On the last day of July, puffy white clouds floated lazily over Silver Lake in the tiny town of Dayton, Virginia. It was a fitting end to a crazy hot month with little rainfall here in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
A gentle breeze ruffled the placid, shallow lake enough to seemingly digitalize the sky’s reflection. Its effect highlighted the heavenly scene above the old barn and farmhouse.
Today begins the dog days of August. It was pleasing to experience July’s cool exit, knowing the eighth month can often bring brutal temperatures and little precipitation in North America.
Soon after a severe thunderstorm blew through last evening, I noticed some pinkish clouds in the east. That usually is a sign of a beautiful sunset. I hustled out to the street and was treated to this beautiful scene.
Crepuscular rays radiated through the clouds as the sun sank behind the Allegheny Mountains to our west. I knew I wouldn’t have time to drive to higher ground, so I settled for this image from our front yard.
Viewing the Shenandoah Valley from an overlook in Shenandoah National Park.
Several recent studies have proved the obvious. Regularly spending time in and with nature dramatically enhances people’s mental health and appreciation for life.
That wasn’t news to me. Fortunately, I grew up in a family that spent time hunting, fishing, and vacationing in the great outdoors. I continued that pattern with my own family, minus the hunting. I prefer to shoot animals and everything else with cameras. It saves on taxidermy costs.
We moved to Virginia’s lovely Shenandoah Valley six years ago to be close to our grandchildren. Besides spoiling them, I also make regular trips to the nearby mountains. I multitask. On my hikes, I bird and photograph what I encounter.
Every outing, I discover new birds, wildflowers, and paths to explore. I often go alone, but I also enjoy sharing the fun with others. A group trip into the wild affords opportunities to explore nature together.
A recent outing to Shenandoah National Park with another senior friend and our teenage mentees from church allowed us to reengage with all the benefits of nature. I don’t know why the boys picked us, but we immediately hit it off. We all enjoy hiking and exploring, so the park was a natural destination for a day trip.
Once in the park, we veered off the famous Skyline Drive to Lewis Mountain Campground. I wanted to show the boys the only location in the park where Blacks were permitted during segregation. Even then, a few Whites complained that they should have access to the entire park.
At Big Meadows, we toured the exhibit of the park’s contentious founding at the Byrd Visitors Center. Not surprisingly, the youngsters showed more interest in the gift shop.
Then we got serious. We walked the southern parameter of the meadow. Its variety of habitats piqued their interest, from stands of trees to prairie grasses to artistic cairns. On the southernmost trail, the view of the Shenandoah Valley was spectacular.
As we walked the cowpath-like trails, we encountered several bird species by sight and song and saw several butterflies that visited the wildflowers growing everywhere. Bright red wild columbines, vibrant woodland sunflowers, and common milkweed showed their colors and aired their fragrances.
Where the meadow met the forest, we spooked twin fawns. They only ran a short distance since they were foraging on shrub leaves. They seemed as intrigued with us as we were with them.
After a picnic lunch, we chose a short but magnificent trail. The Shenandoah Valley glimmered in the afternoon sunshine as we reached the summit and a massive rock outcropping. We basked in the comfortable, crisp 73 degrees of the Blue Ridge Mountains while the valley baked in the humid 80s.
It was good to commune with nature again, especially while sharing it with friends across generations. We breathed in cool, fresh air, were lulled by birdsong, enchanted by colorful flora and fauna, humbled by history, and energized by the needed exercise.
I was also glad we could personally verify the legitimacy of those extensive studies.
A memorial to those displaced when Shenandoah National Park was formed.
Summer days are full of light. From the early hours of predawn until the last glimmer of sunset, the warm days of summer brighten our world. That’s true even when thunderstorms darken the sky. They seldom last long and often offer a rainbow as they pass. Gray cloudy skies that bring all-day rains are few and far between here in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
I enjoy the morning birdsong wake-up calls and their evening serenades. But it’s the glorious sunrises and sunsets that spellbind me. Their ever-changing color scheme spawns a breath prayer of gratitude.
As the lower dark clouds sailed north, the evening’s mist began to rise out of the valley at the foot of Shenandoah Mountain. Each curl of cornstalk captured a glint of the day’s last light. I was filled with wonder, awe, joy, and peace. Those are the everlasting gifts of sunsets.
The Dry River spills over Slab Road, Dayton, Virginia.
I appreciate the simplistically specific way of naming roads in Rockingham County, Virginia. The roadways are numbered, of course, but the colloquial names are what people know. Slab Road is a prime example.
Hardly a half mile long, Slab Road connects two main county roads. Between the two is the Dry River, often devoid of water. A solid cement slab serves as the roadbed that crosses the riverbed from bank to bank. Thus, the unusual but appropriate name for a public road.
After some recent rains, the river flowed steadily over the slab, forming a mini-waterfall. I wanted to gather some rocks for a water feature I was assembling for our backyard birds. The high water limited my search to the south side of the slab. While collecting a few stones, I couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the evening sun filtering through the trees and reflecting off the smooth surface of the now not-so-dry river.
The need for a few flat rocks drew me to this inspiring scene that warmed my soul during this day’s golden hour.
Daffodils at the arboretum. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
My wife and I recently celebrated our 52nd anniversary. We did so quietly.
Initially, we considered driving to Washington, D.C., to view the cherry blossoms at their peak. We had never done that, and living only two hours away, we could easily view the iconic flowers and be home before dark. We weighed our options and decided instead to stay close to home, which was my wife’s preference.
That decision paid dividends we didn’t expect. First, we slept in, which is not our routine. We usually awaken at first light. It felt good to start our big day well-rested.
After a quiet, light breakfast, we continued with a habit we started during the pandemic. We played cards and drank our morning decaf coffee. With the temperature hovering slightly above freezing, we were in no hurry to head outside for a few local adventures.
Traffic was light for the 10-minute drive downtown for an early lunch at a favorite restaurant. Since it was a Monday and not yet noon, there was no wait. We enjoyed our meals and the quiet atmosphere. They even had gluten-free bread for my brisket sandwich. It was nice to sit in the serenity of the ordinarily bustling restaurant. Our waitress even took her time bringing the check.
After lunch, we drove to a local arboretum and strolled around the artificial pond. Both buttery yellow and white daffodils colored the forested hillside surrounding the murky pond. Some flowers were already fading, while others were beginning to bud.
The aptly named star magnolias were also losing their luster. We admired some snappy-looking white and orange daffodils and various wildflowers beginning to grace the forest floor.
A young man approached us as we sniffed the blooms. He was the new marketing person for the arboretum, and we enjoyed an extended conversation with him about photography. My constant snapping of the shutter gave me away.
By then, the sun had taken the chill out of the air. That meant one thing: ice cream. We drove to a local ice cream parlor in a neighboring town. A kid’s cup is suitable for us now. My wife was more adventurous and ordered a caramel salted chocolate chunk while I stuck with my tried and true chocolate. We chose a table outside where my wife sat in the shade while I preferred the sun on my back.
On the way home, we stopped at another smaller arboretum at the north end of the small town. The place is more park than a botanical garden. A small, tree-lined stream called Cooks Creek winds lazily through a green space. Cooks Creek Arboretum is sandwiched between a hillside condo complex and a farmer’s still-fallow field stretching up to a big red barn.
Once the flock of pesky common grackles flew off, we heard a barred owl calling softly from inside an owl box fastened to a giant sycamore on the creek’s bank. The harmony of the owl’s twittering and the silvery gurgling of the stream brought a smile to both of us.
Ring-necked DucksSilver Lake MillThe old waterwheel
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
With the return of the noisy grackles, we detoured to Silver Lake to check for migrating waterfowl. A quartet of ring-necked ducks floated and dived, floated and dived on the shallow lake’s surface. The lake’s Civil War-era mill attracts people far and wide.
Shortly after we arrived back home, the doorbell rang. A young woman handed my wife a bouquet from her sister and her husband, who live in Ohio. We appreciated their kind and loving gesture.
We snacked for supper, and after sunset, I drove to a high point in the countryside to take photos of three planets. Venus shown bright in the night sky, but I couldn’t find the conjunction of Saturn and Mars near the horizon. An invisible haze hung over the Allegheny Mountains, obscuring any starry beauty.
When I returned home, another kind of darkness fell. We learned of the horrific mass shooting at the Covenant School in Nashville. The sad news snapped us out of our anniversary bliss into the reality of today’s life in the United States. Our peaceful, quiet, and enjoyable anniversary day with my loving wife ended with a tearful thud.
Just a few of the free-range Common Grackles in my front yard.
I don’t know about you, but the Common Grackles have taken over my birdfeeders and birdbaths. If you are interested, I’d gladly sell you a few or all of them.
Of course, you know I’m kidding. I couldn’t resist since April 1 is better known in the U.S. as April Fools Day. When I was a principal, the students loved to fool me on April 1 with all means of shenanigans. I was always glad when April 1 came on the weekend, like today.
So, April Fools Day! And in case you are interested in the grackles, please contact me a.s.a.p.
I had been struggling with high blood pressure for weeks. A prescription for pain set off a chain of events that has taken weeks to rectify.
The orthopedic surgeon prescribed pain medication for the discomfort in my hip, but only if my family physician approved. She did, but on the condition that I take my blood pressure morning and evening. The prescription tended to elevate people’s bp, she said.
It didn’t take long to prove my primary care doctor was correct. In a short time, my bp was sky-high. The physical symptoms I had foretold that it would be: a constant headache, lightheadedness, and my balance was off. Even though I was approaching age 75, I had always been steady on my feet. I wasn’t now.
The symptoms didn’t stop there. I was waking in the middle of the night and, occasionally, had pressure on my chest. Having served on the local volunteer rescue squad for 27 years, I knew that was a red flag. I stopped taking the pain med and returned to the doctor’s office.
Much to my chagrin, I was prescribed two more medications to help bring down my blood pressure. However, the symptoms and my elevated bp persisted.
Of course, all of this happened around the holidays. We had planned on attending a gathering of my siblings for the first time since the pandemic hit. Despite my uneasiness, we decided to go and drove the 350 miles from Virginia to Ohio. Fortunately, all went well, and we had an enjoyable time together.
The Stambaaugh Five.
That evening, good friends invited us to a soup supper at their church in Holmes County, Ohio, where we had spent most of our lives and each completed 30-year education careers. We enjoyed more fellowship with other friends and acquaintances there. The soup was delicious, too.
As we were about to leave the church, however, I felt the heaviness in my chest again. My family doctor told me to head to the emergency room if that returned. The pressure had a habit of coming and going, so I just lived with it. However, the chest discomfort felt more intense this time. And it wasn’t the soup.
We had intended to return to Virginia the next day. Driving all those miles through primarily rural, mountainous terrain, with limited cellphone service, seemed risky. I didn’t want to put that burden on my loving wife. Our lifelong friends, who knew I was uncomfortable, encouraged us to go to the local small-town hospital instead. They reasoned I would get quick attention for my issue and receive excellent care. We took their advice, and headed to the little hospital’s emergency room. As soon as I mentioned pressure on my chest, I was ushered into a room and immediately examined.
I doubt the response would have been the same at a big city hospital, especially on a Saturday night. While the nurse and an EMT doing clinical time as part of his training got me settled, my wife checked me in. Later, she told me they already had our Virginia address, health insurance, and other information in their system.
Having lived in that rural community for 46 years, this was not my first visit to this facility. I had previously been treated there for assorted ailments over the years. Our daughter and son were both born there. I had also served on the hospital board for six years, almost two decades ago. So, yes, I had a particular affinity for this medical facility.
My blood tests and EKG came back normal, but with the chest pressure and my medical history, the caring ER doctor decided to admit me. She ordered a stress test and an echocardiogram. Unfortunately, those would have to wait until Monday morning.
Sunday passed surprisingly quickly. My wife sat by my side late morning into the evening. In between, nurses, aides, and a doctor came and went. The local social grapevine went into overdrive. Relatives and close friends helped the day zoom by with brief visits. My blood pressure lessened each time it was taken.
I was awakened early Monday by a cheery lab tech for the ordered tests. I passed the stress test with ease, and the echocardiogram revealed no blockage in the arteries to my heart. I was greatly relieved.
By early afternoon, the doctor on duty added a relaxing medication and sent us on our way. She also ensured we had all the documented results of every test I had taken. My family doctor was impressed when I saw her a couple of days later.
A Holmes County sunset.
I was so glad we had decided to let this small, rural hospital’s professional staff care for me. I am most grateful to my friends who encouraged us to vist Pomerene Memorial Hospital, and for its caring and professional personnel.
I was equally happy that I had heeded the warning signs. My blood pressure is back to normal, and so is my life.
So, if you have symptoms that don’t seem right, call your doctor or go to the nearest emergency room, no matter its size. Common sense always eclipses ego, no matter one’s age.
Roadkill Crossing 
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