writing – Page 27 – Roadkill Crossing

Make October a Month to Remember

While still remembering those of the past

Fall comes to an Amish farmstead in Ohio’s Amish country.

By its very nature, October holds a storehouse of memories for people. It’s a month on nostalgia steroids.

Who doesn’t remember raking leaves into giant piles in the yard and then jumping into them? Guilty as charged.

I have fond memories of our father loading his brood into the family station wagon and heading southwest along the winding, hilly roads to Holmes County, Ohio. That was before the state eliminated the undulating curves between Berlin and Millersburg.

I distinctly remember stopping along the road on the east side of Millersburg at Briar Hill Golf Course to view the vibrant colors of the changing leaves. Dad especially loved a giant sugar maple’s warm oranges and reds.

Years later, when I found myself teaching in Holmes County, I ventured out after school to explore the backroads for scenic views myself. It was a two-fold way to enjoy the colorful landscape and learn my way around.

I always found the hills around Glenmont to be stunning when the leaves were exceptionally bright. I also found them difficult to scale as a volunteer firefighter when a passing train sparked a woods fire up a remote and steep pass.

I remember standing on schoolhouse hill overlooking Killbuck, where I taught. Billowing smoke from burning leaf piles filled the valley from one end of town to the other. My eyes watered from the fragrant stinging. Fortunately, outdoor burning like that is no longer permitted.

Once my wife and I moved to the county’s eastern end, I found the trees were just as beautiful as in the west. Rows upon rows of corn shocks enhanced the bucolic scenes all the more.

When my wife retired 15 years ago, we were freer to explore October’s natural wonders far beyond our limited Holmes County horizons. We discovered our beloved county wasn’t the only pretty place on earth.

Friends invited us to share a condominium with them in Arizona in early October. In locales like Sedona and the Grand Canyon, we discovered vibrant autumn colors in rocky ridges and spires instead of leafy trees. It was gorgeous, just the same.

Of course, October offers more than brilliant colors. I remember hayrides down Panther Hollow with our church youth groups on dark and chilly nights. Hot cider and fresh donuts at the outing’s conclusion sealed the spooky experience.

Not to let nostalgia carry us away, October often brought the first frost and the first snow. I recall embarking on a conservation field trip with a busload of underdressed fifth graders. By the end of our farm tour, we all were tromping through inches of snow.

October highlights come in so many flavors and textures. Various festivals abound celebrating harvest time, including cheese, wine, pumpkins, and apples. It’s all about socializing.

Produce stands and greenhouses hold customer appreciation days before they close for the season. Dodging the yellow jackets can be as challenging as bobbing for apples.

October is in the middle of fall migration for many birds species. Shorebirds and birds of prey use sunny day solar thermals to aid their southern journey. The last of the Monarch butterflies wing it to Mexico.

Halloween, though, seems to overshadow all of the beautiful interactions between humankind and our environment. Entire towns decorate for Halloween comparable to Christmas. I’m not against that, but I simply prefer the daily unfolding natural beauty.

October provides plenty of opportunities to get outside and enjoy the crisp air, golden sunsets, and changing foliage. Consequently, October stirs lots of emotions.

Perhaps the best October memories are the ones we make today.

Fire Prevention Is Important

For me, it’s always been personal

Fighting a barn fire in Holmes County, Ohio.

Fire Prevention Week, the first week of October, always had a special place in my heart. Belonging to the local volunteer fire department likely had a lot to do with that.

I remember, though, that that affinity began long before my firefighting days. I grew up three blocks from a fire station. When the siren sounded for the volunteers to respond, I was out our front door and at the end of our sidewalk, watching to see which way the trucks would go.

Students paid attention to when firefighters came to school for presentations in the post-World War II days before the internet, cell phones, pagers, boomboxes, and color television. We appreciated the coloring books and leaflets they gave us on what to do in case of a fire in our homes.

In response, I designed an exit plan for every room in our house. Fortunately, we never had to use it.

Ironically, the fire department mounted the fire siren on the roof of our elementary school. In the sixth grade, it was right over our classroom. When the siren rang, teaching and learning both stopped until the loud wailing subsided.

With that background, it’s no wonder I became a volunteer myself for 27 years in Holmes County, Ohio. When Fire Prevention Week rolled around, I combined my educator and firefighter knowledge with the students.

A fully involved barn fire in Holmes County, Ohio.

Other local firefighters came to the schools to share information and handouts, drawing me back to my youth. I asked my students to draw up an emergency exit plan the way I had done when I was their age.

Imagine my surprise when the house of one of my students caught fire during the night. Everyone got out exactly as Russell had planned, and the fire department extinguished the fire without extensive damage. I was proud of that young man.

I also remember a time during fire prevention week when I got another rude awakening. Wanting to surprise the students and me, the fire chief and a few firefighters held an unannounced fire drill at school.

When the fire alarm sounded, students began exiting, following their practiced routes until they couldn’t. Firefighters had blocked some of the exits, telling the students and staff that they had to use another door because a “pretend” fire blocked the way.

I remember it so well because I happened to be in the faculty lounge bathroom at the time. I got deservedly ribbed at the next fire meeting.

After I became a principal, firefighters enhanced their fire prevention lessons considerably. They brought a fire truck to school, and the students got to inspect it and even wear the firefighter’s turnout gear.

That approach greatly pleased the students. Besides the pamphlets, coloring books, and sitting in a fire truck, distributing candy to the kids didn’t hurt either.

Unfortunately, I responded to fires at the homes of some of those students, too. Besides helping douse the flames, I hoped that some of the education presented also helped minimize damage and injuries.

Of course, that wasn’t always the case. Barns, homes, shops, and outbuildings burned due to various causes. Some injuries occurred, too, along with one death that I can remember.

Perhaps that is the reason again to reemphasize the importance of fire prevention. Have a plan of evacuation with alternate routes and a prearranged reporting location outside the home. Change the batteries in smoke detectors at least twice a year and have the sensors adequately placed on all levels of your home.

I know personally that fire prevention helps to save lives, even if you’re in the bathroom.

Celebrating Being Cancer-free

Anniversaries of momentous events are generally worth celebrating. Even though we kept it low-key, our 50^th wedding anniversary earlier this year was a memorable milestone.

Birthdays fit the bill, too, especially if they end in zero or five. That’s our western culture for you.

Even the anniversary of a loved one’s death needs to be remembered, reverently, openly, and most certainly emotionally. My dear mother would have been 100 on June 22. I can still hear her comforting voice, soft and clear.

Some anniversaries, however, give me pause. I always feel that way each year I get the all-clear pronouncement from my urologist.

I have been cancer-free for 10 years post-robotic prostate cancer surgery. My PSA continues to be immeasurable, meaning no detectable cancer.

When I posted those results on social media, I did so with hesitancy. I hesitated because I know too many people who have not made it through their cancer journey or are currently struggling with the disease.

I am a sensitive old guy, and posting about my good fortune could be tantamount to rubbing it in. I certainly didn’t want to come across with that attitude.

Research shows that such a mindset stems from survivor’s guilt, also called survivor’s remorse. It’s a circumstance where a person survives while others in the same situation don’t, and you feel conflicted, guilty, and remorseful about your outcome versus theirs.

It might seem irrational, but the condition applies far beyond dealing with cancer. People who survive motor vehicle wrecks or a military conflict while others are maimed or killed exhibit survivor’s guilt.

A friend of mine survived the bombing of the Marine base in Beirut, Lebanon, in 1983. He happened to be away from the barracks at the time of the explosion. Guilt and anger ebbed and flowed throughout my friend’s life.

I empathized with him at the time but didn’t fully comprehend his feelings until I went through my own traumatic experience. When I met other prostate cancer patients who didn’t have the same successful outcome as me, I understood my Marine friend’s agony more fully.

Despite my reluctance, I am glad that I shared my decade of good fortune on social media. I credited my skillful surgeon and expressed thanks for the excellent medical insurance that got me through physically and financially.

A few of the comments in response to my post drew my attention and perhaps sent me over the hump of the lingering compunction. One particularly caught my eye. A former student shared about her current struggle with cancer.

She thanked me for sharing my good news. She said that seeing that others make it through the Big C gives her and other patients like her hope. Reading that brought me great joy.

Signs of hope in nature.

Her response deeply touched me because she has already been through the cancer medical mill with her husband. As a young man, he fought the good fight and won. His humility concealed his challenging journey.

Now his wife is traveling down the cancer highway. I wish her and her family all the best and will endeavor to stay in touch.

Society can easily be dismissive of others without really knowing their unique situations, hardships, and achievements. Friends need to pay attention.

Venezuelan visual artist Carlos Medina captured my sentiment with this quote, “A soul that carries empathy is a soul that has survived enormous pain.”

We can empathize by recognizing and being with the hurting, listening to their stories, or simply holding them in prayer. In those encouraging actions, there is no remorseful guilt.

Welcome to Autumn!

Welcome to autumn for those of us who live in the Northern Hemisphere. Today is the Autumnal Equinox, where summer rolls into fall without much autumnal fanfare.

I took this photo during a partial solar eclipse. I was standing atop a hill near Charm, Ohio, in the heart of Ohio’s Amish country in late October 2014. The eclipse occurred close to sunset, which created an eerie glow in the air. If you click on the photo to get a closer look, you can see that the sun’s rays made tiny rainbows in the hundreds of spider webs blown straight out from the barbed wire fence by a strong westerly wind. The coloration of the leaves in the background accentuate the fact that fall had indeed arrived.

“Welcome to Autumn!” is my Photo of the Week.

Never Give Up on Hope

The first rain after weeks of drought in the Shenandoah Valley. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh.

I remember standing on our back porch watching an approaching thunderstorm. It was the middle of July 1988, and we hadn’t had any substantial rain for weeks. Ohio and adjoining states were in a severe drought.

Temperatures were consistently in the 90s, sometimes reaching 100. The humidity was oppressive, yet we had no rain.

I stood there watching the lighting in the west, hoping that the rain would reach us. But it wasn’t to be. The storm fizzled out that night, and my heart sank.

That exact scenario occurred here in the Shenandoah Valley this summer. June turned warm and dry after a chilly, wet spring, and July followed the same pattern. Even if it did cool down for a few days, no rain came.

Crops withered. Lush cornfields turned ugly with curled, stunted, sickly-looking cornstalks. Farmers reported small ears of corn or none at all. The times seemed desperate, hopeless even.

And then there is the awful wildfire situation out west and in some Canadian provinces. Millions of acres of land have been burned, along with hundreds of buildings that included two entire small towns. The resultant injuries and deaths only added to the catastrophe.

In these trying times, it’s easy to give up hope. People are at their wit’s ends. Emotions and frustrations can run as high as the hot temperatures.

Instead, what I have observed here is farmers making the best of a bad situation. They made fodder out of the cornstalks while some green remained. Farmers harvested the outer edges of cornfields and sometimes entire fields of standing corn, chopped it, and filled their silos for livestock feed.

A withered cornfield in the Shenandoah Valley.

What they will do for field corn remains to be seen. But from my lifetime of observations, hope is a necessary prerequisite for farming.

The dictionary defines hope as a feeling of expectation and a desire for a sure thing to happen. In other words, hope points to the future, not the past.

Hope puts us all in the present moment, observing, touching, participating, listening, learning from all around us. We absorb it all and look to tomorrow, hopeful that the life we are experiencing will improve no matter our situation.

Just like I had anticipated rain that Ohio night long ago and was disappointed, I continued to hope. Ironically, a few days later, the rains arrived in torrents.

We had over six inches in less than two hours, and flash floods ensued. In that space of time, we went from no water to too much too soon.

And just like those former Ohio days, a similar pattern happened here in Virginia this summer. It didn’t rain for weeks, and then the heavens opened up multiple times in a few days. Later came the remnants of Hurricane Ida, and we had even more rain.

For some of the crops, it was too late. Late ripening varieties drank up the moisture. Lawns went from crunchy brown to lush green. A few brown spots still linger, but hope and patience won out.

Perhaps there is a lesson here for all of us. We must hang on to hope. Hope keeps us going. Hope inspires us to focus on the future while still acknowledging our current situation, whatever that may be.

Just when you think you are at the breaking point, hope will come. Much like the rain, hope will find a way for you. Though we cannot see it on the horizon, the rain will eventually arrive, filling our hope to overflowing.

As summer yields to autumn, hope shines forth regardless of the weather.

No matter what comes your way. — There is hope on the horizon.

September Is a Moody Month

Enjoy what comes your way

September is underway, and she has already walked on the wild side. Hot, steamy days evolved into torrential rains and flooding, mainly thanks to the remnants of Hurricane Ida.

Cool, refreshing days immediately followed. Bright morning sunshine sparkled dew-laden lawns. Blue skies filled the day from sunrise to sunset.

The cooler evenings made for pleasant sleeping. For that reason alone, September is a favorite month for many folks. I’m a card-carrying member of that crowd.

I will confess, however, that I didn’t fully appreciate September’s many personality traits until I retired from my education career. Sure, I enjoyed the pleasantries that September offered. But I did not truly comprehend the many moods of her 30-day span.

As a youngster, September meant school, and that garnered most of my attention. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the month. I just wanted to enjoy the pleasant evenings by playing after school. Homework? What homework?

I was too preoccupied during my college years to embrace September’s temperaments fully. Working full-time during the day and attending night school for two years left little leisure time. Then, it was all campus life once I became a “real” student.

After graduating, my educational career demanded my utmost attention as the school year unfolded in September. Still, I managed to roam the hills and dales of Holmes County, Ohio if only to get acquainted with my new surroundings.

Now, decades later, I am replicating that experience by exploring the Shenandoah Valley. September’s fairer weather spurs day trips to historical locales up and down the valley and into its adjoining alluring mountains.

It’s one of the blessings of being fully retired. You truly get to enjoy each day without the pressures of study or labor. September and retirees seem made for one another.

September isn’t always gracious, of course. As already noted, the damaging, drenching, and deadly consequences of Ida bear witness. Fortunately, September’s blissful days usually outnumber her unruly ones.

September serves as a monthly measuring stick. Her moods lull us while she melds summer into autumn in the northern hemisphere. The autumnal equinox occurs on September 22 at 3:20 p.m.

To fully appreciate all that September offers, it’s best to rise early. Fog-shrouded sunrises spread sunbeams across the morning sky. Like the dawn, those scenes fade quickly.

Long before that, however, September always gives us hints of things to come. The first frost, changing leaves, golden mums, plump pumpkins, and flocks of migrating birds all weave their way into September’s algorithms.

My morning walks in Holmes County verified that fact. Overnight fog dappled the landscape opaque, with millions of dewdrops revealing the once invisible spider webs intricate artistry.

Once emerald poison ivy vines blushed crimson capturing weather-worn fence posts like kudzu. Eastern bluebirds sat cooing in an already leafless walnut tree. Crunched by passing cars, trucks, and tractors, the tree’s tarry fruit stained black splotches on the rural road’s chip and seal surface.

I see similar signs of September’s power on my morning strolls here in Virginia. Vibrant succulents brim with luscious heads of pink flower heads. Pollinators squabble for their nourishing nectar.

Sensing fall’s onslaught, we humans pack artificial gatherings into our already busy days. However, street fairs, lawn parties, and backyard barbeques are no match for September’s natural wonders.

In these intermittent days that transform summer into fall, September allows us to catch our collective breath. As September days thrill us with her majestic magistery, our senses absorb her offerings.

Will we stay still enough to observe, hear and appreciate them? How we each respond to September’s opportunities reflects our joy.

A September evening in the Shenandoah Valley.

Recalling Sept. 11, 2001

A personal reflection

September 11, 2001, dawned beautifully. The morning air was cool, as September mornings in Ohio tend to be. A light ground fog scattered the rising sun’s rays, delicately bathing everything they touched.

The morning’s beauty entranced me so that I lollygagged my way into the retirement community where I worked. There was no way to know then what the world was in store for on this glorious morning.

Before the clock struck 9, the day grew dark despite the bright sunshine and the clear blue sky. The day’s rapidly unfolding sequence of events changed the world. We know the sordid details and the global consequences all too well.

The events of that infamous day significantly impacted and altered our lives universally and personally. Our son Nathan worked near Times Square in New York City, nearly five miles from the World Trade Center. Would there be more attacks?

Before sitting down in my office that day, I had a phone call that tied me up for several minutes. Before that conversation ended, my second phone line blinked an incoming call.

However, that call went to voicemail before I could answer. It was Nathan. He wanted to know what was going on in the city. All the local TV and radio stations were off the air for some reason.

I immediately tried calling him back without success. I switched on the radio just after a commercial jetliner had crashed into the Pentagon. When I learned that a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers, I knew the worst was happening.

I rushed to the nearest TV and saw the devastation of both the towers. All was chaos. I tried calling Nathan repeatedly. All I got was a busy signal.

Soon came the report of a plane crash at Shanksville, Pennsylvania. No one knew if the attacks were over. The fear for our son and our nation intensified.

Then a miracle happened. Nathan had somehow managed to get a call through to me. Even 20 years later, I remember much of what we said in those few precious minutes.

Lower Manhattan before the attack, and my son and I in Central Park.

Most of New York City’s communication antennas had been atop the Twin Towers. So, I quickly gave him the details of what I knew. Nathan said no one could leave Manhattan. The rest of the conversation focused on making an emergency plan if he had to stay overnight in his office.

I rushed up the hill to the elementary school where my wife taught and filled her in on what I knew. Other family members and friends kept calling the office to see if our son was all right.

The day dragged on with no further word from our son. Unknowingly, Nathan was on the first train out of the city, slowly making his way back to his Brooklyn apartment about the time my wife and I returned home.

What typically was a 20-minute ride to his subway stop took two-and-a-half hours. We were glad to know he was safe. Too many others couldn’t make that statement.

The trauma of this day forever etched these memories into our souls, and probably yours, too. The anniversary of this globally tragic event always revives them.

A wise counselor told us to keep on loving and communicating with those nearest and dearest to us affected by the day’s events. We have humbly tried our best to comply and have also redoubled our energies outward to those most in need by helping and giving wherever we can.

Keep on loving and communicating. Isn’t that good advice for all of us every day we walk this sacred earth?

Words Mean Something

Use them carefully

As a writer, words are essential to me.

The words we use reflect our values, our soul, or who we are. Words mean something, whether spoken or printed in a story, letter, text, email, or comment. When strung together in sentences and sentences into paragraphs, the sequence of words reveals our true meaning.

Before speaking or writing, we need to ask ourselves: will our words enhance or hurt, build up or tear down? I recall too many times in my own life when I wish I would have considered the consequences of my words before I used them.

Actions may speak louder than words. But words reveal our hearts’ desire. How we use words, the tone in which we say or write them guides our actions for better or worse.

In this day and age of on-demand communication, mostly from our mobile devices, words are more potent than ever. Whether spoken or printed, words convey meaning. That’s the point of communicating.

Words have the power to build up or tear down. Free will bestows on us the choice to affirm or deflate others.

Our world seems to be spinning out of control. Our words can either slow or accelerate that spiral.

Consequently, before we speak or write, we need to be mindful of the power and importance of our words. Will they result in caring or harming?

My siblings and I knew the consequences of using foul language or lashing out towards others. There are no tasty soaps.

My public school teachers, elementary through high school, were just as strict about our English language, only in an instructional mode, of course. I am very thankful for their insistence on learning to diagram sentences properly and knowing the parts of speech.

I revered my 11^th grade English teacher despite her highfalutin language. She used words I had never heard before, and I am so glad that she did. She whetted my appetite for writing.

Learning and using new words stirs our curiosity and expands our horizons. We shouldn’t be shy, ashamed, or hurt that we don’t know or use a particular word correctly.

Applying words to describe our everyday life is the way we commune. It connects us one with another.

A necessary means to expanding our vocabularies is through reading, and what we read influences what we think. What we believe often tumbles out in the terminologies we use.

Shouldn’t our communication with and toward one another be used judiciously? As author Anne Lamott suggests, one word is better than two.

Words can sting, heal, incite hate, and spread love and understanding.

Words come from humans. Humans have choices. Let the words we use be for better and not for worse. Let us be kind to one another in speaking the truth.

Likewise, let us be patient with one another if we disagree. The words we use should always reflect our virtue and simultaneously respect the other’s dignity. Otherwise, we might find ourselves in a war of words rather than at a peaceful center point.

I recognize times in my past when I have not lived up to my established expectations. I have used the wrong words at the wrong time with unpleasant results.

Consequently, I have also learned that sometimes, especially in times of deep despair, the best words are no words at all. Simply being present speaks louder and more comforting than any articulated vocabulary.

So, when it comes to words, let humility, curiosity, and grace be our guideposts.

Starstruck at Heavenly Wonders

A mountaintop experience

The Milky Way and Perseid meteors. Photo by Michael Mancewicz on Unsplash.

When was the last time you went out and sat under the stars and just enjoyed the evening?

We used to do that as kids regularly. But as adults, not so much. Come 10 p.m. or sooner, it’s lights out for this baby boomer.

Of course, enjoying and appreciating life often occurs outside our comfort zones. When my wife and I received an invitation to view the Perseids meteor shower on its peak night, we couldn’t refuse.

Our friend Edgar asked us to accompany him to his mountaintop cabin to watch the meteoric show. We left early to take in all that nature had to offer on Shenandoah Mountain.

The 30-minute trip was worth the drive alone. We traveled U.S. 33 west through a forested tunnel of hardwoods and pines, crossing the Dry River multiple times as it winds its way down into the Shenandoah Valley.

With a moderate drought in full swing, the rocky riverbed indeed was dry. We passed parks and gated lanes into the George Washington National Forest and zigzagged our way up the mountain slope.

Before reaching the summit, we turned a hard right into the private road that led to Edgar’s cabin. He unlocked the gate, and we began our rock and roll ascent on the two-lane drive, one track for right tires and the other for the left.

Soon the incline smoothed to wave-like rolling. We stopped at Big Hill, Shenandoah Mountain’s summit. My GPS read precisely 3,800 feet in altitude.

I was surprised to find that much of the rounded old mountain top was a meadowland full of wildflowers and butterflies despite the lack of rain. The verdant views in every direction were hazy but still impressive.

The best was yet to come. After a light dinner in Edgar’s cabin, we talked the evening away. When our daughter sent a text that she had seen a meteor from the city’s high school parking lot, we hightailed it outside.

We didn’t stay long. Residue clouds from afternoon thunderstorms lingered over the mountain ridges.

We retreated inside to continue our enlightening conversation. Edgar related the cabin’s history and how his wife’s family had acquired the property and built the place. Once they became owners, Edgar and his late wife remodeled it. The view from the deck was incredible.

At 10:30, we turned out the lights and headed outside. The three of us sat in the sloping yard and looked northeast. We knew the peak time of the meteor shower was yet to come.

We hoped for some early meteors, and we weren’t disappointed. Our lively conversation quickly filled in the gaps between the intermittent flashes in the night sky.

Crickets and katydids waged a surround-sound insect symphony. Soon an out-of-tune screech owl grated their nocturnal harmony.

A singular cry interrupted the concert from the tree line that marked the Virginia/West Virginia boundary 30 yards to our west. Several meteors later, the bobcat bid farewell from much farther down the ridge.

Even if there had been no meteors, the night sky’s sparkling diamonds captivated us. The clouds had dissipated, and stars, planets, constellations, and the Milky Way served as our canopy. Both the Big Dipper and the Little Dipper shone brightly as the mountain coolness enwrapped us.

The meteors put on a splendid show for this trio of grandparents. Some streaked long and brilliant, others short and dull. Grateful for one last bright burst from the heavens, we headed home, full of grace and in awe of nature’s wonders.

My wife and I felt honored to be under the spell of the starry universe and Edgar’s gracious hospitality.

The view to the east from the cabin as the setting sun reflected off of clouds.

Loving people who care for the environment

Conservation is important

It was a double-your-pleasure moment.

We were all standing on the deck of the cabin when my wife spotted a bright red bird at the top of a tree 40 yards away. Through the binoculars, I quickly found the bird. Its jet black wings nicely contrasted with its radiant red body.

Upon hearing the description, the property owner was ecstatic. “I’ve been hoping the scarlet tanager would return,” he said with glee.

I got as much kick out of Rice’s reaction as I did seeing the distinctly marked bird. After all, this was a big, middle-aged man, not some youngster seeing this beauty for the first time.

I love it when people love nature. Their company becomes all the more enjoyable.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by our host’s excitement. My wife and I were there as guests to tour his expanse of property high on one of the seven hills of Glenmont in southwestern Holmes County, Ohio.

Our connection with this enthusiastic young man and his partner Liz goes back decades. My wife was Rice’s kindergarten teacher. We’ve known Liz since she was born and her baby boomer parents even longer.

When our children were children, they played together. We were as close as close friends can be. Neva and I felt privileged to explore this restored property that was all about conservation.

The scarlet tanager was only one of the highlights of our visit. Inside the cabin, an old property plat map hung framed on the wall. I’m a sucker for maps, and it called my name.

When I look at a map, one of the first things I do is find the legend. It tells me how to read the map. The descriptions of the property boundary markers caught my attention.

A large solid blue dot represented stone markers, which European settlers used when they claimed the land not long after Ohio became a state in 1803. Different icons identified more conventional boundary markers like standard iron pins.

Out on the large porch of the restored cabin, we spotted more than the scarlet tanager. Barn swallows swooped low over a trio of small ponds, skimming the water’s surface for a drink on the fly. A pair of young eastern bluebirds watched the show from perches on a dead ash tree. Painted turtles sunned themselves on an old snag angled into the water.

Sensing my intrigue, our hosts piled my wife and me into a Cadillac version of an all-terrain vehicle (ATV), and off we went to tour the rolling, mostly forested acreage. Of course, I wanted to find those unusual stone markers, too.

Our friends had cleared and maintained paths that wound up, down, and around the hilly landscape. We were in for a real treat.

We crossed a tree line in the ATV and spied a young buck with velvety spiked antlers. We stopped to view an open, rolling field planted explicitly with crops for the wildlife. Conservation is Rice’s practical goal.

As we continued over the undulating trails, our host pointed out trees he specified to be left by loggers who thinned the woods three years earlier. He walked with the loggers to ensure only the designated ones were cut.

High above the cabin, we came upon one of the old stone markers. It was too easy to find. A surveyor had recently spray-painted its top fluorescent red.

I appreciate people who care for the land. When they express their excitement openly at seeing the fruits of their labor, everyone is rewarded, including the wildlife.