Prices for small-eared sweet corn. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
A produce farmer near where we live in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley has a small self-serve stand where he sells his homegrown sweet corn. My wife and I stopped to get a few ears and saw this confusing pricing.
We just chuckled at the skewed mathematics. When our neighbor, who also buys corn there, told us that he had informed the farmer of his pricing error, the man just shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
We bought four small ears of the “Incredible” sweet corn, placed our dollar bill in the box, and drove home. For the record, the corn was named correctly. It was incredible.
Sunset from Mole Hill, Dayton, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Being at the right place at the right time is an essential part of photography. That’s what happened recently when I went to photograph the sunset from my favorite location, Mole Hill, near Dayton, Virginia.
When I arrived on the west side of Mole Hill, a noted area landmark, I discovered I was not alone. Several cars were stopped ahead of me on the gradual downhill slope. But once the sun sank behind the Allegheny Mountains, the vehicles continued on.
On my way up the road, I noticed a horse-drawn cart with an Old Order Mennonite young woman and two girls sitting on the wooden bench. They were parked beneath a walnut tree, admiring the various colors of the quickly changing landscape.
Imagine my surprise when I heard the clip-clop of horse hooves on the road’s surface. I turned around and saw the cart coming my way. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
Out of respect to them, I waited until they were well past me before I took the photo. Like the Amish, Old Order Mennonites do not want their pictures taken for religious reasons.
Their little cart, with their yellow caution lights flashing, made this ho-hum sunset spectacular. I’m grateful I was there at the right time to capture the scene.
When I saw the high, thin clouds 30 minutes before sunset, I thought there might be a chance for spring to say farewell in color. As it turned out, it was more about the setting than spectacular sunset colors.
When I arrived at my favorite location to photograph sunsets, I wasn’t alone. Four other cars were ahead of me. However, they soon left, and I had the space all to myself, save for a passing horse-drawn cart with three young Old Order Mennonite ladies aboard.
We exchanged hellos, and I waited for the oranges that usually come when the sky is mostly clear over the Allegheny Mountains to the west. I wasn’t disappointed.
However, it was the big picture of the setting that got my attention. Below the glowing sky, another scene unfolded. The rolling, fertile farmland of western Rockingham County, Virginia, dotted by verdant woodlots, filled the foreground.
Beyond, mist rose from the valleys between forest-covered North Mountain and the higher Shenandoah Mountain. In the twilight, their iconic blue hues created a natural boundary between the golden sky and the farmsteads below.
Spring’s last sunset may have said goodbye, but it also set the stage for the joys of summer.
Flowers, wild or propagated, flourish this time of year. With warmer temperatures, cooler nights, and well-watered fields and forests, floral colors brighten neighborhoods, countrysides, and forest floors.
Here are a few photos of flowers I spotted wherever I went.
Around our house.
Wildflowers.
Along the path.
Honeysuckle.
Mountain Laurel.
Foxglove Beardtongue
Delphinium.
Golden Ragwort.
Cultivated.
At the arboretum.At the neighbor’s.Calla Lililies. Planter.Climatis.Rose Campion.Church decor.
Appalachian Blackberry blossoms. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
On a recent day hike on the Appalachian Trail in Shenandoah National Park, I came upon these lovely flowers. They are the blooms that, in a month or so, will turn into Appalachian Blackberries. With all the birds and black bears around, they likely won’t last long.
My wife and I enjoyed a walk around the Genesee Country Village and Museum on Mother’s Day with our son, his wife, and their three-year-old grandson. Jess’s family also joined us on the lovely Sunday.
With wide open spaces and many attractions to investigate, several of us scattered to do our own thing. That’s when I spotted this gentleman, dressed in 19th-century attire, basking in the late-morning sunshine. His obedient dog did the same. Along with the setting and their positioning, they made the perfect composition that fit the setting.
Osprey, Silver Lake, Dayton, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
While birding on Earth Day, this osprey provided several good poses for me to capture. It went from a towering tree snag to the limbs above to this precarious perch on a limb that hung over Silver Lake in Dayton, Virginia.
I heard this Eastern Meadowlark before I saw it. The attractive bird sang away on these old fence posts, blending in pretty well. Finding the bird took me a while since I spent most of the time looking in the pastures on either side of the woven wire fence.
The camouflaged bird was a long way off, but the telephoto lens produced the effect of squeezing the fence posts together. They were actually four to six feet apart. I was pleased that the Eastern Meadowlark remained on the fence long enough for me to capture this image.
The pastoral landscape we enjoyed. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The weather was similar to the day we married 54 years ago, mostly sunny and warm. So, we decided to celebrate our anniversary by enjoying the scenic outdoors in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.
We drove the country roads in two Virginia counties, where Old Order Mennonite farms dominate rolling landscapes at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains. Those families have kept the farms intact for the most part. Generations have raised crops and livestock, including poultry, without selling off their prized road frontage for homes or small businesses. They must enjoy the scenery and quiet, too.
Despite the lack of rainfall, succulent green grasses for beef cattle, dairy cows, and plump sheep brimmed beneath tree-dotted pastures. Cottony clouds sailed overhead in the cerulean sky.
We visited a local birding hotspot across from a plain but pristine Old Order Mennonite church, where the men and women sit in benches on opposite sides after filing through separate doorways. Killdeer, Pectoral Sandpipers, and Canada Geese called and preened in the morning’s warmth, while pairs of Tree Swallows divebombed me for being too close to their birdbox.
Pectoral Sandpipers. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
We turned onto a narrow, notoriously bumpy road that led to a mountain reservoir. A stream rushed between the mountains’ steep, forested foothills, marking the boundary between Virginia and West Virginia. Mint-colored leaves had only sprouted, allowing views of rock-filled talus slopes.
At the reservoir, the azure sky commanded the scene. Far below on its shores, fishermen plied the still water that mirrored the blue canopy overhead.
Though in no hurry, we kept driving south to our lunchtime destination. We wound up, down, and around onto primary roads and entered a historic, small southern city where artists and restaurants have replaced millineries, general stores, and saloons. We spied the old railroad station two city blocks away, where Amtrak and excursion trains still stop.
We were delighted to find a restaurant serving fresh seafood and luscious desserts. However, my wife diligently discovered an old-fashioned drive-in a mile away serving the best hot fudge sundaes.
It had been decades since I had to push a button to order food. The speakers looked like those we had at drive-in movie theaters in the 1960s. Our sundaes arrived just as we ordered, with chocolate ice cream.
After the nostalgic pleasures, we headed west again toward the mountains before turning north. We passed ranches with lazy brooks snaking through green pastures occasionally speckled with grazing Black Angus cattle. Experienced farmers kept hilltop trees for cattle to gather on hot, humid Virginia days.
Drivers of the few vehicles that passed us waved the familiar index finger hello. If they know you, they point at you as a sign of recognition. We were fine with being admiring strangers.
Abandoned farmsteads stood on steep hillsides surrounded by trees planted ages ago. The houses were weathered and had broken windows, while many old outbuildings and barns had collapsed.
The long farm lanes that ended at white two-story houses and red bank barns reminded me of the happy, innocent Ohio days I drove down to pick up my fiancée. Like her lane, a small ridge of stubble grass divided the tire tracks.
The weather nearly matched the day we married all those years ago. Sunny skies and unseasonably warm temperatures dominated that precious day, too. However, the pungent smell of manure that the farmer had sprayed on the fields across from the country church was missing.
We made our way home happy, contented, and glad we had chosen to renew our vows so quietly, personally, amid welcome familiarity.
Steers graze on greening grass. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
Roadkill Crossing 
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