Shenandoah Valley – Page 6 – Roadkill Crossing

How We Celebrated Our Anniversary

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

Under the Weeping Willow Tree

The willow tree. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I found this inspiring scene on a recent hike and birding expedition around a local lake. The weeping willow tree’s tender leaves had recently emerged, which stopped me in my tracks.

I loved how the lowest limb arched over the dirt trail, beckoning hikers on no matter which direction they walked. If the young woman in the distance noticed the tree’s artful beauty, she didn’t say anything and kept walking.

Spring Concert!

The Daffodil Choir sang an impressive concert at Edith J. Carrier Arboretum yesterday in Harrisonburg, Virginia. Their harmonic voices carried into the valley and reverberated throughout the surrounding woodlots.

Try as it might, no city or Interstate traffic noise could overpower these beautiful, angelic singers. I lost it when their four-part harmony sang “In the Blub There is a Flower.”

The Old Cultivator

Buttery Daffodils served as a colorful backdrop to this hand cultivator. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our neighbors used this old hand cultivator in a flowerbed beside their driveway. The bright yellow of the Daffodils proved a colorful backdrop to draw passersby’s attention.

Instead of being pushed through a garden to eliminate weeds, creativity brought new life and purpose to this once-handy springtime garden tool.

Sunset at Silver Lake

Silver Lake, Dayton, Virginia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

The broken cloud cover in the early evening looked promising for a decent sunset. It didn’t turn out that way.

When I reached Silver Lake in Dayton, Virginia, the puffy, cumulous clouds had dissipated, leaving only high, wispy cirrus clouds to reflect the sun’s rays. So, I looked east, north, and south instead of west.

The clouds in the southern sky particularly caught my attention. I hustled to the northern end of the popular fishing lake and was thrilled to find the evergreens reflected in the lea of the lake tinted by the mauve sky.

It wasn’t the photo I had expected, but I took what was given, which was all I could do.

Welcome to Spring!

Cloudy or sunny, our neighbor’s daffodils brighten our day. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

It’s spring! The vernal equinox arrived at 5:01 this morning.

Hopefully, that will put to rest winter’s worst weather. At this time of year, any snowfall won’t last long in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley.

Of course, nature’s course doesn’t hold to mankind’s arbitrary seasonal demarkations. I have noticed from afar the hint of coloration of the once-dormant trees that populate Mole Hill, a local and revered landmark. The buds of its red maple trees are especially evident.

A walk around our yard and neighborhood reveals other signs of springtime. Deciduous tree buds are swelling, if not opening, ornamental trees bloom, and a lone Hyacinth blooms. Lenten Rose plants are also blooming right on time despite their winter-singed leaves. The grass is greening and growing. I’ll have to ready the lawnmower for action.

Tulip leaves have knifed through the chilly soil. Migratory birds are slowly arriving while the year-round residents begin to stake out their nesting territories.

It’s springtime, and I couldn’t be happier as long as my allergy medicines remain effective.

Last Night’s Sunset

Yesterday, the western sky was hazy in the late afternoon. After supper, I kept watch and headed to my favorite spots for sunset photography in Rockingham County, Virginia.

Colorful sunsets aren’t always easy to come by here in the Shenandoah Valley. It may look promising early on, but clouds tend to hang over the Allegheny Mountains that mark the state line between Virginia and West Virginia.

Then, just when you want to give up, boom, the pinks and oranges glow, if only briefly. Other times, it’s a complete bust. Nevertheless, I’d rather be patient than miss a stunning sunset.

Last evening, I changed locations several times until the western sky popped with color. I wasn’t in the most desirable spot, but I am not complaining after capturing this muted beauty.

Snow Drops and One Imposter

One of these is not the same as the others. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our across-the-street neighbors have lovely flower gardens for all who pass by to enjoy. Since their house faces south, the winter sun, when it shines, warms the front yard.

This, in turn, encourages flowers to bloom when the days warm into the 50s and 60s, like they have for the last few days. I went over to photograph the Snow Drops and discovered that a lone Hyacinth had joined dainty white flowers in showing off its lavender beauty.

These harbingers of spring were most welcome.

Winter Barns

Holstein Hillside. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Barns have always intrigued me. The various sizes, shapes, colors, conditions, purposes, and settings combine to make photogenic captures. Wintertime is no exception.

Here are a few I recently found.

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

Turning a Quilt into a Hoody

Cutting the quilt. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Our 18-year-old grandson came to our house the other day for a surprising reason. He had texted my wife, his Nana, to ask if she would teach him how to sew.

Imagine that—a senior in high school requesting to sew. We weren’t surprised. We moved from our native Ohio to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley for reasons like this. Helping our daughter and her family has become our primary purpose in retirement.

Our grandson had a specific plan. Inspired by a video he saw on YouTube, Davis wanted to make a hoody out of an old quilt. Fortunately, my thrifty wife had a few on hand, including the quilted bed covering she made that Davis’s mother used at bedtime growing up.

First, they cut up the quilt using a favorite hoody Davis brought along as a pattern. They had that job done in minutes.

This young man had never sewn before. Nana showed him the basics and let him rip. Davis was determined, and he fixed his focus on the task at hand. No music played through smartphones, headsets, or earbuds as a distraction.

He carefully and cautiously bent over Nana’s machine and sewed one, two, or three stitches at a time, gaining confidence as he went. That was Davis’s best approach since he was stitching three layers of material together.

Curious and confident, Davis is also practical. He took his time sewing the sleeves, hood, and extra-large front pocket onto the main body of the hoody.

He diligently sat at the machine for twice the time Nana would have completed the task. But her look of satisfaction revealed a deep pleasure and grandmotherly pride in our grandson and the joy of being asked to help.

I occasionally popped in and out of the room, digitally documenting the entire process. Once finished, Davis’s smile of accomplishment matched Nana’s. I realized I was grinning, too.

The next day, Davis sent another text to Nana. He wanted to shorten the colorful hoody, so he returned to her sewing machine and perfected his dream in just a few minutes. He was pleased as punch.

The finished product after alteration. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

When Davis went to school the next day, his friends admired and desired his homemade mauve, pink and white hoody. They wanted him to make them one, too.

As far as I know, he didn’t take any orders. Completing this project and basking in the glow of achievement and admiration was more than sufficient for this young man.