rural life – Page 38 – Roadkill Crossing

Life’s river flows in you and me

fall colors along mountain stream — Mountain stream.

By Bruce Stambaugh

The young woman beautifully played the piano her parents had purchased from us earlier in the year. As my friend Sharon Randall would say, I wish you could have been there to hear her.

The moment was so much more than marvelous. Never could I have anticipated being the audience for this impromptu recital.

A set of unusual and timely circumstances led me to this setting. It’s a tale of just how interconnected we all are.

My friend Ava hitched a ride to Virginia with my wife and me for a short visit with her family. When her friends in the Shenandoah Valley learned Ava would soon be returning to Ohio with us, she became the courier of a gift for an injured boy.

As we traveled home, Ava related to us who the recipient of the package was. The boy had been seriously hurt in an auto accident that had killed his mother. When Ava told us where the gift was to go, we were astonished. We knew the family, especially the father. I offered to deliver the gift personally.

All of this ran through my mind as the young woman caressed the keys that produced the mesmerizing song. Victoria passionately played “River Flows in You” as her mother and I stood silently admiring both the devotion and the soothing music while the pianist’s little sister quietly played with dolls in the background.

My wife and I had known Victoria’s father Lonnie since he was born two hours before our daughter four decades ago. Their cribs stood side-by-side in the hospital nursery. Our lives had overlapped in multiple ways we couldn’t even have imagined. This moment was the latest.

Lonnie was one of my former students. His friendly family had welcomed me into their home as principal and friend many times. I was the first responder to arrive at the scene of an industrial accident that took the fingers of Lonnie’s left hand. I responded to the house fire that badly burned Lonnie’s mother. I gladly served as a driver for family members during both hospitalizations.

This family had endured a lot. Still, Lonnie’s daughter played so passionately that I could not have wiped that broad smile of satisfaction off of my face if I had wanted to.

Tears flooded my eyes as Victoria tenderly tapped the last lingering note. The connected circumstantial dots wove a human tapestry of love that brought me to this cherished moment. Gratitude couldn’t begin to describe my emotions.

lost river, cows in stream — Lost River, WV.

I was so glad I had had the privilege of delivering this gift for this healing boy, and to hear Victoria’s playing. I could clearly see that our former piano was in the right hands.

I had made the gift’s delivery a priority, partly because I didn’t want to forget about it. I didn’t know, however, that the youngster was coming home from the hospital that same day. I’m sure that whatever was inside that brightly wrapped box would bring the young boy as much pleasure as I had just experienced.

I’ve told this story for both its face value and its intrinsic value, not for vanity’s sake or personal gratification. That came from listening to Victoria.

I’m certain you have similar tales to tell. It’s the way life was meant to be. A river flows in you and me. We need to ensure that the confluence of our individual streams creates a harmonious symphony for all to enjoy.

harpersferrywvbybrucestambaugh — Convergence.

Multitasking

female red-bellied woodpecker sunning — Multitasking.

Sunshine in northeast Ohio in November and December tends to be a rare treat. When the sun does shine, all of God’s Creation soaks it in, including this lovely female Red-bellied Woodpecker. She took a break from enjoying lunch at the peanut feeder to warm herself on a chilly late fall day.

“Multitasking” in my Photo of the Week.

Backlit Burgundy

Amish farmstead, farm implements — Backlit Burgundy.

When I saw this scene one morning a few days ago, I had to stop and take a photo. I loved how the sun backlit the burgundy leaves and highlighted the farm implements seemingly placed haphazardly around the farmyard.

By now, the winds and rains of late have stripped the color from the tree until next year.

“Backlit Burgundy” is my Photo of the Week.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Yesterday’s sunrise was a beauty here in Ohio’s Amish country. It truly was a glorious morning.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

“Morning Glory” is my Photo of the Week.

Make any day a good day

By Bruce Stambaugh

I had driven this route many times in the past. Usually, it started in the early morning twilight and ended in the glare of the afternoon sun, if I didn’t have a meeting after school.

I served as principal at two of the nicest elementary schools anyone could hope for or conjure. I loved my job at Mt. Hope and Winesburg schools.

An emotional funk had overtaken me, and I needed a spiritual pick me up. Those former school days mentally surfaced, so I called the man who had replaced me 17 years ago. Dan was more than happy to show me around the schools where I once whistled my way down the halls. It had been years since I last graced them.

With our impending move to Virginia set for next spring, I knew I needed to start reconnecting with folks and places that had played such important roles in my life, professionally and personally. The schools were on that list.

That’s how I came to retrace the roads I took for 21 years every school day. I knew every turn, hill, and valley.

I made Mt. Hope my first stop. Dan greeted me at the front door after I pushed the security buzzer, a necessary addition since the Nickel Mines shooting 10 years ago in Lancaster Co., Pennsylvania.

Dan escorted me around the building that I knew so well. Physically, not much had changed. The staff and pupils, however, had. I soon found familiarity and links to the past.

Dan asked the students in each class how many of their parents had gone to Mt. Hope School. I was astonished at how many hands flew up. We went pupil by pupil to see if I could remember their folks.

To my amazement, and theirs as well, I remembered their parents and grandparents, where they lived, and even a few first names. When the school is full of Yoders and Millers, that’s not an easy task.

My reunions with Jerry the librarian, Jim the teacher, and Nettie the cook brought smiles to my face, stirred my soul and filled me with compassion for their career commitments to nurturing children.

My age hit me square in the face when I met the custodian of both schools, Brandon, a former student. He was too busy to talk much, but his handshake spoke volumes. The school sparkled as brightly as his eyes.

Holmes Co. OH — A view around every turn.

More memories resurfaced while driving the five miles between Mt. Hope and Winesburg. There still is no bar or golf course in between. The road was still bumpy, the views still pristine. Corn shocks stood in the same fields they had all those years ago.

At Winesburg, I found the school just as clean and hospitable as Mt. Hope. I was glad to see many of the same staff members I had worked with and hired before I retired. We hugged and shared heartfelt recollections.

The storyline with the students also repeated. The eagerness of the youngsters to name their parents buoyed me. Some I identified by family name just from their physical features. When a student said who her mother was, I said, “Oh, yes. I remember. Carie with one “r.” I’ll never forget the beam on that young face.

This uplifting experience had been a morning to remember for me. All this human interaction freed me from my gloominess. It gave me hope that any day, no matter how trying, can be a good day.

I just had to take the initiative. The children and friends did the rest.

sunrise, Ohio's Amish Country — A new dawn.

Fickle fall foments melancholy mood

By Bruce Stambaugh

A day after I cleaned up the leaves from our yard, the rain, the wind, and gravity conspired to undo my work. It was to be expected, especially when a grove of deciduous trees surrounds your house.

I sat by the office window and watched the spent leaves rain down like snow showers in January. A gusty northwest breeze twirled the faded leaves every which way, performing independent pirouettes in a splendid ballet. Their curtain call played out on the front lawn.

I’ve seen this performance before of course. Every year about this time. However, this fall’s frolic struck anew at the melancholy that I felt about the scene, the season, my station in life.

Perhaps the steely sky with its dense layer of leaden clouds set the mood for the day. It couldn’t have been the Indians loss in the seventh game of the World Series or the lack of sleep from watching the previous week’s worth of late-night contests. When you’re a Cleveland sports fan, denial is an all-consuming trait that blinds and dulls one’s wits.

Yet, here I was in my stupor enjoying the unfolding act, blah as the elements were. The living picture painted before me seemed just about right for the occasion, and definitely for the season.

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one hung over from too much adrenaline-driven loyalty and sleep deprivation. However, I couldn’t help but sense that my malaise was so much more than that.

Seasonal changes do that to us, especially as we age. Like the falling colorful leaves, the Greatest Generation is also fading fast. They bequeath their burdens to their progeny, unworthy boomers who think they have changed the world for the better when it’s clearly the other way around.

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Perhaps it was because my wife was still fulfilling her autumnal obligations in Virginia. Only the delicious day before I had taken lunch and supper alone on the porch. I missed her company and her cooking.

The blustery day wore on as dreary days can do. But in the process, a slow metamorphosis transpired. I would have noticed it earlier had it not been for my manly self-pity.

Patches of blue began to divide the gray cotton rolls roiling overhead. Even the wind subsided, providing an intermission to the leafy operetta. I began to take notice, to think outside myself, to seek the wisdom of others through writings and paintings and photos.

I called my friend Dan, who only recently had lost his father. I had missed the viewing and wanted to visit to express my sympathies. He invited me up to his place in the early evening, which I accepted.

Dan wanted me to arrive about an hour before I showed up. I wanted to shoot the sunset first. The sky had significantly cleared by early evening except for a few high clouds, the kind that often makes for a splendid sunset. Just when I thought the western drama had waned, a fiery encore danced across the sky.

I stopped the car just a quarter of a mile from Dan’s. His observant wife Anna saw the vehicle and figured it must be me. It’s a good feeling when your friends know you so well. They welcomed me into their humble home, and I gleefully shared my photos.

When the clock struck 8, I knew it was time to leave. Otherwise, I’d likely still be there, conversing and listening and laughing, though life had fallen heavy upon us like the morning’s leaves waltzing to the grass.

Autumn Morning

autumn pond reflections — Autumn morning.

Bathed by the sun one frosty early morning, little wisps of fog accented a sugar maple’s reflection in a farm pond. If you click on the photo, you can see a lone male mallard floating along.

“Autumn Morning” is my Photo of the Week.

Lost in Lost River

abandoned building, Lost River WV — Abandoned.

I came across this abandoned building in Lost River, WV. I couldn’t help but note the irony. This once impressive structure now stood abandoned, indeed, even fenced in only a few feet from the banks of the Lost River. As I marveled at its weathered beauty, I wondered about its original purpose. Was it a store, a residence, or some combination?

A close look revealed that the clapboard framed building had most recently been used as a barn, noting the rotting straw in the missing siding. The former entrance was boarded up and fenced off by newly strung barbed wire. Both its history and utilitarian purpose seemed lost. And yet, its stark beauty was alluring, especially given the setting.

Perhaps I’m too sentimental. But I both admire and marvel at structures like this one. What stories does it hold? What social function did it fulfill? Will the answers forever be lost in the little crossroads burg of Lost River, WV?

“Lost in Lost River” is my Photo of the Week.

Autumn, an appropriate metaphor for life

colorful leaves, autumn leaves — The trees near Ivan’s home.

By Bruce Stambaugh

With our numerous stands of mixed hardwoods, I always look forward to fall’s colorful leaf display. In our busied lives, however, the transition from green to gold seems to take forever. But in a flash or a persistent wind, the trees all stand leafless.

That realization confronted me as the autumn leaves reached their vibrant peak when I received word of Ivan’s death in the middle of the afternoon. Ivan was a valued member of the cancer support group to which I belong. I had visited with him in the hospital only a week earlier knowing that his time was near.

Still, when I heard the sad news, tears of sorrow flowed for Ivan and his family. Our intimate group had welcomed him in, and he contributed far more than his usually quiet demeanor would have suggested. Later that same evening, joy overcame my sadness as my favorite team, the Cleveland Indians, claimed Major League Baseball’s American League pennant. It was a bittersweet moment, one that Ivan would have relished with me.

Right after the final out, I called my friend Tim, also an avid Indians fan. He was as giddy as I was. When I invited him to the first game of the World Series, I think he fell over.

I was fortunate to have secured tickets for the opening World Series game long before the Cleveland club even began the postseason. I hoped beyond hope that they would make it, and they had. I wanted Tim to share in the joy of seeing a World Series game in Cleveland with me.

The leaves were still coloring up when I left Virginia’s majestic Shenandoah Valley the next day to return home for Ivan’s viewing. Paying my respects to the family became a personal priority.

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I had traveled the same roads from Ohio to Virginia just after visiting Ivan the previous week. The leaves in the mountains of western Maryland and northern West Virginia were near their peak. Those in both Ohio and Virginia were turning, but still had a ways to go.

I was amazed at what a difference those few days had made. Patches of red, gold, and burgundy dotted the forested mountain slopes. On the ridges above, giant white windmills twirled in the autumn breezes.

giant wind turbines, fall leaves — Beauty and the beasts.

I thought about Don Quixote jousting with those Dutch windmills. I was satisfied to simply photograph this real live contrast of beauty and the beast and continued on my way.

When I got to Maryland’s mountains highest altitude where I thought the colors would be the brightest, I was disappointed. Many of the leaves had already dropped. Some trees were completely bare.

When I stopped for lunch, I commented to the waiter about my disappointment in missing the peak coloration. I was three days too late, he said.

That happens in life. Our timing just isn’t what it might have been.

It was dark and pelting rain when I arrived at home. But just the illumination from my car’s headlights told me the sturdy sugar maple in my backyard was glowing showy orange.

The combination of rain and wind brought down lots of leaves. But plenty remained for all to enjoy.

Baseball. World Series. Friends. Fall’s coloring contest. I know these precious moments will all wither away like the last leaves of autumn, which passes by us in a vapor.

Life can be like that, too, a hard but applicable metaphorical reality.