April’s weather in northeast Ohio can be fickle, to say the least. After a tease of springtime in late March, April brings us all back to reality in short order. In the space of a week, it’s not unusual to experience bitter cold and snow, torrential rains, damaging winds, and a beautiful, still, sunny day.
Regardless of the day’s weather, we can often count on an inspiring sunset. Indeed, this week we had our pick.
“April Sunset” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
Severe weather grips me. As a volunteer severe weather spotter for the National Weather Service office in Cleveland, I pay close attention to the weather forecasts. When the potential for severe weather is a possibility, I go on a personal high alert.
I watch radars. I read online weather maps. And I scan the sky. I also take my camera with me.
When the season’s first strong thunderstorms approached Monday evening, I was ready. An active weather system had produced a tornado in southwestern Ohio. The cold front weakened a bit as it approached eastern Ohio. But that didn’t keep it from producing some impressive clouds, particularly in the front of the storm system.
The western sky turned dark. I went to the back porch to see what was coming, and this is what I saw looking north. The clouds looked fierce and angry. But fortunately, we only received torrential rains and a few strikes of lightning.
“The Storm Cometh” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 206
By Bruce Stambaugh
As a kid, I loved when Daylight Saving Time (DST) arrived, mostly. At first, school days began in the dark. The upside was that we had more daylight time in the evening to play and do chores.
That seemed like a fair trade to me. Excuse the pun, but times have changed since the origin of DST. I’m not sure humanity has, however.
Believe it or not, DST originated in ancient times before clocks existed. Various civilizations adjusted their schedules, not their clocks, to the natural lengthening of warmer months.
Folks in Thunder Bay, Ontario, Canada were the first to use DST in 1908. The idea didn’t catch on until the onslaught of World War I when Germany resorted to using DST to save fuel for the war effort. Great Britain soon followed suit.
The same thing happened when the United States entered World War II. To save fuel, DST ran from April 30 to Oct. 31. In one form or another, DST has been around ever since.
Today’s use of DST in the U.S. dates to the 1973 oil crisis in the Middle East. DST now runs from the second Sunday in March and ends the first Sunday in November. Altogether, 70 countries use some form of DST.
Despite its semi-annual adjustments, folks still get confused by the change of time. A simple rule is spring forward an hour in March and fall back an hour in November. Note the cheeky references to “spring” and “fall.”
Farmers often get the blame for initiating DST. In fact, the farmers I talk to hate it, especially if they milk cows.
Others apparently used the art of compromise. Clocks were set back a half an hour. Perhaps these methods were mild forms of protest. Whatever the reasons, people always seemed to know what time it was regardless of what the clocks said.
That’s more than others could say. This simple idea led to some chaotic timekeeping. In 1965, the state of Iowa had 23 different start and end dates for DST. Even the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Min. didn’t change time equally.
To bring order to all of the chaotic clocks, Congress passed the Energy Policy Act of 2005 making DST uniform. Well, mostly. Arizona and Hawaii still don’t use DST, along with several U.S. territories.
For good or for ill, the intent of this checkered history of playing with time was to save energy. Research has shown that concept is flawed.
I can see both sides. Earlier risers would just as soon avoid manipulating the clocks twice a year. Those who desire extra playtime after work or school are happy for the extended daylight.
That remains the justification for DST. It doesn’t save time. The tactic merely adjusts the clock to accommodate more daylight for more citizens.
My less than nimble fingers protest resetting the many digital devices that don’t self-correct. The child in my heart, however, still enjoys the adjusted daylight.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
I stood on the beach beside Sam enjoying another inspiring sunrise. Though I didn’t know it, the scene renourished me. I had never heard that word before.
Sam was a security guard for a beach restoration project that was ongoing on the barrier island where my wife and I have wintered for the last several years. He had just come on duty for his 12-hour shift.
Sam said he had come to work early just to see the sunrise. He succinctly expressed the natural fringe benefits he received from just doing his job.
“I get to see sunrises, the full moon last night, the stars and planets, and a beautiful sunset over the island,” he said. I had found a kindred soul mate. Sam described in one sentence why my wife and I return year after year to this little paradise.
It’s not balmy by Miami standards, or even Sarasota for that matter. But we find the island’s winter weather much more agreeable than northeast Ohio.
From another glorious dawn to a spectacular sunset, this particular day served as a perfect example of how we recharge.
I couldn’t help but see the irony in
the beach reinvigoration.
The massive renourishment project was an engineering marvel. Involved were large freighters, tugboats, survey boats, an enormous pumping station, hundreds of 40-ft. long steel pipes sections, and a variety of heavy-duty excavating equipment.
Huge ships dredged the river inlet to maintain shipping lanes. Pumps recycled the sand through a miles-long piping system. A slurry of sand and seawater spewed back out onto the beach.
Giant bulldozers plowed a path to channel the excess water back into the ocean. Shore birds and sea birds reaped the benefits by feasting on the crawling critters caught up in the pressurized flush of sand and water.
Renourishment came in more natural ways, too. The salty spray, the sanguine setting of having an ocean for a front yard, the wildlife, the nearby marine forest and accompanying saltmarsh, and the friendly folks encountered during our extended stay combined to enrich our lives.
I retreated to our rented condo to the company of my hospitable wife and our latest of many visitors. They were just as thrilled with the sunrise as I was. That, too, served as nourishment for my soul.
To be honest, I’m not a beach person. I’d much rather be hiking in mountains than lazing along the shore. But it’s cold in the mountains in winter, and though it’s not even subtropical here, we had a lot in common with Sam and the beach project.
The word renourishment, in fact, applies specifically to restoring damaged beaches. Standing beside Sam enjoying the sunrise brought a wider meaning of the word for me.
Neva and I were exceedingly grateful to be renourished by the marvels all around, and by the good folks who came calling. I was especially pleased when Sam asked to have a sunrise photo sent to him.
Even beaches need to be renourished from time to time. How and where are you replenished?
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
Being a weekly newspaper columnist, I pay attention to the calendar. I have to if I want my columns to appear in print. If I miss a deadline, well you know.
I only just recently noticed the quirkiness of the 2016 calendar. For instance, February, the shortest month, had five Mondays. If you are reading this on Feb. 29, it’s “Leap Day.” Within its 31 days, January only had four Mondays. Go figure.
That got me delving into the rest of the year. My research revealed several interesting tidbits of facts and silliness. Every month has at lease one cause, and many weeks have more than one reason to celebrate.
Digging further, I discovered a wide diversity of day designations that I never heard of. I guess I need to get out more.
January and February are history. Here’s a sampling of what’s in store for the rest of 2016. For the sake of space, I picked the most notable ones, minus the standard holidays.
April is no better. By starting off with “April Fools Day,” it follows that April is “National Humor Month.” Appropriately, it’s also “Stress Awareness Month.” The first week of April is “Read a Road Map Week.” I wonder when “GPS Week” is? April 4 is “Tell a Lie Day,” followed by “Go for Broke Day” on April 5.
May is “National Bike Month” and “National Photograph Month.” Designated days include May 3, “Lumpy Rug Day;” May 11, “Eat What You Want Day,” and the only Friday the 13th of the year.
Though I love June, I’m a little confused about its designations. It is “Aquarium Month” and the first week is “Fishing Week.” Maybe I can figure that out on June 1, “Flip a Coin Day.”
I like August. It’s “Admit You’re Happy Month,” which goes nicely with the second week, “National Smile Week.” Appropriately, Aug. 16 is “National Tell a Joke Day.”
Just in time for football season, September is “Little League Month” as in baseball. The ninth month starts off with “Emma M. Nutt Day.” She was the very first telephone operator. You’re on your own until October.
With 18 endorsements, October is a highly regarded month. Did I mention October is “Sarcastic Month?” That must explain why Oct. 3 is “Virus Appreciation Day.”
Hold your ears in November when it’s “National Drum Month.” And is it ironic that Nov. 8 is both the “U.S. General Election” and “Dunce Day?”
That brings us to December. It seems like 2016 will end goofy, too. Take Dec. 21, the winter solstice. Besides being the year’s day with the least daylight, Dec. 21 is “Humbug Day,” “Look on the Bright Side Day,” and “National Flashlight Day.”
Say what you will, the calendar is used to promote a variety of legitimate to questionable causes and remembrances. I’m not endorsing this practice, just reporting it.
I’ll simply stick to writing my columns as the literary spirit moves, quirky days or no quirky days. Enjoy this “Leap Day.” Tomorrow is “National Pig Day.”
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
Even in a blowing snowstorm, this light blue door stood out from the blandness that surrounded it. Blue is one of the few colors permitted by the Swartzentruber Amish, the lowest order Amish. They are the plainest of The Plain People. If you didn’t know that, you might not think much about this ordinary blue door. But for the scholars and teacher of this Amish one-room school, it might be the only splash of color they see in their stark schoolyard.
“The Blue Door” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
February is upon us. Hopefully, winter in northeast Ohio is nearing its peak.
We don’t know what that means regarding the weather ahead. We simply long for milder days when we can be outdoors without the clumsiness of thick coats.
Most of us senior citizens avoid the nasty weather by staying inside or fleeing to warmer locales. In the process, we tend to overfeed February’s cabin fever. That’s not good for our health at any age.
I have a rather restricted diet due to some inherited genes I’d rather trade away. Of course, I can’t, so I am careful about what I eat. My loving wife goes out of her way to create the food that my body can handle.
For me, though, eating has never been a top priority. I’d rather be out and about, even in the harshest weather. After a measurable snow, you’ll likely find me outside pushing and shoveling the white stuff from the sidewalk and parking pad.
When I was younger, I’d take it as a personal challenge to shovel the entire driveway out to the county road. If the snow was heavy and wet, I took my time. Neva often joined me, along with our daughter and son, if they weren’t already off sledding with friends.
Snow removal isn’t a fashion show. It’s hard work, especially for someone pushing 70. For whatever reason, that thought blew into my head like the cold north wind. I remembered to take plenty of breaks and to pace myself.
During my frequent breathers, I observed crows sail through the still falling snow, and heard a state plow truck’s discordant rumble echo in the frosty air from a mile away. I stopped shoveling after I had cleared the sidewalk and turnaround.
I didn’t want to be a statistic, a seasonal casualty to stubbornness. I knew my limits and decided not to push them. When the snow is too deep, my good neighbor rescues me with his pickup’s snowplow.
The amount he charges is a whole lot cheaper than the negative consequences if I try to exert myself beyond my physical capacities. No one needs that heartache.
I know I need the exercise, but braving winter’s harsh elements at my age can prove counterproductive. I look for other options to stay physically fit though some would question whether I have ever been in that condition.
I like to walk when I can, but that isn’t always a year-round option in northern climes. Other exercise options are easy to find.
My wife and I enjoy doing yoga regularly either in our home or at class. We have found it both physically and spiritually healing. The good Lord knows I need both.
I do simple stretches daily to ease my tennis elbow pain and to loosen my tight hamstrings. Those simple practices do wonders for me.
I’ll continue to be mindful of both what I eat and the portions I consume. I’ll continue to intentionally workout my body and mind daily.
Every new day is a gift. I must do my part to welcome another tomorrow.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
When shooting photographs, I usually try to exclude anything that might be distractive to the main subject of the photo. However, I do make exceptions from time to time. This sunset scene on the Amelia River in northeast Florida fit that bill.
The glowing lights of the active paper mill accentuated the warm and cool colors of the clouded sunset. The gray clouds matched the venting steam of the mill’s smokestack. The orange reflection of the security lights balanced that of the setting sun’s on the river’s quiet waters.
“Industrial sunset” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
What can I say? It’s winter. It’s Ohio. It snows. It’s also beautiful in Ohio’s Amish country.
“In the storm” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
I took this shot two days ago from my back porch during one of the frequent whiteouts that hit Ohio’s Amish country. Can you see my neighbor casually pulling a wagon in front of the house as if it were the sunniest summer day? She was on an errand. Can you guess what it was? The answer is hanging there for you if you can see.
Blinding as it was, the snow came in waves and only accumulated about three inches. Still, capturing the moment created a washed-out abstract photo. “Whiteout!” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
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