Virginia – Page 4 – Roadkill Crossing

Finding Fruition in Nature

Patience is the key

Swamp Milkweed blooms in June. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Finding fruition takes effort and patience. The latter is often the harder of the two.

Four years ago, I planted four swamp milkweed plants in our backyard, hoping to attract Monarch butterflies. In the first year, the seedlings sprouted tender, green shoots. Then, to my surprise, they disappeared.

It didn’t take me long to discover why. No sooner than the greenery emerged, a pair of neighborhood rabbits nibbled the fresh green leaves and stems. A three-foot wire-mesh cage around each plant promptly put a halt to that.

In the second year, the two biggest plants bloomed beautiful and fragrant blooms that only honeybees, bumblebees, and other insects enjoyed. I never saw a single butterfly, including Monarchs, even approach the flowers.

As fall arrived, I let the dried-up stalks stand. In February, I trimmed them back, hoping new branches would appear with spring’s arrival. I also learned that some birds used the thread-like insides of the old stalks for nest building. I smiled when American Robins tugged and tore long pieces and flew off.

The next two springs brought the same results. Beautiful flowers bloomed in June, but no Monarchs arrived. I enjoyed the flowers and insect pollinators, but grew mildly frustrated that none of my favorite butterflies came to the flowers.

This summer, I realized my blindness. The swamp milkweed was more useful to the orange and black-viened butterflies during fall migration.

The mature plants produced flowers, which developed into pods and yielded seeds covered in silvery silk. Large and small milkweed bugs outnumbered the many different insects on the plants.

Two at a time.
Chomping
Climbing
Milkweed bugs and eggs.
Large and small Milkweed bugs
The gang’s all here
A Monarch egg

In mid-August, migrating Monarchs began flitting around the milkweed plants. They landed on the plants just long enough to deposit eggs on the leaves’ undersides. Joy filled my soul.

In a matter of days, small greenish-yellow, white, and black striped caterpillars appeared and began munching on the leaves. More Monarchs repeated the process, and more and more caterpillars emerged. It didn’t take long for them to grow, inches long, in preparation for forming a mint green chrysalis. I counted 14 on the plants one afternoon.

Other insects on the Swamp Milkweed

Soon, a new generation of Monarchs would continue their journey south, overwinter in the central Mexico mountains, and fly back north, stopping along the way when it was time to lay the eggs on more milkweed plants.

In my desire to see Monarchs on the milkweed flowers, I had only envisioned one aspect of the amazing life cycle of these beautiful, useful butterflies. I was ecstatic to find a dozen caterpillars chomping on the milkweed leaves. When ready, they would then crawl off somewhere to form a chrysalis, ensuring the next generation.

Patience proved critical to fulfill my desire to help propagate the Monarch butterflies.

A Monarch butterfly prepares to lay eggs on a Swamp Milkweed leaf. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Of All the Colors…

The phrase, “Variety is the spice of life,” is attributed to William Cowper. He included it in a poem he wrote in 1785. However, that phrase was only the first part of the line.

The complete line of the poem reads:

“Variety’s the spice of life,

That gives it all its flavor.”

Apparently, this household likes vanilla.

Driveway Pattern Change

Nais Tiger Moth. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

No bigger than a 25-cent piece, this moth caught my eye as I walked out to get the mail. Its contrasting black and yellow wings stood out from the marbled pattern of our decades-old, well-worn concrete driveway.

Yet, the deceased insect seemed to blend in with the drive’s mishmashed surface. Perhaps it was the moth’s yellowish stripes that complemented the beige of the hardened concrete. The famous hard, blue limestone of the Shenandoah Valley, coupled with the crushed browns and grays of the area’s river rock, formed a flat tombstone of sorts that honored the dead moth’s demise.

Then again, maybe I am romanticizing my good fortune in spotting the moth at all. According to Kenn Kaufman’s “Field Guide to Insects of North America,” Nais Tiger Moths are widespread east of the Rocky Mountains.

Therefore, I hope you can also see this ubiquitous little moth, and trust it will be alive.

Mid-Summer Colors

Occasional rains and warm temperatures continue to be the norm in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. That combination has led to a continuation of summer’s bright colors.

From landscapes to sky to insects, to animals to flowers, wild and cultivated, a rainbow of colors has filled each day.

Flower gardens

Please click on the photos to enlarge them.

More colors around home

Gladiolus
Gladiolus
Knockout Roses
Flowers and sky
Lovely landscaping

Coordinating colors

Photobombed!

Variegated Fritillary butterfly on Zinnia. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I was out taking photos of some flowers my energetic wife has cultivated around our home. This patch of Zinnias caught my attention.

Just as I was ready to take the photo, this pretty Variegated Fritillary butterfly landed on a fuchsia-colored Zinnia in the middle of the patch. The lovely photobomb was a welcome addition to these bright flowers and a new focus to the photo.

Early Summer Colors

Summer 2025 colors have not disappointed so far. We are only a month into the summer season in the Northern Hemisphere, and there have been plenty of opportunities to photograph her vibrant palette of hues and tones.

Here are two sets of my favorite representations of this brilliant calidoscope.

Landscapes

Please click on the photos to view them in full size.

Flowers

Zinnias.
Zinnias.
Rose of Sharon
A Holly Blossom.
Summer’s Beauty for worship.
Honey Bee on Swamp Milkweed.
Summer flowergarden.
Bee Balm.

Please Don’t Hug Me Right Now

Departing Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

I love giving and receiving hugs, especially as I age. The fact that my four siblings and I received little physical affection growing up might play a significant role in my desire to be a hugger in my senior years.

There’s nothing better than giving my grandchildren a hearty hug after an athletic event or concert in which they have participated. And too, I melt when they hug me for simply being their grandfather. That momentary embrace says more than any card or note of appreciation.

The same is true for close friends, especially as we endure the aging process with all its expected and unexpected ailments. When we gather in small groups, whether at church or in our homes, the first question often asked is, “How are you?”

My wife and I are in two different small groups of peers, most of whom have Ohio roots like us. We now live in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, close to three of our four grandchildren.

When with other seniors, we chat around a meal or a table of snacks and drinks about our health. Sharing and listening become equivalent hugs, emotional squeezes, if you will. As septuagenarians and octogenarians, we all need those affirmations as we deal with our latest ailments.

Our ship, the Zuiderdam, docked at Portland, Maine. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

However, since we returned from a recent cruise, I’ve had to learn to be happy accepting verbal greetings instead. I cracked three ribs in a freak fall near the end of our trip.

All was going well until our ship approached Halifax, Nova Scotia. Before we left, friends cautioned us not to fall. I had every intention of complying.

As I stepped into the shower, and please don’t try to imagine that, my left foot hit the shower mat just as the ship pitched in the opposite direction. I flew through the air like Superman, only not as gracefully.

My arm stopped my flight by hitting the sink, and I crashed to the floor with a loud thud. Excruciating pain shot through my right side. My wife said I made noises she had never heard before from any creature.

After the initial shock, I composed myself and finished getting ready for the day. However, after breakfast, my ribs pained me greatly. We headed to guest services, and I was immediately wheeled to the ship’s medical center.

The friendly and competent medical staff quizzed me, took my vitals, and gave me medication to ease the pain. X-rays showed a cracked rib, but the doctor wanted me to go ashore to the hospital. Doing so would effectively end our vacation, and I didn’t want that to happen.

Painful as it was, a cracked rib wasn’t a life-or-death situation. We enjoyed Halifax as best we could from our veranda. I checked in the next two mornings for additional shots of pain medication, and we were able to fly home on schedule.

But because I had also hit my head in the crazy fall, we went to our local hospital’s emergency room after we arrived home. CT scans showed not issues with my head, though my wife questioned those results. I did, however, have three cracked ribs, not one.

We took it easy the next few days before I felt like venturing out. Friends who didn’t know about my accident greeted us with the usual hugs, but I politely waved them off and explained.

I have developed a new appreciation for the importance of the rib cage to the rest of the body. I measure my moves and watch my steps. I also recognize that three cracked ribs are insignificant when compared to more consequential diagnosis of cancer and other diseases of friends and family.

I’m still healing and greatly looking forward to when I can once again hug and be hugged without pain. Until then, a fist bump will do.

The Portland, Maine waterfront at dusk. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh

Do the Math…

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.

Riding into the Sunset

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.

Spring’s Last Sunset

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.