Living among the world’s largest Amish population, it’s not too difficult to find contrasting images in everyday life. When I pulled into a local furniture store’s parking lot, I thought this captured that contrast perfectly. The image of this Old Order Amish buggy parked beside the SUV spoke for itself. The fact that they both happened to be black enhanced the comparison that we who live here too often take for granted.
Erik Kratz, right, when he played for the Philadelphia Phillies in 2013.
By Bruce Stambaugh
Erik Kratz is a catcher for the Toronto Blue Jays. My wife and I like to watch him play whenever we can.
We cheer for the Cleveland Indians of course. We follow Erik for a selfish reason. He and his family are friends with our daughter and her family. Our grandson and Erik’s son were in preschool together, and they played on the same baseball team.
We have spoken with Erik a few times while visiting our grandkids in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley, where both families live. Like our daughter and son-in-law, Erik is a graduate of Eastern Mennonite University.
The only time we got to see Erik in action was when he came out to warm up the pitcher between innings.It would be a stretch for me to say that I know Erik. We know who he is, and watched his son and our grandson play. But because of the close connection to our daughter and her family, we like to watch when the Blue Jays are on television and Erik is playing, which isn’t all that often. It’s the price of being a backup player.
Recently, a game between the Blue Jays and the Twins was broadcast nationally. Erik got to start the game. On his first at bat, he popped the ball high in the air behind second base.
Both the shortstop and second baseman sprinted to catch the ball while the centerfielder, who was playing deep, ran in, too. The infielders arrived at the ball at the same time, and collided. The ball dropped, and Erik was safe at second, credited with a double.
Before the game with the Indians, Erik spoke with a friend of mine who just happened to go to high school with Erik’s father.My wife, who really knows the game of baseball, said enthusiastically, “That just goes to show that you never give up running.” Neva was right on.
Too many times I’ve seen Major League players hit a sure double-play grounder, or a pop-up like Erik’s, and the batter assumes the fielder will cleanly make the play. He gives up running hard, only to discover that the ball was bobbled or thrown away or, like in Erik’s case, dropped.
But because the runner assumed the ball would be caught, the fielders had a second chance. Many times the batter was thrown out despite the miscue because he had quit running.
I thought a lot about what Neva said. Never quit running, not in baseball, not in any sport, not in a business, not in relationships, not in life. Regardless of the odds, keep on running.
My brother-in-law, who is my age, has gone through some traumatic physical issues in his lifetime, some even life threatening. But Bob has never given up. He always, always has kept a positive attitude no matter how serious the situation.
His determination, along with excellent medical care and a strong support group of wife, family and friends, have kept him running, metaphorically speaking. If he had given up, he likely wouldn’t still be with us. But he is.
Erik Kratz.I admire that in people. No matter the odds, they keep plugging on. Determination, goals, grit, desire, love, moxie, patience, encouragement all are ingredients in living a fulfilling, meaningful, useful life.
I’m glad my brother-in-law has survived another medical episode. His faith and determination surely helped him through, and will continue to do so during his rehab sessions.
I’m glad Erik kept running, too. As it turned out, he didn’t score a run. But that really wasn’t the point. He put himself in position to score. It was up to his teammates to bring him home.
So keep on running, just like Bob and Erik. Isn’t that what life is really all about anyhow?
Because of the sun’s high location in the Northern Hemisphere’s sky, and the moon’s southeastern proximity, reports had indicated that June’s Hot Full Moon would be orange. When the moon slipped above the horizon at 10:24 p.m. on June 14, it was even more orange than I had anticipated.
With the dark sky and the pumpkin colored hue, the moon favored more Halloween than almost summer. I captured this hand-held shot as it rose above an Amish farmstead east of Berlin, Ohio in Holmes County. It is my photo of the week.
Recently my wife and I watched the International Space Station (ISS) glide stealthily, swiftly and brilliantly through the night sky. As big and bright as it was, it didn’t make a sound.
I instantly thought of my folks, especially Dad, who was an aerospace engineer. Mom and Dad taught my siblings and me to embrace the silence, although I’m not sure we appropriately applied that concept inside our active household.
With my wife by my side, I stood transfixed beneath the emerging sparkling of the heavenly canopy above us. The day’s blustery wind had subsided, allowing the evening’s coolness to further settle the already quiet evening. We focused on the unfolding cosmic concert.
Though we knew when and where to look, the ISS seemed to magically appear out of the gilded southwestern twilight. Its trajectory brought it straight overhead. We followed it far to the northeast until it disappeared close to the eastern horizon.
This wasn’t the first time we had seen the ISS, and it likely won’t be the last. I never tire of scanning the heavens for all things bright and beautiful, natural or humanly contrived.
Even if you didn’t know the schedule, you would recognize the space station if you saw it. There is nothing else in the night sky quite like it. The ISS zips along in a low arch at 17,500 miles per hour. No blinking lights spoil its natural reflective hue.
The ISS can thank the earth’s sun for its golden glow. With the sun’s rays at optimum angle at dusk, they bounced off of the speeding space station during its entire trip across the sky.
Photo courtesy of NASA.As the ISS silently glided through the crystal clear sky, a cow mooed from somewhere in the encroaching darkness. Later, a neighbor’s dog barked twice, then fell silent, too.
The sound of vehicles traveling nearby roads temporarily disrupted the evening’s tranquility. A lone horse and buggy clopped by just as the ISS vanished.
Planets and stars twinkled high above the ISS, which itself was an impressive 230 miles above the earth. Blissful peace surrounded us as we fixed our gaze on mankind’s miracle intersecting with creation’s stunning celestial beauty.
It was marvelous to inhale and enjoy the evening quiet under such an illuminating setting. Once again, my parents were spot on. Silence has its rewards.
This time of year, when the chorus of bird songs fill the air beginning at first light, it definitely is good to listen. Standing under that twinkling umbrella, I reveled in simply listening to the stillness, and observing the sky.
I stood in awe, silently smiling, and watched the ISS smoothly sail across the heavenly sea. Its silence was profound. Neither the noise of speeding traffic nor a mooing cow or a barking dog could mar the inspiring experience.
I learn so much by listening and absorbing. As my parents taught, listening shows respect for all of creation. I consider listening to others, to natural sounds, and the silent sounds as an investment that enriches my life. It costs only my time and attention.
As we viewed the ISS zoom through the magnificent night sky, a new, perhaps more pertinent meaning of the old maxim my folks instilled in me all those years ago literally shown forth. Silence really is golden.
I made a very revealing, personal discovery today. The 2014 calendar is identical to the 1947 calendar.
I know that’s not earth-shattering news. But it was for me. And it all started with me taking a photo of a blooming catalpa tree yesterday. I remember a story my late father once told me, one I have written about before, and will never forget.
Whenever the catalpa trees bloom in northern Ohio, Father’s Day is near. I had never paid much attention to that until Dad related his moving story.
On Sunday afternoons, my mother’s parents took turns visiting their three married daughters, all whom lived in Canton, Ohio. But on Father’s Day in 1947, Grandma and Grandpa Frith went to each of their daughter’s homes to visit. While sitting on our my parents’ front porch, Dad eyed a blooming tree down the street, and asked my grandfather if he knew what kind of tree it was. Grandpa Frith told Dad that it was a catalpa tree. Some people refer to it as the cigar tree, in reference to the tree’s long, green fruit pods.
The next day Grandpa Frith went to a job site where he was working as an electrician. He had turned off the power to do his electrical repairs when someone came along and turned the power back on. Grandpa Frith was killed instantly.
In retrospect, Dad said Mom, Aunt Gerry and Aunt Vivian were ever so grateful for that last visit they had with their father. They even wondered if it wasn’t simply meant to be.
I was born that December, never having met my grandfather.
Knowing that this Sunday, June 15 is Father’s Day, the exact same day as 67 years ago, seeing that blooming catalpa tree had even more meaning for me than ever before.
I recently served as a guide to a local Amish farm that had an active Barn Owl nest. It was one of several in the Holmes County, Ohio area. For the most part, the Amish are very respectful towards wildlife, especially birds. They fully understand what a gift it is to have Barn Owls around. The owls help control the rodent population.
Certified naturalist and speaker, Chuck Jakubchak, accompanied me on the field trip. After everyone had viewed the trio of young Barn Owls in their nesting box through a peephole, Chuck suggested I get a picture of the owls. I certainly didn’t want to stress the young birds, so he lifted the top of the box just enough for me to take this photograph. Of course, the owls hissed and bobbed, their natural defense mechanisms, for the few seconds that it took me to snap the shutter. We left the young owls in peace.
The morning sun streamed through the entrance to the nesting box, and an east breeze fluffed up their downy feathers. This was the only picture that I took, and I wanted to share it with all of you.
My wife and I were making marvelous memories with our daughter and her family in Shenandoah National Park. We drove a section of the Skyline Drive, and stopped to hike a couple of trails.
As we motored along the twisting scenic highway that runs the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia’s mesmerizing Shenandoah Valley, I remembered I had been there before. I said out loud to no one in particular, “I haven’t been here since I was a kid.”
Indeed, it was the same stretch of road that I had ridden along with my parents and siblings nearly 60 years ago. On that trip, we were on our way to visit some of Mom’s relatives in southern Virginia. Dad, always up for an adventure, insisted we detour to experience the vistas, floral and fauna that the famous Skyline Drive offered. I think we stopped at every turn out to embrace the views.
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The excursion with our grandkids was a diversion from the hectic schedule of finishing the school year and rushing from soccer matches to baseball games. I couldn’t have anticipated the emotions it would evoke in me remembering that long ago family vacation.
I could hear my late father in the rustle of the leaves of the forest canopy, the call of the Eastern Towhees, the fragrance of wild blossoms. I could see him point, index finger to lips, at the grazing white tailed deer that casually ignored us. I heard him shout, “There’s a bear,” as a young black bear scampered across the road in front of our van.
Family photo.It seemed Dad was everywhere we went, in the woods, on the spiny rocks on which we climbed and rested, in the beauty of the Big Meadow where Tiger Swallowtails fluttered free from bloom to bloom, and the field sparrows called from thickets of scrawny locusts and carpets of heather.
I certainly felt Dad’s presence as the grandchildren hoofed it up the trails, scampered steep, craggy rocks, and posed for pictures atop ancient outcroppings with more wavy mountains as the backdrops. I saw Dad’s smile in the grandkids’ smiles.
Once we scrambled to a place where we had a 360-degree view, I corralled the grandkids and their parents to stand for a family photo. Dad carried his camera wherever he went, too, documenting family outings.
The grandkids energy and enthusiasm for exploits carried them past their Poppy onto the heels of their own father while their mother and I lingered to absorb the views and catch our breath. Echoes of the past mingled with those of the present from forested ridge to forested ridge.
Rock climbing.
The view.
Sea of forest.
Triple trouble.
Hiking through.
Ridges.
Exploring.
When we all assembled on the next precipice, my daughter used my camera to capture me with her trio of trouble and orneriness. The shot joyfully reminded me of my father surrounded by his own youngsters.
I don’t remember stopping at Big Meadows south of Luray on the trip with my family so long ago. As I lovingly watched the grandkids romp along narrow trails that snaked through lush carpets of knee-high grasses and plants, their excitement hit home.
A cool mountain top breeze hurried white fluffy clouds through bluebird egg sky. Emerald forests perfectly framed the sentimental scene. Amid the children’s giddy laughter, I thought I heard my father say, “You were here when you were young, too.”
“I know,” I replied silently with a smile and a tear.
I pass by this Amish farm on my regular morning walk. The arrangement and angle of each piece, farm implement, tractor wheel, corncribs, barn, lean-to, outbuilding, caught my attention individually and as a group. The soft morning light illuminated the barnyard setting, especially the corncobs.
With all of the various shapes, lines and angles, the photo titled itself: Amish Geometrics.
A month ago, a wayward little bird, a Rock Wren, ended up far from home smack in the middle of Ohio’s Amish country. Its arrival caused quite a stir. Over and over again, the wren flitted from a farm to a residence to a barnyard to a business and back.
Here it was two miles east of my home at a crossroads colloquially dubbed Bowman’s Corners. The buildings, the pastures, the animals, hardly resembled the wren’s native habitat in the American southwest. Nevertheless, the wren made itself at home for 10 days, and then just disappeared.
Word of the rarity quickly spread, and birders from near and far came with binoculars and cameras with long lenses to catch a glimpse of the dusty-colored wren if they could. Since the only other Ohio sighting of this bird had been in December 1963, I wasn’t surprised at all the commotion.
By the end of its short visit to the world’s largest Amish population, the pallid bird had taken on rock star status. It was a Rock Wren after all.
People from all stages of life came from miles around hoping to catch even a glance of the vagabond bird. Young, old, women, men, boys and girls, novice and internationally known birders flocked to view the Rock Wren. In total, more than 500 birders came in search of this special appearance. Many got to see the fickle little bird while others did not despite their patient waiting.
Hopping.
On a leaf pile.
Danger.
On the gate.
Spotted.
Beautiful setting.
Looking.
The Rock Wren earned the title of the “Junkyard Bird” because it often feed and perched among discarded farming materials.
Hard to find.
Birders.
Looking down.
Posing.
On the stump.
Jailbird.
The bird was the great equalizer. World-class birders stood side-by-side with youngsters gawking to see what all the fuss was about. When the secretive bird reappeared, a birder’s hand went up, excitedly waving. Other birders hustled to the spot to get a peek or to take a photo.
There was no class system, no pecking order, and no discrimination among these birders. If a birder saw it, he or she made sure others got to as well, even if it meant lending their own binoculars for others to spot the wren.
Fancy, expensive automobiles sat beside plain black buggies. Boys with suspendered denim pants, and straw hats stood alongside strangers old enough to be their grandparents. They were there for the same reason, and nothing else mattered than to catch a glimpse of the Rock Wren.
Those who were kind enough to host the posse of birders during the wren’s Amish country vacation seemed to enjoy the people as much as the bird. Of particular note was an older couple from the Cleveland area. Their story earned the respect and admiration of several, and served as an example of the dedication of birders.
The elderly gentleman was 95, and his wife was 90. Avid birders, they were undecided about making the two-hour drive form their home. Finally, they committed to coming, and they were not disappointed. Their zeal for birding brought smiles all around.
In its happenstance landing at Bowman’s Corners, the Rock Wren helped make new friends of those who sought to see it. More importantly, despite gender, age, wealth, education, birding experience or life’s station, they gathered as one through a common interest, a genuine love of all things created. The Rock Wren had woven its magic, innocently converting strangers into friends.
The Rock Wren was a splendid surprise. The gracious hospitality availed by the property owners of Bowman’s Corners that enabled so many folks to see this precious bird was no surprise at all.
Today is Ascension Day, the 40th day after the resurrection of Christ. For the Amish in the Holmes County, Ohio area, Ascension Day is a holiday. Families gather to reflect, visit, share, relax, and just enjoy each others company. Youngsters may go fishing, hiking, biking or play games like volleyball and softball.
Of all the holidays that the Amish celebrate, Ascension Day is the most informal, with no worship service or fasting. It simply is to honor the day that Christ ascended into heaven. Perhaps it’s a lesson from which all of us can learn.
Roadkill Crossing 
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