At my age, I’m always grateful for another day. December 4th dawned with a lovely sunrise. It was a delightful way to start my birthday, and it set the tone for what was to come.
Food, fun, and fellowship were on the day’s menu. Knowing we had reservations for dinner, I ate on the light side for breakfast and lunch.
We met friends for breakfast and enjoyed the warm food and lively conversation with the couple. We went from that restaurant to another in a retirement community, where we met three other couples who comprise one of the three small groups in which we participate monthly.
One couple had just moved into the complex and was still unpacking boxes. Yet, they took time to meet with us. Another member of our group had recently fractured a kneecap in a fall, but she and her husband joined the fellowship despite her injury. I was most grateful for their willingness to commune with us over our lunch.
Our lunch with friends.
However, we had to bring that party to a halt and hustle home to start a Zoom meeting with my wife’s cousin, some of their spouses, and one toddler granddaughter. Since we are all within a dozen years in age of one another, not counting the granddaughter, there’s always a lot of reminiscing and sharing of aches and pains of aging. Still, we always manage to laugh and embrace one another, even if it is virtually. We live in four different states.
I hoped for an equally pretty sunset, but it wasn’t to be. A bank of clouds ahead of an approaching snowstorm eliminated that possibility. However, in the northeast sky, December’s Super Full Cold Moon defied the odds and peeked through the high, wispy, cirrus clouds.
December’s Super Full Cold Moon shone through the thin clouds. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our son and daughter’s families made arrangements for us to eat in a new Mediterranean restaurant in the city’s old, refurbished daily newspaper building. The remodeled interior and the staff combined to make our already pleasant day even more so.
We dined in style with an excellent waiter attending to all our needs. After our main courses, my wife and I shared a creme brulee for dessert. When we arrived home, the full moon struggled to shine through the thickening clouds.
Nevertheless, it had been a fulfilling, enjoyable day through and through. The sunrise, fellowship, and full moon were all the birthday candles I needed.
The quilt we gave our grandson for his high school graduation. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Today is my wife’s birthday. How is she celebrating? By doing what she does every day: helping others.
Whether it’s her birthday or not, she spends the better part of nearly every Tuesday volunteering at a local thrift store. She runs the cash register, sorts clothing and knick-knacks, and answers customers’ queries about the store, the city, and the Shenandoah Valley, where we live.
As we both approach 80, we strive to be proactive with our bodies, minds, and spirits. Assisting others helps us in all three areas. At the store, Neva engages with new folks, which she greatly enjoys. For the local elementary school, she helps pack nonperishable food for families in need.
She uses her skills to make comforters for people she will never meet. A church organization sends them around the world to those who have little to nothing.
Neva also demonstrates her altruistic talents for the family. Last night, she delivered a quilt that she had pieced and had quilted for our grandson’s high school graduation. She helped him pick the fabric and arrange the pattern. Neva even stitched in music notes on the quilt’s backside for our musically talented grandson.
After that presentation, we sat around a campfire with our daughter’s family covered in quilts and blankets for no other reason than to enjoy one another’s company on an unusually chilly evening. Mere presence is another gift of giving.
Neva connects with a friend who has several children. With the ding of a text, Neva can be off providing rides from school to doctor’s offices and back. Now and then, she prepares a meal for them. Neva seems to run on opportunity, and when opportunity beckons, she responds more often than not.
Neva sends birthday, get-well, sympathy cards, and ‘thinking of you’ notes to those who need to be remembered. She often receives a return note or text of appreciation.
Yesterday, our freezer gave out. We hustled the thawing food over to our neighbor across the street, who graciously allowed us to temporarily store it in her freezer until our new one arrives.
In recognition of Neva’s birthday, that same neighbor brought a salad basket for Neva. She had picked the lettuce from her garden and included all the fixings for a delicious salad.
Neva’s salad birthday gift.
So, tonight, she and I will quietly celebrate her birthday with that salad and a few other food items that were too thawed to refreeze. It will be a satisfying end to another day of opportunities to serve.
No doubt, Neva is a trooper. She is determined not to let age deter her from doing what needs to be done to improve the lives of others, even on her birthday.
Our 15-year-old granddaughter had her suspicions. While helping my wife prepare for our family Easter meal, Maren found an egg that she thought might have a double yoke. She wanted to break it open to see, but instead placed it in the pot of boiling water with the other eggs.
When my wife sliced open the egg, she found a surprise. The egg didn’t contain a double yolk, but a yolk and a half. I’m not sure how rare that is, but extensive Google research showed that a double yolk is a 1 in 1,000 chance.
Kehena Bland Sand Beach, Kona. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Our fifth day in Hawaii was filled with many wonders and one big downer. My wife woke up not feeling well. She encouraged me to go on the scheduled excursion to explore much of the Big Island. I did so, but reluctantly.
Our day trip had multiple stops, and the local bus driver added some of his favorites, making the exploration day a success. Our first stop wasn’t far from the hotel.
It was a tourist stop, but our guide wanted us to experience a geologic phenomenon. We explored a lava tube formed by molten lava flowing from a volcanic vent through existing lava rock that had solidified years before. Once the lava flowed out, only the outer shell of the flowing lava remained, leaving the tube-like feature. It was the first of several intriguing stops.
The lava tube. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We drove south high above the ocean to our west. Lucious vegetation captured our attention as the bus maneuvered the two-lane highway on it wound its way up, down, and around the parameters of the island.
The island’s official name is Hawaii, and it is located in the county of Hawaii in the state of Hawaii. Consequently, the locals prefer Kona to avoid confusion, and I concur.
Near the island’s southern tip, an overlook affords splendid views of previous lava flows and the blue Pacific. Miles away, we could see the southernmost point of the US. Sorry, Key West. No haze, cell towers, or skyscrapers spoiled the view. Giant windmills turned in the tropical wind. From our vantage point, they looked like children’s pinwheels.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
I wished my wife could have seen this. I kept wondering how she was doing and hoped for a signal to check in with her. I would have to wait a while longer than I wanted.
The landscapes and foliage changed drastically as the bus driver adeptly navigated the undulating and winding curves. The land was either barren and chunked up black lava or many shades of green with pastures, shrubs, and trees of all shapes and sizes.
Every now and then, we saw another Hawaiian human-caused phenomenon. Because of the rural nature of the islands and the tricky terrain for motorized vehicles to maneuver, crashes are frequent. Instead of towing the wrecked cars, they are pushed off the roadway and over the hillside where they stay. This only applies to vehicles deemed not worth towing.
Many demolished cars, trucks, and vans were either stripped of their valuables, burned out, or both. They had been there long enough for young trees to grow through the tipped-over junkers. This practice seems to run counter to the nearly litter-free islands. Recycling is the norm in Hawaii, with old, crashed vehicles apparently exempted.
When we reached the tiny village of Naalehu, we stopped at the southernmost bakery in the US. The Portuguese donuts were scrumptious. I only ate one but took one back for my wife.
Too soon, we were back on the road, heading north. The ocean was on the right, and slush pastures dotted with windswept and stunted trees on the steep slope of a volcano on the left. This was the windward east side of Kona, where the prevailing winds bring ample rains compared to the western part of the island.
We arrived at Punalu’u Black Sand Beach Park and were pleasantly surprised. As we approached the beautiful beach, I noticed popup canopies, and many people stood around observing.
Our visit was well-timed. Scientists, professors, and marine biology students from the University of Hawaii were capturing, evaluating, and tagging Green Sea Turtles. In fact, a few large ones lay on the beach, absorbing the warmth of the noontime sun.
Since we had lunch reservations at our primary destination, our time on the beach was limited. The black sand is the product of lava being eroded and pulverized many times to form the beach.
The bus steadily climbed the gradual slope to the Hawaii Volcanos National Park’s visitors center, where a tasty lunch awaited us. After lunch, we joined our guide outside.
I was expecting a tall volcanic cone where we peered over the edge to look down into the crater. I underestimated the size and power of these massive domes. It was at least a half mile away. I think Manhattan could fit inside Kilauea’s gigantic crater.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
I also expected strong odors to emit from the caldera. Instead, it mainly was steam from vents along the volcano’s sides, although the fumes from Kilauea’s center would have been noxious.
To get a closer look, some of the group walked with our guide along an abandoned highway about half a mile. We could more closely see the steam rising from the crater’s center.
Several birds popped out before us on our way back to the bus. We headed back down the mountain, through the aptly named little burg of Volcano, and on to Hilo, the island’s largest town.
We stopped at Rainbow Falls in Wailuku River State Park, and I finally had a signal to contact my wife. She had Covid. Our guide jumped into action and tried to find an urgent care facility where Neva could be seen. However, all three were either closed or about to close, so my dear wife had to take a cab to the local hospital emergency room, where she spent four hours before being seen. All she wanted was a prescription for Paxlovid, which the ER doctor faxed to the local pharmacy.
Our guide assured us Neva and I could continue on the tour. She said the tour company treats COVID-19 like the flu. We would isolate on the bus and wear masks when around others. With only 14 people on the tour and riding a bus for 46 passengers, we could easily comply. I informed the other group members, and they were most understanding and concerned.
Darkness began to fall as we headed west up over a pass that took us past several volcano domes. The twilight gave them an eerie appearance. My poor wife didn’t arrive back at the hotel until 11 p.m.
We spent the next day relaxing around the hotel after I retrieved Neva’s prescription. I did some birding and enjoyed exploring the nooks and crannies on the hotel property while my wife rested. We finished the day watching mantarays feed in the shallow waters along the lava rocks in front of the hotel.
Flowering shrubs, coconut palm trees, and brilliant rainbows were ubiquitous in Hawaii.
Our tour of Hawaii continued as we flew to the Big Island, which the locals call Kona. As our morning flight left Honolulu, I got a shot of Waikiki Beach and Diamond Head. Flying over other smaller islands, I was amazed at how deep blue the ocean was.
We landed at Kona’s small airport, where the luggage claim carousels are outside but covered with square thatch-like material to resemble native huts. Our small group boarded the bus for Kailu-Kona, where we had lunch. Our guide gave us a heads-up to sit at the bar where the prices were lower and the food just as good. We followed her wise advice and enjoyed our fish tacos.
Waikiki Beach (left) and Diamond Head (right).
One of the islands we overflew.
The fish tocos.
Where the locals swim.
A downtown city park.
We strolled around the oceanside town, window-shopping and enjoying the balmy breezes. Still, the sun was hot, so we refreshed ourselves with a cup of tasty shaved ice before boarding the bus again.
Since Kona has six volcanoes, traveling is either up, down, or around the island. We did all three on our ride to a historic coffee farm, now run by the Kona Historical Society, a non-profit organization. The farm is the only living history coffee farm in the country.
Along the path to the old farmhouse, bright red coffee cherries bent the bows of coffee bushes. Most were nearly ripe for picking. Tropical songbirds flitted from tree to tree, but there was no time to investigate them. A staff member from the historical society greeted us and gave us an overview of our visit.
As we neared the old, original farmhouse, an elderly Japanese woman appeared. Tradition calls for visitors to present a gift to the head of the residence. The docent, of course, had one and presented it to our host, Paula, who graciously accepted it.
Paula had a precious and moving story about her life on the farm. When she was four, her parents apprenticed her to the farm, where she mainly assisted in homemaking activities and worked in the garden.
Paula explained the traditions and daily routines the family went through to keep the farm operating. Her personal stories of a child doing an adult’s work moved us all.
Japanese came to this part of Hawaii in the 1920s, when the farm was established. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese were rounded up and placed in detention camps. However, Japanese farmers were not. Consequently, the coffee farms were deemed essential and continued to operate.
The farm was exquisitely maintained, just as when Paula helped on it. All the buildings were original to the farm, and each operation was explained. Having been to Honduras several times, I had seen the entire process of small coop coffee farms. I even helped pick the coffee cherries. The Japanese methods of growing, harvesting, and processing the cherries and the beans they contained were remarkably similar to what I had experienced.
We dressed up.Local lore in song.Local lore in dance.The worriers.The finale.
An exception was the way the beans were dried. In Honduras, beans are often placed on concrete pads or tarps and dried in the sun. The shed where the beans were dried at this historical farm had a slanting roof to prevent the tropical rains from spoiling the crop.
Our group was impressed with Paula and the simple but efficient way of producing the rich Kona coffee. It was a great introduction to the Big Island.
Our day ended with a traditional evening luau with roasted pig, poi, poke, rice, and fresh vegetables and fruits. Lots of singing and acting out historic events followed with dancers and native warriors. Of course, a light rain briefly drizzled us, which is customary and unavoidable.
A gentle rain began to fall, but in such a setting, it didn’t matter. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
My wife and I were busy last week. Everywhere we went, we saw color, literally and metaphorically. Color dominated, from flowers to birds to people to landscapes to food to sunsets.
Here are a few samples of the vivid, muted, and impressive hues we encountered as we traveled from Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley to the Piedmont of North Carolina and back.
We met good friends from Ohio for breakfast in Front Royal, Virginia.We bought apples and fresh cider at a local orchard.We enjoyed lunch with cousins from California and North Carolina.
Dan Nicholas Park Lake.
Textures and colors.
The Foot Bridge.
A multitude of greens.
A pristine lake.
Reflections.
The last lily bloom.
Muscovy Duck.
A migrating Bay Breasted Warbler.
A Great Blue Heron.
Dan Nicholas Park wasn’t the only place we saw birds. We sat in the shade and chatted while various species of birds visited our hosts’ backyard feeders.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
Of course, I had to include a sunset from Cannon Park in Salisbury, North Carolina.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
The evening we arrived home in Harrisonburg, Virginia, the aurora borealis brightened the night sky. The following morning, we had the first frost of the season.
On Saturday, we hustled from one event to another. It was Homecoming at Eastern Mennonite University, where our daughter is the athletic director. The highlight for us was the dedication of the new state-of-the-art track. The ceremonies culminated with a ceremonial lap around the track by significant donors, former track members, and current track members. The oldest participant to run was in his 80s. He runs every day.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
Sugar Maple leaves are peaking.
That evening, we watched our grandson lead the Rock City Regime as the drum major at a high school band competition.
The colorful week ended with a welcome home by late-blooming clematis.
The yard I foolishly mowed. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I sat beneath a spreading canopy of an ornamental tree at my favorite cafe, waiting for my celebratory lunch. It was my reward for a spontaneous decision I wished I hadn’t made.
Early in the late August morning coolness, I had already walked my usual mile in our suburban neighborhood. The humidity neutralized the refreshing temperature.
The forecast showed heavy rain off and on for the next three days. As I walked, I weighed my options. Should I mow our yard or not? The grass was already high, and the rain would only allow it to grow thicker and higher.
Our granddaughter, who usually mows for us, was in school. Plus, I needed more time to request the on-call lawn service, so I was the only option. The truth is that I loved to mow the yard. I enjoy the exercise and the challenge of mowing the grass in different directions each time, creating various patterns in the yard.
Back home, I confidently announced my decision to my wife.
“Are you sure?” she wisely asked with clear doubt and a contorted look. She knew the consequences that I ignored.
I gassed up the mower and charged onto the lawn as my wife left for the morning. It was 68 degrees Fahrenheit when I started and 86 degrees when I finished.
The first 20 minutes went well. I made several passes around the perimeter of our third of an acre and got halfway through the front yard when the reality of why others mow our lawn kicked in.
I’m allergic to grass. Despite my nose running like a baby’s, I followed my male ego’s insistence. I soldiered on as best I could while my wife’s question rattled in my numbed brain. Soon, however, the physical reactions forced this stubborn septuagenarian to take an extra-long break. I needed to rest and hydrate. Plus, I used half a box of facial tissues.
Nevertheless, I pressed on as the temperature spiked and the humidity intensified. With the front yard finished, I retreated to the garage’s shelter to repeat my previous routine: sit, drink, towel away the sweat, and repeatedly blow my nose.
In short, I was miserable and exhausted but still determined to finish the job. My stubborn male ego spurred my misguided desire to do so. Fortunately, with a few more rounds, I completed the mowing. I took another break before cleaning up the mower and blowing off the driveway, sidewalk, and patio. What should have taken an hour turned into two.
I was ecstatic to be finished despite my stupidity. I cleaned up and basked in the comfort of air conditioning.
As the late morning transitioned into the afternoon, I headed to the downtown cafe I loved. I treated myself to my favorite lunchtime dish: a gluten-free waffle with fresh fruit and sweet tea in the dappled shade of that cityscape tree. The delicious food vindicated my miserable morning. At least, that’s what I rationalized.
My celebratory lunch. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
I spent the afternoon relaxing in a lounge chair in the shade of the back porch. I promptly fell asleep despite the heat, which now had reached 96 degrees. An hour later, I awoke to a new reality. Despite the ongoing drought, the National Weather Service posted a flood watch for northern Virginia. Hopefully, rain was on the way.
The hazy, clear blue sky filled with high cirrus clouds. Soon, a brisk wind sailed lower, more menacing cumulous clouds overhead.
A blessed, gentle rain began by early evening but quickly became a downpour. Lightning flashed in every direction, with some strikes too close for comfort. Ear-splitting booms instantly followed bright bolts.
The evening cooled once the storm front passed, and I settled in for a good night’s sleep, exhausted but happy for the rain and the manicured yard. I confessed my evident male ego stubbornness to my compassionate wife, laughed at my foolishness, and fell into a contented, deep sleep.
In his iconic 1909 craft book “Write It Right,” Ambrose Bierce stated that “good writing” is “clear thinking made visible.” My actions proved that muddled reasoning is just as evident.
A mushroom merchant’s booth at a Farmers Market. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
When I spotted this booth at a Farmers Market in Rochester, New York, I had to take a photo. The friendly merchant’s smile showed he gladly approved.
And why shouldn’t he? The business name’s double entendre pitched both the product and its purpose. Undoubtedly, “The Fun Guys” owners are as mellow as their mushrooms.
The temperatures in Virginia’s snowy Shenandoah Valley were in the single digits again this morning. There’s nothing like a cup of coffee of your choice to help take the chill off the coldest morning.
My wife and I enjoy mocha lattes. We have to drink decaf at our age. What’s your favorite hot drink?
Roadkill Crossing 
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