Silhouetted trees at sunset. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh
The Autumnal Equinox was a week ago for those living in the Northern Hemisphere. I was fortunate to catch the summer’s last sunset as I stepped out the front door of our daughter’s house in Harrisonburg, Virginia.
It had been cloudy all day, so the illuminated western sky was a pleasant surprise. I didn’t have my camera along, so all these photos were captured by my iPhone 14 mini.
When my wife and I reached an open spot on a hill behind Eastern Mennonite University, the sunset was reaching its peak. I snapped my way to the space that provided an unobstructed view of the Allegheny Mountains 30 miles away.
I was amazed at the various colors that summer’s final sunset produced. The blues and pinks hung high in the evening sky. Closer to the horizon, the warmer colors dominated.
It was a pretty punctuation mark on a summer that brought tornadoes, flooding, drought, wildfires, and days on end of gray skies here in the usually picturesque Shenandoah Valley.
Mole Hill is in the foreground left and the Allegheny Mountains are beyond.
One of a pair of hot air balloons that landed in our neighborhood. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
My wife and I had just returned from an overnight trip to Lansdale, Pennsylvania, visiting friends. We were tired from driving and had settled in for the evening to watch our favorite baseball team, the Cleveland Guardians. Then, our neighbor Jonathan came over to tell us two hot air balloons were sailing south of our home.
I went out the back door and photographed the balloons high in the sky. However, it didn’t take long to realize that the balloons were quickly descending. There wasn’t much wind, which isn’t unusual around sunset, so I wasn’t sure where they would land. We soon found out.
When I first sighted the hot air balloons.Heading to the community park.Sailing over our neighbors’ houses.Alternate touchdown!
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
Both balloons began sinking toward our house. They briefly went out of sight but silently reappeared over other neighbors’ homes. Thinking they were aiming for our local park, Neva and I jumped in the car and headed there. I drove carefully as children raced on bicycles and people ran from their homes to watch the balloons land.
I initially drove into the park, but the first balloon was already on the ground, swarmed by curious folks, young and old. It was then I heard the second balloon fire its gas burner. I looked up, and it was between two houses, still heading north. It had overshot the park. We got in the car and drove to find where this balloon would set down.
When we found it, the skillful pilot had already gingerly landed it on a narrow street in our suburban housing development. With a tree on each side of the road, it had been a tight landing. The pilot kept opening the gas valve burner briefly to create more heat to keep the balloon’s envelope from collapsing into one of the trees. He kept firing the burner until the ground team arrived with the trailer to haul the balloons and their baskets back home.
As much as I enjoy baseball, I will take this unexpected and extraordinary entertainment any day.
The first balloon landed safely in the community park at sunset. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
One of two American Flamingos near Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
This is how birding works. Just before my wife and I left to visit our 16-month-old grandson and his parents in Rochester, NY, a friend in Florida posted on social media about American Flamingos being spotted in a farm pond in south-central Pennsylvania.
I knew we couldn’t stop on the way up, but I hoped beyond hope that the birds would still be there when we left for our home in the Shenandoah Valley on Monday. I checked the American Birding Association’s rare bird alert daily as we enjoyed visiting with our son and his young family.
On Monday morning, the birds were still there and reportedly very easy to see. In all my years of birding, I’ve heard that before, only to arrive five minutes after the birds flew off into the sunset. In the birding world, that’s called “dipping.”
It was a six-hour drive from Rochester to St. Thomas Township, Franklin County, Pennsylvania. When we left Rochester, the day was partly sunny. By the time we reached the state line of the Keystone State, it started to rain. I kept my mind on my driving. I wanted to see those birds, but we had to get there first. So, I drove carefully.
The ABA rare bird alert included the GPS coordinates, so I figured we would drive right to the farm pond, which we almost did. We had Waze plugged into the car’s GPS system while I used my Google Maps for backup. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I am so glad I did because Waze said we had arrived when all we had were fields on the right and a line of houses on the left. My Google Maps saved the day, and we circled around and found Pond Lane.
The countryside was gorgeous. Puffy white clouds floated by in a bright blue sky. The large, rolling fields of soybeans served as a two-tone yellow and green carpet below. Fieldstone farmhouses and red barns dotted the landscape.
Soybeans beneath a late summer sky.
Sweeping fertile fields.
The old homestead.
Fields, forests, and mountains.
The old stone house and Black Angus in the shade.
A mountain in the backyard.
As we approached from the west, I smiled because I could see a string of cars parked along the road and birders on the opposite side looking through spotting scopes and binoculars. As I slowly approached the scene, my wife shouted, “I see one!” I parked the car in the first space on the north side of the road and raced to the spot where my wife saw the flamingo.
Sure enough, there it was. The beautiful pink bird was standing on one leg in the middle of the shallow pond. It had its head tucked under its left wing, sleeping. I got a quick photo between two trees and then walked up to where most birders stood with an unobstructed view. It was a little farther away, but we could see it clearly through the binoculars and my camera’s viewfinder.
My wife helped steady me in the warm wind rushing over and down the nearby Appalachian Mountains to the west. Once the bird awoke, it waded, fed, and preened in the afternoon sun. I asked another birder where the second flamingo was. I didn’t like the answer.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
In the early morning hours after sunrise, a snapping turtle bit the other flamingo in the leg, injuring it. A wildlife rehab center was notified, and personnel arrived and captured the injured bird. Surgery was performed to fix the broken leg. It still remains in their care.
The other flamingo continued to thrill birders who arrived from near and far. How did birds that should be in the Bahama Islands and the Florida Keys get to Pennsylvania? The most plausible answer is that Hurricane Idalia blew them north.
That is the accepted answer because American Flamingos were located in 10 states, some well inland like these birds. Birders from other states were chiming in on the social media conversations, wishing for the flamingos to be found in their states, too.
Why such fuss over the flamingos? Well, in every state except Florida, the sighting of the flamingos was a record first for each of those states. Birders take their hobby seriously. Consequently, they keep many lists and records by recording the bird species, where it was seen, the date(s), and times. The Cornell Laboratory in Ithaca, New York, is the official state and national records compiler.
I had seen flamingos in Florida and Texas before, but seeing this beautiful bird so far inland was extra special. And it was all thanks to a hurricane.
The farm pond in Pennsylvania where the American Flamingo was observed. The bird is just right of the willow tree in the foreground. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.
The windrows of the fresh-cut alfalfa and the dark green rows of cornstalks seem to reach to the sky, thanks to the rolling field’s topography. In actuality, the fluffy cumulous clouds rolled over the Blue Ridge Mountains 40 miles east of Harrisonburg, Virginia.
Those are the raw details. The scene’s stark beauty speaks for itself.
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.
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.
I gladly handed over my iPhone to the ticket-taker at the Van Gogh Immersive Experience in Washington, D.C. We had only just gathered everyone together at the entrance when she had offered to take our family photo, an image I dearly wanted.
It had been four years since the three families had all been together, and in that time, another grandchild had joined our ranks. Our two oldest grandsons had never met the youngest. I wanted this precious moment to be documented for perpetuity. As mobile as today’s societies are, especially the younger generations, I wasn’t taking any chances. I considered the family photograph as my personalized Father’s Day present.
As it turned out, this was the only photo of all of us together at the same place at the same time we got in the three-day gathering in our nation’s capital. The comings and goings of our active crew mirrored the busy lives of our adult children, their spouses, and teenagers. I certainly wasn’t disappointed.
I had my shot and could now relax into the follow-the-crowd mode. The other adults, our daughter, son, son-in-law, and daughter-in-law, would share the responsibility of setting the agenda for the Sunday through Tuesday reunion. I’m usually the one to suggest and plan trips. However, this time I silently relished my grandfatherly role. Though not surprised, I marveled at their skills in managing offspring, arranging transportation, and finding restaurants to suit everyone.
Of course, they consulted Nana and Poppy about places we wanted to go, do, visit, and tour. I was more than happy to go with the flow. Shoot. I would have been pleased if we had stayed in the hotel. A certain familial satisfaction overcame me.
The pandemic played a significant role in keeping us apart all this while. Our son, his wife, and the newest grandson, Teddy, live in upstate New York, a seven-hour drive from the lovely Shenandoah Valley, where my wife and I live. We moved there six years ago from our home of 38 years in Ohio’s Amish country to be close to our daughter and her family.
Teddy arrived over a year ago, complicating our Nana and Poppy roles. Our son and his wife have done an exceptional job keeping us informed of Teddy’s progress, and we travel north as we can.
But here we all were, assembled together. Everyone agreed to make the Van Gogh experience our initial group event. The New Yorkers intended to take the Metro from Dulles International Airport to the hotel. Due to track maintenance, that plan got derailed. It took them longer to get from the airport to the hotel than from Rochester to Dulles.
With air temperatures heating up, the Van Gogh Immersion became the perfect place to chill and smother Teddy with plenty of attention. To enhance the experience, lounge chairs, bean bags, small ottomans, and blankets were scattered around the gymnasium-sized, carpeted room. We all found our relaxation niche and enjoyed the show. Teddy loved showing off his newly found walking and running skills. The rest of us merely basked in the moments as they unfolded.
That was plenty for the first day. Returning to the hotel, we ordered dinner from a local pizzeria. We found the perfect place to hold a pizza party and enjoy each other’s company, the building’s rooftop. I relished the lively chatter, the food, and the cityscape views. We finished the day with gelato and a rousing game of cards with the teens. It was a balance we all needed to complete the day.
We walked a mile in the morning’s coolness the next day for a delicious breakfast spread. The portions were so large that only the teens cleaned their plates. We stayed so long that the day’s heat had already begun as we worked our way toward the National Mall. It was Juneteenth, and we had tickets for the National Museum of African American History and Culture. We wanted the youngsters to see first-hand the sad history of how African Americans arrived in this country and what they endured in slavery, the Jim Crow era, and the present. The chronology began on the lower floors, and we worked our way up in small groups. Is there another choice when you have a toddler and septuagenarians in the same family? We didn’t have time to do the outstanding museum justice.
We exited into the early afternoon heat and humidity commonplace for D.C. summer days. Teddy’s parents found a refreshment truck parked near some massive shade trees, and the rest of us soon joined them for some shaved ice and smoothies. Nana was in her glory feeding Teddy some of her cool mango drink. Teddy’s eager reaction showed his gratitude.
Colorful murals were abundant.
Mural.
The Washington Monument from the Jefferson Memorial.
At the FDR Memorial.
Colorful canopy.
A short walk brought us to the World War II Memorial in the shadow of the Washington Monument and at the reflecting pool’s eastern end. I spied a group of Amish circling the memorial’s parameter and recognized the older leader. Unfortunately, I was too far away to say hello.
We continued walking west to the Lincoln Memorial for the older grandkids to experience. Before we left the area, we pointed out the impressive yet solemn Vietnam War Memorial from a distance.
By now, everyone was tired, and we headed back to the hotel via three modes of transportation. Some of us took an Uber, while two adventurous teens followed their father to the Metro. Since Teddy needed a nap, his parents chose to push the stroller three miles.
With the day’s heat and humidity, we were glad for the hotel’s air conditioning in which to rest. However, the teenagers all wanted to play cards, a vacation tradition since they were young. We ordered burgers from a local restaurant and reclaimed the hotel’s rooftop. The banter and passing around Teddy put a punctuation mark on a fulfilling day. The games played on, but we seniors called it a night, our hearts full.
As I settled in for the night, I reflected on the day’s interactions. Everyone we met, hotel, restaurant, museum staff, and Uber drivers, were engaging and courteous. They made this country boy feel right at home in the city.
The adults headed for a lighter breakfast than the previous day while the teens slept in. Afterward, they had to be awakened to say goodbye to Teddy and his parents, who had to leave for their return flight. We hugged and kissed and thanked them for making the trip, and then they were gone.
Those that remained returned to the monument area. Our first stop was the Jefferson Memorial. The day was warm again, but a steady east wind made it bearable.
Please click on the photos to enlarge them.
We walked to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Memorial, which my late father truly enjoyed when I first visited it with him as part of an Honor Flight for World War II veterans. I told the grandkids how their great-grandfather, who used a wheelchair, nearly rose to his feet when he saw the statues of the longest-serving president. Dad even knew the name of Roosevelt’s dog, which also had an oversized bronze.
The Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial stood a short walk away. We were a few months late for the blooming of the famous cherry trees along the path. The impressive King Memorial faced the Jefferson Memorial across the choppy basin. From there, we strolled to the Korean War Memorial. With its platoon of soldier statues, the setting gives you pause about the futility of war.
It was time to head home. We retraced our steps through the FDR Memorial and back to the van. As we rolled south down the interstate, I enjoyed the commotion of the card games with Nana and teenage grandchildren in the back seats. I was happy to have my son-in-law drive and most grateful for our joyous times together.
We had so much fun that we had already made tentative plans for next year’s get-together. In the meantime, I’ll bask in the joyous afterglow of our little family’s reunion.
Roadkill Crossing 
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