down the beach and found a silver cigarette lighter reflecting the afternoon sun in the clear, shallow water. A cigar lay nearby on the beach. Its paper wrapper with a bright red band still secured the stoggy. My uncle confiscated both when I revealed my treasures at the cottage.

Our father and uncle frequently went fishing for crappies and walleye. When the schools of fish moved a few hundred yards directly offshore of our cabin, my dad and uncle caught enough to feed the entire crew. The delicate white meat of the pan-fried fish filled our hungry bellies.

While our fathers fished, our mothers and grandmother watched us play hour after hour on the sandy beach. Those were the days before sunblock, and apparently, no one remembered to bring along suntan lotion. Before the week was over, the four oldest boys, including me, moaned and groaned in a darkened bedroom. The severe sunburns halted our lakeside romping. We were sore all over, unable to find a comfortable position to rest.

Still, it had been a memorable week. To top it off, our parents remembered the general store with toys. My eyes lit up when I saw the rotating stand displaying several kinds of English-made Matchbox toys. There was no plastic to be found in these miniatures of reality, and they were only a dollar each. I was ecstatic because our parents had given each of their five children a dollar before entering the store. So, I took my time and finally decided on an English-style fire truck as the ferry horn sounded for people to board.

We scurried to the dock across the road, and I carefully clutched my prize, not wanting to crush the colorful cardboard matchbox containing my precious purchase. I bid Pelee farewell as we walked up the ferry’s ramp for the return cruise to Ohio.

It had been a memorable week of fun in the sun, filled with ferry rides, fresh fish, and playing in the water with my siblings and cousins. Those pleasures successfully blocked the short-term memory of my painful sunburn.

These well-worn Matchbox toys are the only ones I have left. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Memorial Day!

The U.S. Marine Corps Memorial, Washington, D.C. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Today is Memorial Day in the United States. It is a day designed to remember U.S. military personnel who have fought and died in wars.

The commemorative day originated as Decoration Day on May 30, 1868, in honor of Union soldiers who had died in the Civil War. It has since been renamed Memorial Day in memory of all loved ones who have died. Congress also set the day as the last Monday in May, making a three-day holiday.

Americans see the weekend as the start of summer. Many schools have already completed their academic year, making June vacations a real possibility for families who can afford them.

Memorial Day has evolved to include parades, 21-gun salutes at cemeteries, family gatherings, and picnics. Memorial Day falls on my wife’s birthday this year, so we will celebrate that with our family, too.

I took this photo on September 12, 2009, at the U.S. Marine Corps Memorial in Washington, D.C. The statue depicts the raising of the American flag on Iwo Jima during World War II.

My older brother and I had accompanied our late father on an Honor Flight out of the Akron-Canton Regional Airport in Ohio. The veterans on the flight gathered in front of the memorial for a group photo. Our father is third from the left in the front row.

Criders and Bergton, Virginia

Criders, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

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.

Bergton, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Ascension Day

The rises sun over Turkey as seen from a Greek island. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Today is Ascension Day, the 40th day after Christ’s resurrection. For many of the churches that follow the Anabaptist traditions, especially the Amish and Old Order Mennonites, Ascension Day is a holiday.

Families gather to reflect, visit, share, relax, and enjoy each other’s company. Youngsters may go fishing, hiking, biking, or playing games like volleyball and softball.

Of all the holidays that the Amish celebrate, Ascension Day is the most informal. There is no worship service or fasting. It simply honors and remembers the day that Christ ascended into heaven.

Couldn’t we all use a day like that to relax, refresh, and renew our body, mind, and spirit?

Birding While I Lunch

A wind-blown female Northern Cardinal perched in our red maple. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I took my lunch outside the other day. The temperatures were more summerlike for the first of May.

I enjoy sitting in the sun for short periods, absorbing the free vitamin D and the natural springtime circus performing around me. Nature sprinkles my light fare with seasonings no human can buy or sell.

I sat on the cultured stone patio in my late mother-in-law’s red and white painted metal rocking chair. A light wind played with my napkin until my cell phone secured it.

I enjoyed the Swiss cheese and crackers and the birds flitting back and forth, singing their luxurious songs until the bully common grackles chased them away.

That gave me an idea. I opened an app on my phone that records birdsong. Soon, I discovered more birds in the immediate area than I realized. My old ears, with their diminished hearing, could not detect them.

A Chimney Swift. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The “flying cigars” called Chimney Swifts chitter-chatter high overhead, zooming in wide arching loops, capturing as many insects as possible. The dark, stubby birds that flap their wings faster than the eye can see were hungrier than me.

A clutch of American Goldfinches landed on the thistle sock hung in the tulip poplar tree, its greenish flowers just now blooming. Unfortunately, the grackles heard their gregarious interaction and quickly chased them away.

My app told me a Yellow Warbler was nearby, but I neither heard nor saw it. It might have been a flyover going farther north than Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

A female Northern Cardinal. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The ubiquitous House Sparrows jabbered atop the bluebird house attached to an old metal fence stake my congenial father-in-law gave me years ago. I made a mental note to check the box to see if the sparrows had built a nest.

Mourning Doves cooed from the neighbor’s rooftop while I finished my potato salad. Though their song is monotonous, I found it pleasantly reassuring.

American Robins bobbed in the grass, searching for their own lunches. Soon, one chased another to the neighbor’s.

A Song Sparrow. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

A pair of Northern Cardinals zipped from the Colorado blue spruce along our back property line to the fountain-fed birdbath by the screened-in back porch. Birds get thirsty, too.

For the first time since last fall, I detected a familiar chorus. The Gray Catbird’s liquid warbling gave it away. Its feline mimicking completed the hearty song. The variegated sound proved as joyous as the catbird’s return.

A Carolina Wren and a recently returned House Wren each called from opposite corners of the property. The Carolina adjusted its vocalization according to need while the house wren’s noisy melody beckoned a mate.

I washed down the last bit of ham salad and crackers with sweet tea, the only kind to drink in Virginia. As I reentered our home, the resident Song Sparrow skittered low along the ground and disappeared beneath my wife’s peonies.

That was all the dessert I needed.

A Gray Catbird preens after a dip in the birdbath. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

There’s Great Joy in Decluttering

The cowboy hat. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My wife and I have been cleaning the house item by item for longer than I can remember. And we’ve been married for 53 years.

She has always been ahead of me in the disposing game. I’m finally beginning to understand the joy of discarding items I have clung to for far too long.

Gone is the brown felt stetson cowboy hat my daughter’s family gave me as a gift years ago when they lived in Texas. It was a striking hat, but I seldom wore it. So, why should I keep it?

To be considerate, I asked my daughter if she cared if I gave the hat away. She just smiled and said, “It’s your hat. You can do whatever you want with it.”

Of course, I knew that, but I wanted to be sensitive to her since she had purchased the thing. I could have donated it to a thrift store, but I didn’t.

Guess where the stetson ended up? Back in my daughter’s household. Her second son, 17, jumped at the chance to own it. He hopes to have a hatter stretch it so it fits him.

Knowing that the hat has a familial home has instilled as much pleasure in me as having received it in the first place. Isn’t that the point of decluttering your life, especially when you’re 76?

Our two-year-old grandson loves to dress up as a firefighter, among other wholesome job roles. I kept my old helmet from my volunteer firefighting days. The black fiberglass headgear, long lacking necessary safety standards, still has my uniform number, 828, emblazoned on it.

When I offered it to his parents for their son, they declined. I wasn’t either surprised or disappointed. The thing has too many places for tender little fingers to get pinched or cut.

So, the same grandson who confiscated the cowboy hat will also own my helmet. I don’t know what he will do with it, but when I hand it over, I’m sure he’ll ask questions about emergencies to which I responded. I have a storehouse of tales to tell him.

My old fire helmet. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our teenage granddaughter didn’t hesitate when I offered her a t-shirt from a favorite burger place on the island where we wintered in Florida. Our daughter’s family joined us for a few days a couple of times, and the grandkids loved that restaurant, too. Many snowbird memories passed to her in that faded shirt.

When our son and daughter were young, I brought out my old model train set at Christmas and continued that through the toddler years of the grandchildren. Now, our son has it to entertain his son. I don’t have to be there to know and sense the joy of a child and his father connecting one track segment to another until the oval is complete. Just mentally picturing that scene is enough.

A teen I mentor enjoys birding but needed a bird guide. Over the years, I have collected many books on birds, so it was no sacrifice to give this enthusiastic youngster a field guide I cherished so that he could, too.

I have an old black-and-white photo of four of the 28 fourth-grade students from my first year of teaching. I will send it to the one Amish boy in the picture, knowing he would revere it more than me. He will remember and tell his grandchildren when his fourth-grade class created a radio station.

I discover new items daily that equally resurface loving and sad memories. If I don’t need the apparel, souvenirs, or keepsakes, I gladly pass them on to the younger generations for posterity. I’ve already had mine.

Abstract on an Overcast Day

A real-life abstract. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

My late mother was an accomplished artist. Her favorite medium was watercolor, and landscapes were her specialty. Occasionally, she dabbled in abstracts, using watercolors, acrylics, or oils.

I thought of my mother when I saw this scene along a local river. Of course, I had to snap a photo of it. I’ve given you a hint about the bottom third of the scene. Can you guess the rest?

If not, here’s the rest of the story. This photo was taken at the bend in the river. A quarter mile downstream, the water is still due to a low-head dam.

Do you still need help? You are looking at the sheer face of a partially wooded limestone cliff that rises 100 feet above the river. The lime-green globs are cedar trees, and the gray greens are lichens. I shot this from the river’s north shore in a park where I was birding.

Now I Understand Why Seniors Guard Their Daily Schedules so Closely

Day hiking the Appalachian Trail in Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I always needed a clarification. I was the marketing coordinator for a continuous care facility 10 miles from home.

Part of my responsibilities included writing a quarterly newsletter that featured people from every aspect of the campus. I interviewed residents in the nursing home, assisted living, independent living, and even employees.

Most residents welcomed me into their living space, gladly answered my questions, and allowed me to photograph them, often with a piece of quilting or carving they had done. It was the reaction of other residents that threw me off. Some declined when I asked them to be interviewed for the newsletter, while others said they were too busy.

I thought to myself, “They’re in a retirement community. How can they be too busy to be interviewed for half an hour?” So, I asked them for an alternative date. Again, they would offer an excuse that I couldn’t come that day because they had a doctor’s appointment, a friend was coming for a visit, a hair appointment, or some other reason at a specific time.

I stayed persistent and said I could come well before or after their appointment. Most declined, saying to pick another day that suited them. It usually was a day they didn’t have anything planned.

Sunrise at the Ohio retirement community where I worked. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

That should have been my first hint. Still, I didn’t quite understand why they couldn’t see me in the morning when they had a late afternoon appointment.

I do now. I held that position 20 years ago. At 76, I am the age of some of the folks I interviewed. I find myself repeating their behavior.

My wife and I retired, but not to a retirement community. We live in a ranch home on a third of an acre. We downsized considerably when moving from our long-time Ohio home to Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley to be close to three of our four grandchildren.

I’m done for the day if I mow the yard, which usually takes about an hour and a half, including trimming. Out of sheer fatigue, I readily turn down opportunities to fill in the rest of the day. The only exception is if one of the grandkids has a concert or baseball or volleyball game.

After an exerting project, I am more than content to sit on my lounge chair on our screened-in back porch and read or relax. Even though I exercise regularly, I need to recharge the next day.

I am even careful about scheduling anything other than a doctor’s appointment on a single day. I have to drive across town to get to the medical office. I always wonder what traffic will be like. Our small city hosts two thriving universities, several non-profits, and many businesses and residences, including many townhouses and condos serving as college student housing. Plus, I have to cross an interstate highway that runs right through the middle of the city, with vehicles entering and exiting. As much as I like to drive, it can be stressful.

So, I confess that I didn’t fully realize the effects of aging. In my 50s, I was still raring to go. In 2024, not so much. I still walk, hike, and do photography, and I am an active bird watcher. Those I can combine in one outing. But not if I have another kind of commitment that day. I spread out the activities in which I partake.

So, to all those former residents in the retirement community, I apologize for shaking my head at your excuses. I now guard my daily schedules like you did all those years ago. Thanks for the life lesson, even though I learned it too late.

The author at Hawksbill Peak in Shenandoah National Park. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Street Photography in D.C.

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.

The U.S. Capitol building at the golden hour.

The U.S. Botanic Garden at the U.S. Botanic Garden.

The U.S. Capitol building, east entrance.

The U.S. Capitol at the U.S. Botanic Gardens.

The Lincoln Memorial at the U.S. Botanic Gardens.

As you can see, Washington, D.C., is a photographer’s paradise for street photography.

Snow on the Mountains

A view of the snow-covered West Virginia mountains.

My wife and I spent a wonderful long weekend visiting family and friends in Ohio. With a powerful cold front sweeping across the country, I suspected our return trip might be dicey since we had to travel through several mountain ranges to return to our home in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

To avoid slippery roads, we waited until the warnings and advisories for heavy snow expired before setting out. That still gave us time to arrive home before dark as long as the roads were clear. Fortunately, they were.

The snow appeared as soon as we began to climb in elevation east of Morgantown, West Virginia. The tall, dark, barren trees sprouted from a light snow covering. The beauty would only increase as we progressed southeast.

The highways in Maryland traverse mountains that appear all scrunched together. The effect is that you are riding across the mountaintops without ever descending into deep valleys. There, the storm had frosted entire woodlots with powdered sugar. Inches of snow stuck to the tree branches and trunks and covered the forest floor and adjoining farm fields. It was gorgeous.

I stopped several times for photos. However, we saw numerous scenes without a safe place to pull over. Those images will have to remain pleasant memories.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Since I couldn’t stop along the narrow, winding state route, I chose several county roads for photos. I didn’t have to go far. It was like we had driven into a black-and-white movie from the 1950s. Forboding dark clouds enhance that effect.

We continued our trek south and east into West Virginia. The snowy, panoramic landscape became wide open once we hit Corridor H, U.S. 48. We took advantage of highway overlooks for thrilling shots.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

In Maryland and West Virginia, giant windmills swooped their massive blades round and round. Despite their distance from us, the noise shocked me when I exited the vehicle for photos.

The valleys became more expansive, and the mountains steeper as we continued east. As the National Weather Service predicted, areas above 2.000 feet in elevation received the heaviest snow. The lowland had little to no snow at all.

A sunlit mountainside near Baker, West Virginia.

The farther east we traveled, the more frequent the breaks in clouds, which allowed the late afternoon sun to break through. The contrast between the sunlit and shadowed snow created lovely shade and color contrasts.

As we entered our beloved Shenandoah Valley, snow had all but disappeared. Only the higher ridges remained white. The morning photos of friends on social media showed the comeliness of the snowfall in the valley, with the snow-covered old-age mountains as a beautiful backdrop.

Still, we were happy to have seen the snowy sights and thankful for cleared highways, and to be home.