Beneath scalloped clouds,
Chimney Swifts drew southerly
loops above the trees.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Fall migration
Category: writing
Fall has arrived, but we already knew that
By Bruce Stambaugh
Ready or not, fall has arrived. It is an understatement to even say that the signs of autumn are all around us.
Even so, I couldn’t be happier. I love almost everything about fall. The colors, the cooler, less humid weather, the crispness of the air, the foggy mornings followed by clear, lustrous skies, the lulling sounds of crickets, and the rich, airy fragrances all captivate me.
By the time I began my trek, the strengthening sun had melted the mist away, revealing a cloudless, deep blue sky, the kind you see in paintings, but seldom take note of when it’s right overhead. I wanted to put my busyness aside, and truly absorb all this glorious day had to offer.
It offered much. I rejoiced that I had traded my time for her blessed offerings.
If I looked close, butterflies zigzagged around the abundant autumn blossoms. They adored domesticated gardens and roadside wildflowers indiscriminately.
Lush fencerows of oaks, maples, ashes and sassafras seemed a tad thinner, losing single leaves with every pulse of the morning breeze. A few trees showed signs of succumbing to the shorter and cooler days. They blushed while their neighbors held fast, verdant.
Fence row. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Fall display. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Slight blush. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Showing change. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Fall flower garden. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Commercial businesses joined the celebration, too. Showy seasonal displays of mums, corn shocks, and pumpkins bedecked old vehicles or wagons or wheelbarrows in front of stores. Nature’s natural marketing had friendly competition.
Along roadways, streams and farm fields, remnants of summer’s floral display stood stark and brown, even before a killing frost. Winged insects and assorted animals would munch the seeds of this unsightly bounty.
The rays of the late morning’s sun created beautiful landscapes. Bright red barns, though not newly painted, boldly contrasted with the green, green pastures that surrounded them.
Many a farmer outside our area would love to see such a scene given their parched situations. Years of drought have taken their toll. I am grateful we have been under the extended cooling care of the polar vortex since last winter.
Like giant puffy marshmallows, large, round hay bales covered in white plastic rested side by side along outbuildings and edges of fields. It’s just one more reminder of how productive the hay harvests have been this year. It’s also good to know that the plastic covering can be recycled.
Migrating birds fall out of the morning sky to feed and rest in freshly mown hayfields, or in marshy woodlots. They’ll be off with the next weather front or a favorable north wind to help speed them on south.
Prudent caretakers have lowered and cleaned Purple Martin houses, and covered them for the season. Come the Ides of March, they’ll be spruced up and hoisted for their tenants return.
That may seem like a long time away with the fall only just begun, and dreaded thoughts of winter pondered. However, the older I get, the faster time seems to fly.
That’s why I wanted to spend this morning just seeing what I could see, before October’s steely clouds rush low overhead, spitting fat flakes. That thought alone makes me shiver.
If fall has a fault, that’s it. It leads to winter. Until then, I’m going to enjoy every minute of everyday fall sends our way.
How about you?
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Goodbye clubs, hello goofy golf memories
By Bruce Stambaugh
Years ago our son temporarily left an assortment of golf equipment with us. Clubs, bags, shoes, tees, and golf balls sat in a corner of the garage gathering dust and cobwebs. Some of the clutter was mine.
Nathan recently came to retrieve his stash, or at least what he wanted. As we cleaned and sorted the gear, long dormant memories of wonderful, frustrating flashes of golf awakened within me. I wished a few had remained sleeping.
Other than miniature golf, I took a mulligan on golfing long ago. It’s even a stretch to say I had golfed. Hacked is a better descriptor.
Golf spans generations in my family. I have my grandmother’s old golf clubs. The set includes real wood drivers and oak shafted irons with pitted heads and rich patina. I’m keeping them just the way they are, stored in their original canvas bag.
That didn’t stop me from trying. Occasionally in the summer, my neighborhood buddies and I would head to the nearest golf course, rent clubs and smack our way around the links.
I piddled with the sport in college, and continued doing so after I married. I think my wife only went once with me. That shows just how smart she is.
My play was erratic at best. I only ever had one golf lesson in my life, and that person would likely deny she ever taught me. I was that bad.
Every time I was ready to give it up, I would hit the occasional fantastic shot. Those kept a dim hope alive. I once holed a long, undulating putt that earned me a milkshake. That was about the extent of my golfing rewards.
When our young son showed an early interest in the game, we gathered garage sale clubs for him to practice. And practice he did, hitting the ball around our property using trees for holes.
I both marveled and cringed when balls sailed much too close to the house. When Nathan beat me when he was nine, I decided to invest my golf time and money in him, not myself.
He played four years of varsity golf both in high school and college. He even participated in college national championship matches.
At a prestigious country club, I hooked a ball far out of bounds onto a main highway during evening rush hour. I prayed no one would get hurt. The bumper-to-bumper traffic miraculously cleared just as the ball hit the double yellow centerline. In one giant bounce, the ball landed harmlessly in a yard, and I offered up a silent prayer of thanks.
I blinked, and continued sorting what to give to our grandchildren, items Nathan wanted, and which equipment went to the local thrift store. The golfing memories, good, bad, and hilarious, are mine to keep.
Fore!
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Wagonload
Since our home sits on land sold from an Amish farm, many opportunities to capture rural life in action present themselves. I sometimes have to act quickly, however, if I want to capture them. This image of our teenage neighbor guiding the workhorses pulling a wagonload of just cut cornstalks was one of those times. I happened to glance out the window and saw the wagon heading back to the barn. Unlike tractors, horses don’t make much noise when working. I grabbed my camera, and snapped a couple of shots before Bill and Bob, the draft horses, rushed the wagon out of sight.
If you look closely, you realize there is a lot going on in this shot. The first thing that caught my attention was the texture of the gathered cornstalks. The tan tassels, the long, dark green leaves all bending to the force exerted by Bill and Bob, and urged on by David, the driver. I thought the appearance of the chopped stalks laid and carried horizontally on the wagon boldly contrasted with those still standing in the cornfield directly behind the wagon.
More importantly, note the rhythm of working together that Bill and Bob nicely demonstrate with their almost unison strides. For the record, the cornstalks were ground up into mash, and stored in the silo for future feed for Bill and Bob and the other livestock on the farm. In addition, cutting the outside rows of corn, and a few through the middle of the stand of corn allows freer movement of air to help dry the remaining standing corn.
This photo is more than simply showing a young Amish boy leading a wagonload of harvest. It exemplifies the efficiency and purpose of Amish farming. “Wagonload” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Miles apart, two locales share many marvelous traits
By Bruce Stambaugh
Amelia Island, Florida and Lakeside, Ohio might be nearly a thousand miles apart, but they have a lot in common. People would be at the top of the list.
First, though, I am grateful that I can visit each destination. Second, I’m glad my wife also loves both Amelia and Lakeside, and, well, me, too.
Personal disclaimers aside, each destination features special attractions unique to its setting. And yet, though one location is in the Sunshine State and the other in the Buckeye State, they are not that dissimilar.
Sure the vegetation and critters vary significantly, but are intriguing nevertheless. They are much more alike than you might imagine.
My wife and I discovered Amelia Island almost by accident. On our way to Sarasota, the hot spot for greater Holmes County snowbirds, we made an overnight stop on Amelia. It was love at first sight.
We stayed nearly on the inviting sands of the 13-mile long Main Beach on the Atlantic Ocean. Between the motel and the sand a family owned restaurant served delicious, fresh, locally caught seafood.
On the trip home, we further explored Amelia Island, discovering its historic town of Fernandina Beach, founded in 1562. Its quaint shops and showy old homes sit on the Intercostal Waterway. You can’t beat sunrises on the Atlantic, and sunsets on the harbor. Need I say more?
That was four years ago. Yes, we’re heading back this winter, too.
Conversely, I knew Lakeside since I was a kid, and that’s a long time. Our parents took the family there a few times when I was young. Needing a getaway, I introduced my own family to the Chautauqua on Lake Erie 27 years ago. We haven’t missed a year since.
The lake lures you to its enticing shore where giant oak, ash, maples and cottonwoods shelter parks and steamboat-style cottages. Visitors gather on the concrete dock for luscious looks of dawn and dusk.
A typical Lakeside cottage. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Fishing at sunset. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Sidewalk sale. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Boat show. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Rainbow sailing. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Shuffleboarding. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Plein Air Show. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Lakeside view. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Relax. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Unintended art. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
The waterfront at Lakeside.
Porch play. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Since it’s a gated community in the summer, kids can run free without the normal parental fears of life beyond the gates. Lakeside is not just family friendly. It is family based, founded as a Methodist church camp in 1873.
All that said the people of both Amelia Island and Lakeside are the mortar that cements the palms, the ocean and the exotic wildlife just as they do the lake, the shuffleboard courts and the ice cream shops. Amelia Island and Lakeside both have character and characters. It’s the latter that really makes you feel at home.
Amelia Island hosts a nice mix of natives, retirees and sun seekers, permanent and temporary alike. Residents are courteous to tourists who ask too many questions, or drive like they’re lost. They might be.
Want to meet a cross section of the populous? Attend the weekly farmer’s market Saturday morning held on a section of closed street in Fernandina Beach. Or attend the farmer’s market on Tuesday and Friday mornings held on a section of closed street at Lakeside. Different states, same tasty results.
At the Fernandina Beach marina, a dockworker awaiting a yacht to refuel spins stories aplenty. You’ll learn a lot.
At Lakeside, if you admire someone’s cottage, their flower garden, or wonder what game they are playing on the front porch, just ask. They’ll be glad to share.
Destination locations like Amelia Island and Lakeside have lots of attractive charm. It’s their genuine hospitality that keeps people coming back, including us.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Hold on to the little things in life
By Bruce Stambaugh
Every now and then, my friend, Alice, likes to remind me to hold on tight to the little things in life. She sure does.
Alice, who is in her 90s, delights in periodically showing me a photograph that my wife and I gave her several years ago. The picture is simple enough. But it means the world to my friend.
It’s a shot of our oldest grandson, Evan, when he was a toddler. He’s 10 now. In the photograph, Evan is holding his baby brother, who was just a couple of months old. Alice always points to that photo, and giggles. She remembers an innocent moment, one that most of us would likely overlook. What happened was pure magic for Alice.
Alice, who never had any children or grandchildren of her own, replays little Evan wrapping his warm, pink hand around her index finger, and hanging on for dear life. She felt loved.
It was just a brief moment in time. But it also was a gift that personally and literally touched Alice so deeply that she keeps the photo in a special scrapbook.
Isn’t that the way life should be? To remember some insignificant, spontaneous time or instantaneous incident that meant the world to you.
William Wordsworth’s classic poem, “The World is too much With Us,” perfectly sums up the current chaos of today’s world. Because of technology, we are inundated with tragic, shattering news 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Such negative deluges swamp us, dulling our sensitivity to everyday goodness.
Alice’s persistent reference to our young grandson’s firm grip all those years ago is a reminder to me, to us all really, to cherish the little things in life. We need to enjoy each moment.
A breath-taking sunset, a songbird’s call, the smile of a stranger, a fragrant flower, an inspiring poem, a few moments of absolute silence, finding a Monarch caterpillar on a milkweed leaf, the sound of our own rhythmical breathing are all examples equivalent to Alice’s joy.
There are many others to be sure. A boldly colored American Goldfinch enjoying the seeds of blue salvia; a coyote howling from a distant hill at dusk; a large mouth bass breaking the surface as you reel it in; the warm handshake of a friend; an unexpected note of appreciation from a stranger, a hummingbird working holly hock blooms all offer relief from the stresses of life’s routines.
The list is endless really. The only cost to enjoy these life pleasures is to simply notice them, no assembly required.
Too often I’m caught up in merely trying to survive. In so doing, I forget to live. Sound familiar?
When I recognize those times, I try to step back, take a deep breath, note my surroundings, and focus my all on that very moment that brings light into my life.
I’m glad Alice keeps reminding me about Evan’s firm clasp. Maybe that’s the real point. An unknowing innocent child brought a lifetime of love to a woman ready and willing to embrace and be embraced by a seemingly insignificant action.
Like a child’s tender grasp, hold tight to the little things in life. Those memories are the one’s that really count. Just ask Alice.
Colorful contrasts. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
What Dog Days of summer?
By Bruce Stambaugh
The summer of 2014 was so cool and quiet that the Dog Days hardly even growled, until recently. Even then, it wasn’t much more than a whimper.
Of course, there are scientific theorems and meteorological terms that offer up logical reasons for the unseasonably cool summertime weather we have experienced here in northeast Ohio. I won’t pretend to describe or pronounce them. To do that, I’d actually have to understand them first.
I did hear a meteorologist say that the weather system in place over us was akin to the polar vortex that vexed us all winter and spring. With these late summer steamy days, I think I finally thawed out from that inhospitable experience.
I never imagined that that strong system would continue to influence our weather well into the summer. But it did, and I’m glad. Hot, humid weather and I aren’t best buddies.
After all you could always put more clothes on if you’re too cold. But you can only take so much off when summer throws a temperature tantrum.
After the long, cold, snowy winter followed by the extended, chilly, wet spring, I feared a mostly hot, dry summer. That happened at too many other places around the country and the globe, but not here. The greater Holmes County area has been transfixed in its own little verdant oasis.
Despite the last minute warm up, this summer may turn out to be one of the coolest and wettest on record. If it is, I won’t complain. Then, again, my basement didn’t flood either.
Anecdotal evidence supports my assertions. Even horse drawn reapers couldn’t get through their hayfields to make the first cutting. The extra tall and thick legumes they attempted to mow bound up the machines.
The number of days the high temperature hit 90 could be counted on one hand. No 100 days were recorded. I was awakened at night more by cool breeze blowing through the screens than the air conditioner winding up beneath our bedroom windows.
I packed clothes for all four seasons for our weeklong family vacation on Lake Erie’s southern shore. My layered attire proved most practical.
My wife’s flower gardens were gorgeous, the blossoms bright, big and beautiful. Our heirloom tomatoes seem to love this weather as well. They are the largest and most plentiful we have ever grown. The load of manure our Amish neighbor delivered probably helped, too.
Lawn care professionals, excavators, painters and construction workers struggled to keep up with their promised jobs. The grass grew so fast even the earthworms had to get out of the way.
It was so cool driving along the interstate in New York, I was certain snow was drifting on Lake Erie’s ice pack. My passengers assured me the drifts were huge whitecaps breaking. Nevertheless, I still wore my hoodie when we stopped for a much needed break.
I realize that summer isn’t officially over yet, and additional heat and humidity is still possible. But with both the bird migration and the new school year in full swing, the time has long passed for summer’s warmest days.
Besides, if you’re sharp, you’ll notice that the leaves on some luscious deciduous trees have already begun to blush their warm fall colors. Minute by minute, sunrise is later each day, and sunset sooner.
With that in mind, the Dog Days of summer, as tardy as they were, should stop barking any day now. For me, it can’t be too soon.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Feeling guilty about surviving cancer
By Bruce Stambaugh
I wasn’t surprised when I got the word. Three years after my successful prostate cancer surgery, I remained cancer free.
Of course, I was glad, ecstatic really. But after getting the all clear from my doctor, I never celebrate, and I don’t gloat. I know I am one of the fortunate ones. Far too many people diagnosed with cancer never hear those blessed words, “cancer free.”
I had excellent doctors who expertly monitored and guided me through my journey. When it was decided to do the robotic surgery, I hoped and prayed for the best results.
I never know when those feelings will arise. I’m not even sure what triggers them. I just know at times I feel really sad for others, and guilty because I made it while others did not.
I recognized that an important first step in fighting this negativity was to personally acknowledge my situation, and seek the appropriate medical and therapeutic help. It’s good to be honest, especially with yourself.
It was also reassuring to learn that my anxiety propensity is fed by a genetic disorder only recently diagnosed. Medicine and diet help balance my emotions. That doesn’t eliminate my remorse, however.
Whenever I share these survivor guilt feelings with others, reactions vary from understanding to bewilderment. Some question the idea entirely, and wonder how in the world I could feel the way I do.
There is no easy answer, just like there is no good cancer. Cancer is cancer. Guilt is guilt, whether it is justified or not. Like so many other survivors, I ask the obvious questions. Why was I saved? Why were others not?
I am not sharing for sympathy. I do so for understanding, not for me so much as for all the others who suffer similarly.
I am not alone in dealing with this survivor’s guilt syndrome. The condition ranges far beyond the circles of cancer victims. Firefighters, military personnel, first responders, victims of violence all hurt likewise.
I tell my own story when asked. But I found a pair of other actions far more helpful. Simply being there, and listening to others are both critical to cancer victims, their families and friends, and to survivors, too.
I have found a sincere presence, and kind, active listening beneficial healing approaches to all touched by this horrible disease. Such support encouraged me during my ordeal, and I try to do the same for others in need when and where I can. There seem to be too many opportunities lately.
I greatly appreciated the encouragement given by my loving wife and family. I also belong to a very supportive small group with other cancer survivors and victims. We share openly and honestly with one another, without judgment or shame. We meet regularly to stay in touch with how each of us is doing on our cancer journey.
Still, when that dreaded guilt shows its ugly face, I know what to do. I visit and I listen. Purposeful focusing on the needs of others helps me heal, too.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014
Walking runs in the family
By Bruce Stambaugh
I have found walking soothes the soul. It’s my favorite form of exercise.
As I’ve shared before, I wander regularly on a nearby township road that runs east and west down into a wide, fertile valley. The majority of the land serves as pasture and cropland.
A few residences stand along its path, close to the frontage. Long gravel lanes grace a couple of the homesteads, one on a hill overlooking the splendor, the other where an unnamed creek lazily flows beneath the chip and seal roadway.
I usually keep to the center of the road where the footing is flatter. Even with my diminished hearing, I can detect motorized vehicles and horse-drawn carts and buggies long before I need to scoot to the side.
It’s the quarter mile from my house to my walking road that scares me, which is why I wear a bright yellow hat and a reflective armband, even in the daytime. Still, I step aside when cars and trucks whizz by.
I enjoy my walk for more than exercise. Melodious songbirds, dashing flycatchers and gregarious swallows seemed to have grown used to me. They seldom leave their perches on phone lines and tree snags as I pass. Even the horses and cows pay me little heed. I embrace their acceptance.
Given all that, I appreciated a challenging trek my son, Nathan, recently completed even more. I walk for personal, positive health. Nathan’s effort was for a regional charity, Big Brothers and Big Sisters of East Central Ohio. They connect volunteer mentors with children desiring proper adult guidance.
Nathan walked 100 holes of golf in one day. He wasn’t alone.
For the second year in a row, Nathan and another member of the charity’s board of overseers completed what is officially titled the Hundred Hole Hike. Each golfer recruited people and businesses to pledge money for the event to raise funds for this good cause.
If you’re familiar with the game, golfing 100 holes in a single day sounds insane. The sponsor organization’s rules required they walk the entire time.
The two had excellent assistance throughout the day. Caddies kept them hydrated in the hot August sun, and provided energy foods along the way. To save time, they also produced the right club to play each shot.
By then, Nathan and his partner were exhausted. Their feet were blistered and their muscles ached. They logged 33 miles each.
My wife and I, riding in a golf cart, joined them for the last 20 holes. The fairway gallery also included three deer, russet in the evening sun. At the last hole, we joined other supporters in congratulating Nathan and Josh as they concluded the humanitarian, fatiguing endeavor.
I’m grateful to live where I can walk regularly in a lovely rural setting. I’m even more grateful for a son who cares enough for others that he walked far beyond the second mile for them.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
An international rendezvous
By Bruce Stambaugh
When a friend learned that I was traveling across the border to the Niagara Falls region in Canada, she lightheartedly instructed me not to create any international incidents. She need not have worried.
My wife and I traversed a bridge over the churning Niagara River for peaceful purposes only. We had scheduled a reunion with some Ontario friends. The historic town of Niagara-on-the-Lake served as the point of rendezvous.
As it turned out, it was the ideal spot for our gathering, especially given the historical implications of the town and our connections with our acquaintances. We had known one couple, Ken and Ruth, for years. The other friends, neighbors to Ken and Ruth, we had met only last winter in Fernandina Beach, Florida of all places.
Neva and I immediately hit it off with them. Just like we did with Ken and Ruth, we shared common interests, and enjoyed each other’s company and conversation.
After touring the historic Niagara town and enjoying a lovely lunch, we sat on two benches, men on one, women on the other, just like three old couples would in a park. That’s probably because we were three old couples, and we were in a park.
Old, of course, is a relative term. We were all grandparents, but to hear us cackling on that glorious day, we more likely resembled teenagers. Life has those golden moments you know. When it does, you want to harvest their nurturing bounty.
Sitting under those giant shade trees, we laughed, inquired, listened, observed, and pondered what life had brought us, and would bring us still. It’s what good friends do no matter what nationality.
On the opposite shore stood historic Old Fort Niagara in Youngstown, New York. This particular location had been the scene of many battles since the 18th century. We had a clear view of the impressive fort, and heard muskets fired during a battle reenactment.
Multi-nationalities had claimed these lands and waterways over the centuries. Native Americans, French, English, and Americans had all fought for this once strategic military position.
Our weapon of choice was sarcasm. I blamed the cool, wet summer weather on imaginary Ontario icebergs. My friends returned volleys of witticisms of their own. No injuries resulted from the friendly bantering.
During any visit to the Niagara Falls region, the global attraction to this magnetic place is obvious. We encountered cultural dress, various native languages, and many ethnicities wherever we went.
When we asked a stranger with a Caribbean accent to take photographs of our group, he gladly obliged. I wasn’t surprised. He and his companions were enjoying the same fair weather, agreeable setting and pleasing vistas as us. It was the perfect recipe for an amicable afternoon reunion of international friends all around.
The only significant shots we fired were with our cameras.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2014.
Roadkill Crossing 
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