photography – Page 125 – Roadkill Crossing

Taking my breakfast with the birds

By Bruce Stambaugh

Some people might think that breakfast is for the birds. I’m not one of them. I never miss breakfast.

Breakfast is one of my necessary routines. I’m not much of a cook, but, despite the fact that I am a man, I can certainly pour cereal into a bowl and juice into a glass. Along with some fruit, that is my usual morning feast, day in and day out.

I seldom dine alone. If the backyard birds are feeding, I often stand at the kitchen window and enjoy my morning meal as my feathered friends peck at theirs. This particular morning, I was seated at the breakfast bar, where I can still view the hanging feeders.

Goldfinch family by Bruce Stambaugh — The hanging feeder by my kitchen window is usually busy with birds, like this family of American Goldfinches.

I had just begun to crunch my mini-wheats when I heard the flock of birds outside the window take flight. The Mourning Doves were especially noticeable, with their thrashing wings and eerie, frightened call.

Clearly they had been startled. My first inclination was to blame the local Cooper’s Hawk. The feisty bird of prey makes frequent surprise raids on neighborhood feeders.

I suspected that the small hawk was after its breakfast as well. I checked the ground around the feeders. The ice-covered snow was void of any birds. A lone Mourning Dove sat frozen in fear next to the hopper feeder on the old porcelain-topped table beside the back porch. That told me to keep searching for the hawk.

I scoured the stately sugar maple where the hawk had been known to perch, waiting for any unsuspecting songbird. The dormant tree branches were bare.

I quickly scanned the row of white pines. No hawk visible there either. I headed to the front window, thinking the Cooper’s Hawk may have tried the feeders in the front yard. There it was.

The Cooper’s Hawk sat on the snow about 20 yards beyond the Colorado blue spruce that shelters the feeders. Beneath the hawk was what looked to be a Mourning Dove. Feathers from the hawk’s victim were scattered in a broad circle around the hunter and the hunted.

Cooper's Hawk with kill by Bruce Stambaugh — The young Cooper's Hawk held its kill to the snowy ground.

The Cooper’s Hawk kept looking around, wary of any predators that might try to steal its avian granola. I put the long lens on my camera as rapidly as I could, and shot several pictures.

All the while, the hawk squeezed its prey with its sharp talons. At one point, it shook loose some feathers that had stuck in its equally sharp bill. From time to time, the wounded Mourning Dove would wiggle its tail in a futile attempt to escape.

Between camera clicks, the hawk flew west with its catch. I rushed to the sliding glass door that leads to the back porch. There, beneath one of the pines at the edge of our property, the hawk sat with the dove still tightly clenched and pressed to the cold ground.

Before I could raise my camera, the accipiter launched low to the south with its catch and was instantly out of sight. I wondered if it had sought refuge in the pines or continued into the small deciduous woods on the other side of the neighbor’s.

Either way, the crafty hawk was likely enjoying its fresh, nourishing breakfast. I returned to mine, sorry for the dove, but glad I had been witness to the way the biological world really works.

Look who’s talking now

By Bruce Stambaugh

On a dark, chilly November night several years ago, an emergency medical technician arrived on the scene of a car verses buggy accident at a rural intersection. Unlike the car’s passengers, the older Amish man driving the lantern-lit buggy was uninjured.

As the scene cleared, the first responder asked the Amish man how far he had to go to call for help. With a toothless grin, the Amish man reached into his denim jacket and flopped opened a cell phone.

In the early days of cell phones, when even the EMT didn’t have one, that scenario might have been rare in Amish country. It isn’t any longer. As contradictory as is it may sound, Amish have and use telephones. They use them to converse, to fax, for GPS, to text, and on rare occasions, to access the Internet.

Of course, like many of other Amish lifestyle “rules,” there are many variables in the Amish – phone connection. Church leadership metes out phone use guidelines for Amish. Those rules and their application vary greatly. It all depends on which church and which order of Amish as to what the rules may allow. The rules about phone use, like other lifestyle guidelines, even differ from church to church within the same order of Amish.

Amish place by Bruce Stambaugh — The home of a young Amish family in Holmes County, Ohio.

The orders of Amish, if placed on a continuum, would range from New Order on the left to the Swartzentruber’s on the right. In other words, from the most progressive to the most conservative, with those terms being used in the religious sense, not politically. In between are the most numerous, the Old Order Amish that people describe when they refer to the sect.

The extremes of phone use by Amish would range from members of one church group permitted to have landline phones in their residence to others that are permitted no phones at all. Again, their individual church leaders determine how and where Amish use phones. This may seem strange or even unfair to those unfamiliar with the Amish, and sometimes to those who even live among them. But simply put, that’s just the way it is.

Driving down any highway in Amish country will reveal which families and businesses are not permitted to have landline phones in their buildings. Near the edge of the road, travelers will see small buildings about the size and shape of the old-fashioned phone booths with a door and usually a window for light.

They look like phone booths because that is exactly what they are. Enclosing the phone in a small structure protects the person using the phone from any inclement weather and provides privacy. The homemade phone booths are usually locked to prevent any vandalism or misuse.

Amish farmstead with phone booth by Bruce Stambaugh — Find the phone booth among all the other buildings on this farmstead near Walnut Creek, Ohio.

Such phone booths could be used by a single family or business, or by multiple families. Each family or business would have its own voicemail extension. The phones are not answered live.

Some churches require that phone booths be so many feet from the home or business. Some even require the phone to be across the road, so as not to be too convenient, thus reducing the possibility of casual use. Some Amish, especially the New Order sect, would allow a landline in their home.

In many churches, phones for calling out and faxing are permitted in the business, but not in the home. Incoming calls go directly to voice mail. This rule is economically weighted. The successes of cottage industries, which have boomed among the Amish in the last two decades, are critical to the welfare of the Amish community. Only about 10 percent of the Amish population farms today. The rest either have their own businesses or work at other local businesses.

Of course, any discussion about Amish and the use of phones would be incomplete without mentioning the ubiquitous cell phones. Cell phones are actually more widely accepted among the Amish leaders than landlines, simply because they are not literally tied to the public utility grid.

Cell phones have proven to be an efficient tool when it comes to doing business, regardless of the trade or product produce. Generally speaking, a common rule for cell phones is that they are turned off in the residence. Another rule stipulates that the phones cannot access the Internet or e-mail.

Because they are not yet church members, none of the rules apply to Amish youth, unless of course their parents say they cannot use them. Just like their non-Amish peers everywhere, texting and using cell phones to take pictures are typical for today’s Amish teenagers regardless of which church order their parents may belong.

In the 21^st century, phones are one technology the Amish have embraced. Clearly though, the difference between them using the phone compared to the rest of society is in the details. For those instructions, the Amish look to their respective church leadership.

Finding the good in the bad weather

By Bruce Stambaugh

Weather is one of my favorite hobbies. Living in Ohio’s Amish Country affords me plenty of climatological variety to enjoy.

That is especially true in the winter. We never know what winter will bring here when it comes to weather. It could be mild. It could be cold. It could be dry. We could be buried in snow. And all of those scenarios could happen in the same winter season.

I especially like an occasional heavy snow. I love the beauty, the peacefulness, the serenity an abundant snowfall brings. The landscape comes alive, green pine boughs heavy laden with a snowy burden, fire engine red Cardinals searching for seeds, chestnut horses romping in the white, fluffy playground, children bundled up to build snowmen.

Cardinal and corn by Bruce Stambaugh — A male cardinal at an ear corn feeder.

Of course, such a snow causes headaches for travel and unwanted expenses for municipalities expected to clean every last flake from the roadways. Tow truck drivers, on the other hand, revel in the bounty of pulling vehicle after vehicle out of ditches.

For my part, the good far outweighs the bad when it comes to snow. I can’t say the same thing about an ice storm, however.

Our most recent experience with a widespread ice event is example enough. Ice-coated trees crashed onto power lines and highways. I both pitied and admired the road and utility workers who braved the dangerous elements trying to restore order out of the icy chaos.

Stores lost valuable business. Schools altered schedules, academic and extracurricular alike. People who lost power and didn’t have access to a generator had to wait it out, sometimes for days.

Ice clogged by Bruce Stambaugh — The ice storm clogged roads and gutters alike.

Eventually, though, some good managed to find its way through the gloom and dismay of the ubiquitous ice. Ice-coated branches sparkled, even from nighttime’s artificial light.

Moon crescent by Bruce Stambaugh — Even the light from a thin creasent moon reflected off of the icy landscape.

But often it takes us awhile to see the glimmering light of an ice storm. The most obvious benefits came in the first light of day. Once the clouds diminished, the low angled rays of sunrise and later sunsets ricocheted across the icy landscape. Even the light of a thin crescent moon slid its tiny light across the shiny, slippery iced-over acres of fallow fields.

The light came in other natural forms, too. A kind neighbor sauntered over to sprinkle calcium on the inch thick, hard blanket of ice that covered the walk and parking pad. After a few minutes, he began chipping the icy glaze just because it needed to be done. I joined him, and a congenial conversation brightened the otherwise dull day.

A township resident called to say that he and his neighbors had cleaned up the downed tree limbs save the one they couldn’t reach that still dangled above the roadway. The lone highway worker would not have to clear that section of the road of debris thanks to their thoughtfulness and commitment to doing the obvious for safety sake. Why wait on paid personnel when a volunteer effort gets the job done just as well?

As we saw again last week, an ice storm can be devastating. Urban and rural commerce and individual residents alike suffer the cold consequences.

Conversely, an ice storm can also be a bright ray of sunshine in an otherwise dismal winter. I enjoyed the enhanced scenery and the visit of the friendly neighbor.

However, having experienced this most recent icy incident and the one in late 2004, the next one can wait awhile as far as I’m concerned. That weather is a bit too extreme, even for me.

Amish Super Bowl Haiku

Amish head to church by Bruce Stambaugh — Amish youth gathered for a Super Bowl Sunday hymn sing.

Super Bowl Sunday
neighborhood Amish youth hold
an evening hymn sing.

Bruce Stambaugh
Feb. 6, 2011

Four season survival

Woods edge by Bruce Stambaugh — Where field and forest meet.

From the tallest trees
of the interfacing woods,
the red-tailed hawk gleans
the pasture, grain and hay fields,
fallow, fertile, emerging, golden,
winter, spring, summer and fall.

Bruce Stambaugh
Feb. 6, 2011

Red-tailed Hawk by Bruce Stambaugh — A red-tailed hawk glides over a hayfield.

Enjoying the cold from the inside out

By Bruce Stambaugh

It was a good day to stay inside. Though the partly cloudy sky revealed a gorgeous sunrise, the thermometer read six below zero, the coldest temperature of the season so far in Ohio’s Amish Country. That alone told me this day would be best enjoyed from the inside out.

Given the fact that I was in the midst of a battle with the annual wintertime crud, I wasn’t about to argue with that logic. The frigid air would do me no good.

Having spent five long hours in the local emergency room the previous morning, I knew I needed to take it easy. Stuck inside, I resigned myself to two main activities. I checked the birdfeeders for visitors and I rested.

Compared to previous winters, it had been a disappointing season at the birdfeeders. I had kept them well stocked and cleaned of any old feed, mold or other potentially noxious particles that would harm or discourage the birds.

Despite my efforts, the usual nice variety and numbers of birds had failed to materialize. Before the snow flew, I had a pair of Red-breasted Nuthatches. But they must have been passing through because they haven’t been back.

Just before the holidays, Pine Siskins chased the American Goldfinches away from the feeder that contained sunflower chips. The siskins never came back either. After one of the series of Alberta Clippers came through, I had a Rusty Blackbird for a couple of days.

Goldfinch by Bruce Stambaugh — An American Goldfinch perched on a porch post.

The usual birds, other than the pesky House Sparrows, seemed fewer in number. A pair of Cardinals made infrequent appearances. The Dark-eyed Juncos, a given at winter feeders, were scarce. A few White-breasted Nuthatches and Black-capped Chickadees came and went irregularly.

A pair of bully Blue Jays could be counted to show up from time to time. A Downy Woodpecker pretty much had the suet feeder all to himself. The Red-bellied Woodpecker that had been a regular seemed to have disappeared since the snowfall.

The goldfinches and the congregation of house sparrows were the only feeder faithfuls. My winter’s entertainment wasn’t as entertaining as I would have liked.

As the temperature of this frigid day climbed into positive single digits, the bird feeders suddenly came alive. Colors flashed in the bright morning sunshine, and I grabbed my camera.

Two sparrows by Bruce Stambaugh — A Tree Sparrow and a Song Sparrow searched for food.

I spent a majority of the morning snapping one shot after the other. Tree sparrows picked at the corn my wife had put out since I was on the disabled list. The secretive song sparrow found a spot in the sun where it could simultaneously feed and warm itself.

The show really picked up at the shelled peanut feeder, which was a section of hollowed out log hanging from a hook on the back porch. The red-bellied returned, and brought along a hairy woodpecker as a sidekick. Tufted titmice and even chickadees grabbed some protein.

Bluebird with peanut by Bruce Stambaugh — A male Eastern Bluebird enjoyed a raw, shelled peanut.

A family of eastern bluebirds stole the show, however. They tried out every feeder. Males and females alike ate peanuts, chipped sunflower
seeds, black oil sunflower seeds and even pecked at the peanut butter-laden suet.

Despite the cold, both in the air and in my body, I had hit the trifecta. I enjoyed the extreme winter weather without having to bundle up, was treated to some wonderful birding, and captured much of it through the lens of my camera. I was beginning to feel better already.

Song Sparrow Haiku

Song Sparrow by Bruce Stambaugh — A Song Sparrow briefly welcomed the warming sun with an unexpected chorus.

On the coldest day
of the year the song sparrow
earned its moniker.

Bruce Stambaugh
Jan. 23, 2011

Loathing acts and words of violence

By Bruce Stambaugh

In the aftermath of the recent shootings in Tucson, Arizona, fierce discussion immediately followed the quick apprehension of the alleged shooter. To try to make some sense of this despicable act, heated vitriol quickly ensued, trying to focus blame on the rhetoric of popular political talking heads left and right.

I watched and listened. Mostly thanks to the ability to communicate spontaneously through the miracle of modern technology we call social networking, cable TV and talk radio, voices and anger rose simultaneously. So did the sale of guns and ammunition.

I watched and listened because I had sadly seen it all unfold before too many times in my lifetime. John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr., Bobby Kennedy, George Wallace, John Lennon, Gerald Ford, Ronald Reagan, Indira Gandhi, and Benazir Bhutto all came to mind.

These names, these famous folks were merely added to an even longer list of assassinations throughout history, the world’s and ours. Unfortunately, many of the more noted killings occurred in our own republic. Abraham Lincoln, William McKinley, James Garfield, Huey Long only begin the list.

We don’t have to stop at naming people either. Virginia Tech, Columbine, Paducah, and Nickel Mines are too easily recalled.

That’s what happens in the land of the free and the home of the brave where the first two articles of the United States Constitution create freedom of speech and freedom to arm. It is a delicate balance indeed to maintain in a free and open society. Too often, as was apparently the case in Tucson, unbalanced people upend everyday life at the price of innocents.

We cry out to make sense of it all when history has shown time and again that the reasons for shootings are often obscure and obscured. Usually, there is no clear-cut, well-reasoned reason.

Such high profile shootings demand the media’s attention because the public has a right to know and indeed needs and wants to know the details, the who, the what, the when, the why and the where of each and every act of violence. Sadly, because a crazy person chooses one freedom over the other, 9-year-old girls, federal judges, and United States representatives become the victims.

The public outcry is fast and fierce, and the rush on gun and ammo purchases shows an equal and opposite sentiment out of the desire for self-protection. Again, an ugly and unnecessary counterbalance occurs.

The unfortunate truth is, as we have learned in recent days, that these killings, usually via gunshots, happen close to home, too. A 10-year-old boy allegedly kills his mother with a gun. An adult son allegedly shoots his parents to death. An angry man blindly kills a young man hiding in a cornfield.

These last examples, of course, all occurred here in quaint, quiet and safe Amish Country. It doesn’t happen here. Those words were spoken in Tucson, Arizona, Big Prairie, Mt. Eaton and Mt. Hope, Ohio. Of course, “it” does because “it” did. “It” always catches us by surprise. It shouldn’t.

When people are free to speak their minds, to go about their normal business, and others are free to arm themselves and go about their abnormal business until the breaking point, a fateful, fatal crash between bullets and bodies results.

I mercifully dislike violence whether by guns or by vitriol, a word as ugly as its meaning. Both hurt and kill. There is simply no sense for sensible people to join the ranks of the unbalanced. The deranged already accomplish enough harmful havoc all by themselves.

Shaking the January blahs

By Bruce Stambaugh

Normally, January is not one of Ohio’s more colorful months. I suppose residents all across North America could say that.

White and brown tend to be the dominant January color scheme here. It’s white if it snows, and basic brown on the bare ground if it doesn’t. Not exactly stuff of which calendar pictures are made.

With that introduction, I was going to write about how depressing it is to see the naked landscape during the winter months. I had my list of the usual suspects at the ready. The lack of color, the repetitive cloudy, dull days entombed with hard to breathe frigid air and the proverbial cabin fever all contributed to the annual epidemic of post-holiday let-down.

I had no sooner started to write when I received an email from a friend. She had attached several pictures of a swamp walk they had just taken in the backwaters of the Killbuck Creek near Killbuck, Ohio.

Most of the shots included the smiling couples that made the trek. I had a sneaky feeling their joy wasn’t just flashed for the camera. There seemed a deeper reason for their cheerfulness.

Though I did talk with my friend and her husband about their walk, the pictures really said it all. They revealed abundant beauty amid the wintry habitat of the marsh.

Buttonbush berries in varying auburn colors and stages of fermentation decorated the burnished host shrubs. By winter’s end, numerous types of wildlife, deer, turkey, robins and cedar waxwings among them, will have devoured the nutritious fruit.

A beaver den in the backwaters of Killbuck Creek, near Killbuck, Ohio.

Behind a stand of some of the bushes, a blackish mound covered in tan sticks rose out of the mostly frozen water. The occupants of the beaver’s den were likely deep into their season’s sleep, unaware of their human visitors.

The pictures showed my friends walking on the marsh’s frozen surface, or posing for candid memories to be shared with friends and family. A rainbow of muted colors helped create their smiles.

The ice itself varied both in texture and color, ranging from off-white to clay gray. Nature’s arsenal of elements, wind, temperature, snow, and water flow all play a role in the seemingly dormant, yet ever-changing marshy environment.

swamp walk killbuck oh — My friends were amazed at the colors they found on their frozen wetlands walk.

Behind the low lying swamp, the rounded western foothills of the Appalachian Mountains jutted up like giant loaves of fresh baked bread. Clusters of pines served as a brief but green piedmont between the two.

At that point, a familiar fragrance distracted me from the pictures. I followed my nose into the kitchen to find pan after pan of fresh out of the oven cinnamon rolls cooling on the counter tops. Beside them, tins of golden-topped potato rolls also stood patiently cooling.

In addition, rows of jelly jars filled with cobalt colored blueberry topping for homemade pancakes and waffles sparkled from the light that filtered through the kitchen window. Smaller jars of crimson apple jelly added to the colorful collection next to the stove.

While I had sat sulking listlessly at the computer, bemoaning the dull days and confined activities, my energetic wife and thoughtful friends infused me with unexpected splashes of color. My smile nearly matched those of my friends in the swamp walk photos.

Inspired by digital pictures, picture perfect baked goods and showy glass jars, I realized that the blahs of January were self-induced. If I desired color in my life during the cabin fever time of year, all I really needed to do was to open my eyes.

Start the year with a bucket list

By Bruce Stambaugh

Instead of resolutions, I’m starting this new year by making a bucket list. As popularized by the recent movie of the same name, a bucket list is a compilation of activities you want to accomplish before you “kick the bucket.”

I’m not anticipating knocking on the pearly gates anytime soon. But then again that’s not always in our hands. I set these dreamy accomplishments to paper as a more determined effort to prioritize ambitions not yet achieved.

Obviously, a bucket list is personal, and varies according to any given individual’s interests and ambitions. The items need not be lofty, fancy, outrageous or flamboyant, just ideas and ideals unfulfilled. As one item is accomplished, another can be added.

What’s on my bucket list? Here’s a peek at some of the activities.

I want to write a book, maybe two. With my many interests, I certainly have gathered enough material. Now I need to pick a subject and get busy.

Shoshone Point, Grand Canyon, AZ by Bruce Stambaugh — Shoshone Point, Grand Canyon, AZ.

I want to visit all 50 states. I have been working on this one all my life. I have seven states to go, Hawaii, Alaska, Washington, North Dakota, New Hampshire, Vermont and Maine.

I want to see a game in every major league baseball park. On this, too, I already have a head start. But I have dallied enough that some of the parks have long been torn down. I need to get moving before Wrigley Field and Fenway Park disappear.

I want to work with other relatives to develop a family tree. I know bits and pieces have already been compiled by extended family members. I want to help fill in some of the blank spaces if I can. Family is important to me and I enjoy history.

I would love to walk where James Herriot lived and worked in Yorkshire, England. A veterinarian by trade, Herriot made his intriguing life come alive for children and adults alike in his many books. He so eloquently intertwined the characters he met, the animals he treated, and the lovely rural Yorkshire countryside into fascinating tales.

Near San Marcos, Honduras by Bruce Stambaugh — The little church we helped build near San Marcos, Honduras.

I want to learn Spanish, at least enough to make my simplest inquiries known to those with whom I work and share when I visit Honduras. I figure it’s the least I can do.

I also want to read and reread the many good books that are gathering dust on my shelves. Like all the other items on my bucket list, they, too, have a lot to teach me. And above all else, I love to learn.

I also want to spend time hosting family and friends more than my wife and I already do. They always manage to teach me so much, especially the grandchildren. The grandkids keep me young in spirit even if they physically tire me out at times.

This laundry list of wannadoes is all well and good. But it is, like the Hollywood movie, a tad self-serving. A better bucket list should be even more inclusive and considerate of others.

Working side by side with folks, whether near or far, would be a more humanitarian item for a bucket list. Donating blood, volunteering at a hospital, serving food at a homeless shelter all would be appropriate additions to anyone’s bucket list.

You and I both might be stunningly surprised at how far such a practical, selfless implementation of service would take us. Perhaps we would go further than we ever thought we could accomplish.

That would be a bucket list worth creating.