Cute as it looks, this photo shows much more than a grandson riding along as his grandfather encourages a team of workhorses across a farm field. This exemplifies the hands-on part of an Amish education. Children learn at a young age how the work gets done, whether on a farm or in a shop or the house. It is practical, productive learning at its finest.
“Helping Grandpa” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
There are friends, and then there are friends.
Dave and I have been friends for a lifetime. Given our age, that’s a long time. Just to be clear, Dave is several months older than me.
Growing up, we lived just a few blocks apart, though we didn’t necessarily run in the same gangs in our northeast Ohio neighborhood. In the 1950s, that meant we didn’t have the same circle of friends.
Still, we’ve been best buddies since grade school. We were in several classes together in our elementary school that overflowed with baby boomers. We have lots of fun memories from good old Edgefield School.
Not only that, but we also went to the same junior high school, high school, and college together. Shoot. We even majored in the same subject, journalism. Dave focused on marketing. I chose news writing.
A funny thing happened on the way to life. After completing our internships, his for a non-profit agency and mine at a major metropolitan newspaper, neither of us pursued that career.
We both ended up in rural Holmes Co., Ohio. Though neither of us was certified, we both became elementary teachers. Dave began his education career at Millersburg, Ohio. I started at nearby Killbuck.
Dave married the love of his life the first year he taught. I married during my second year of pedagogy to a beautiful woman I knew all of nine months. That was 45 years ago.
Guess who our best man was? Yep. Dave. Today, his wife and my wife are also best friends, two of a kind, kind of like Dave and me.
Dave and Kate had a girl and a boy. Neva and I had a girl and boy. We were even in the same Lamaze class together.
Now, no one would ever mistake Dave for me or me for Dave. I’m much more handsome than he is, and more modest too. Dave does have a better head of hair than me, which wouldn’t take much.
Dave and I came from similar God-fearing, middle-class families. His fine folks worked hard to ensure their two sons would contribute in the post-World War II world. Mine did the same, only with five raucous rascals to point in the right direction.
Our parents instilled in us good manners, proper eating habits, and to keep the Sabbath like any good, church-going folks would. That meant after Sunday services, we played ball, went fishing or washed the car.
Dave and I dressed alike, too. Hand-me-down flannel shirts and blue jeans were appropriate for many occasions. That trait followed us into adulthood in an uncanny way.
On more than one occasion, Dave and I have shown up at the same event dressed as if we had agreed on the dress code before leaving. We didn’t.
Recently, we arranged to meet for dinner before attending a concert by Sonnenberg Station in Wooster, Ohio.
Right on cue, mostly thanks to our prompt wives, we arrived within minutes of each other. Dave had on a light blue shirt, dark blue sweater, beige khakis, and brown shoes. So did I.
When my wife told Dave’s wife that I was having a colonoscopy, Kate responded, “So is Dave!” The same day. Dave and I just laughed, until the preparations began.
I’m happy to report that we had the same results. We both see our gastroenterologists next in 2026.
I hope each of you have a friend like Dave. I hope you get a good report on your colonoscopy, too.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
The sunsets just keep getting better and better. Or possibly it’s the string of perpetually gray Ohio days that make the infrequent sunset all the more glorious. Either way, I greatly appreciate the beauty of the evening sky and the radiance that bids the day farewell.
“Sunset Glory” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
At first, I was a bit taken aback when the Amish man asked me the question. Pointing to my business card, he wanted to know what the term “blogger” meant.
I tried to explain it verbally before a light went on in my head. I pulled out my iPhone and brought up my blog so Joe (not his real name) could see for himself. He was sincerely intrigued, and genuinely thankful for the first-hand explanation.
His world was dissimilar from mine. In the larger scope of things, however, we weren’t that different at all. In fact, we probably had more in common than we realized. I like to think that applies to most folks. We just need to set aside our biases, listen and look at what is before us.
With his question, we had connected. I had opened a curtain into my world that this inquisitive man would not have otherwise even known to pull back.
Then I realized the magic of the moment. He had just done the same for me.
I had driven a dozen miles south into the unglaciated hills and valleys of Holmes Co., Ohio to shoot some photos of one of the several products Joe makes.
Cameras and Amish usually don’t mix. However, I assured Joe that I respected his beliefs regarding not being personally photographed. I was there to capture the process of creating the shoulder yoke that he made for Lehman’s in Kidron, Ohio.
In today’s hyper-suspicious world, Lehman’s customers had requested proof that Amish indeed make specific items and were not imported from some third-world country. The wooden yoke was one of them.
I arrived early at Joe’s shop, a lesson I learned long ago from my prompt wife. Joe was ready for me and got right to work. He had all the production steps organized for me to photograph.
He trusted me to shoot only the materials, machines, and tools that he used. Out of respect for his beliefs, I was careful not to include his face in the photos. We moved smoothly from station to station.
In less than half an hour, Joe had taken raw wood and produced his useful yoke. I had to stay alert to keep up with him. Joe was that efficient and prepared.
I was mightily impressed with his skills. Only after we had finished the assignment did I realize the significance of his yoke product.
What he makes both eases a difficult job and provides more comfort for off-the-grid people everywhere. They sling the yoke onto their shoulders, which distributes the weight of the heavy items they have to carry.
If it’s two buckets of water, they balance on opposite ends of the yoke. It’s a simple method and old tradition. Joe’s skilled hands, which show the scars of his years of woodworking, help to make life a little easier for the yoke purchasers scattered across several states.
I couldn’t help but mentally compare the maker and the buyers of these yokes. Like Joe and his family, they probably don’t have electricity or any electronics like my smartphone to make life simpler for them.
Perhaps those who use the yoke ride a horse-drawn cart or raise livestock, too. Maybe they hang their laundry out to dry on a clothesline just like Joe’s wife.
Geography and cultures might separate us. Purpose and priorities unite us.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
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
By Bruce Stambaugh
My guess is we all have at least one. You know. A place you can go to be alone with the world. You declare it as your personal retreat.
It could be your man cave or your sewing room. It could be a remote waterfall miles up a winding trail.
Your place of refuge might be a park bench or even a busy city street corner where hundreds of people pass by with no notice of you. Still, you’re at peace.
Others find solace sitting on the shore of a farm pond or pulling weeds in the family garden patch. It might be an art museum, or for that matter, even one particular painting that mesmerizes you.
I find my inspirational solitude in many venues. During the winter months, I recharge in a three-mile stretch of marshland called Egan’s Creek Greenway. The stream itself runs north through the middle of Amelia Island, Fla., where my wife and I migrate as snowbirds.
Though it’s a public domain, I claim Egan’s Creek Greenway as my private secret garden. The town’s parks and recreation department maintains this sacred place. Lots of folks, locals, tourists and snowbirds like myself, frequent this marvelous reserve.
Their intrusions don’t bother me at all. In fact, part of the joy is meeting new friends who enjoy the same open space delights. The Greenway is a multiple-use resource.
When I go there, I wear my hiking shoes. I also don my birding vest to squirrel water, snacks, binoculars, a note pad and birding checklist. I also drape a camera around my neck. It’s my way of documenting each and every visit. Get the picture?
Palm fronds are brown from frost or wind damage. Deciduous trees stand bare. Grayish Spanish moss dangles from limbs high and low. A variety of bird species devour the deep blue berries of the cedar trees and the ruby red ones on sparkleberry bushes.
Subtle hints of spring appear even in February. Silver and red maple buds sprout crimson against the live oaks’ perpetual green. The dormant marsh grass stalks show mint green at their bases.
Even in cooler temperatures, people run, jog, bike, walk and bird along the greenway’s well-worn paths that parallel creeks and channels, and crisscross the marsh. On weekends and holidays, the place is abuzz with activity, human and otherwise.
Still, I stroll this paradise in search of whatever finds me. I frequent the Greenway alone, and with my wife, with friends, with family, with strangers. I don’t mind sharing this beautiful secret.
Each trek there unfolds anew with different characters. The results are the same.
On any given day, I can hear Navy helicopters on test flights over the Atlantic. Train engine whistles echo from the town two miles away. None of this interferes with my enjoyment.
A river otter munches on plants in one of the rivulets. A red-shouldered hawk sits on a snag, its harsh call contrasting with its feathery beauty. Gangs of American robins madly chirp when disturbed by a bossy pileated woodpecker.
A plump rabbit and a skinny doe nibble grass only feet away. Alligators and painted turtles soak in the afternoon sun as neighbors.
Gray catbirds gobble the sparkleberries while cedar waxwings down their namesake’s fruit. Scores of yellow-rumped warblers dart in and out of the thickets, plucking insects. Eastern phoebes sit and bob their tails.
Me? I just smile inside and out, thankful for my secret, sacred sanctuary.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
The palm frond saw its shadow. You know what that means? They’ll be 12 more weeks of spring.
“April Fools!” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. My quotidian passion for words is inexorable.
The English language is replete with nomenclature I seldom employ either in composition or conversation. Now and then I have to unleash my literary angst. The eve of April Fools Day seems like the perfect time to cleanse my self-abridged dictionary.
I desire to be convivial about my codifications. In this political climate, I certainly don’t want to cause a kerfuffle. Although I’d confess to burble with the best of them.
I’m afraid my temerity has defeated my timidity. I hope to be more ebullient than piquant with my verbose mélange.
I certainly don’t intend to be recalcitrant in my effort to foment erudition. Neither do I want to pen prudery nor have my bespoke verbiage tamp or cajole folks. That’s not my forte.
My carapace should always be buoyant, and reflect the timbre of my character. That way I can steel and galvanize my bonhomie without any frisson. It’s neither insuperable nor insurmountable since their meaning is indistinguishable.
The context should never subsume a redolent, louche, or unpalatable knell. That would be downright bumptious. Rather I need to codify my content to be prescient and pictorial without catering to the gentry.
I don’t want to be feckless in the vernacular after all. That would just be smarmy and lack verve. Even after all these years, I still consider myself a nascent scribe in diaspora.
The reverberation of this dissipated resonance evokes no fiat. It may, in fact, be decrepit with the host of literary scions. Grimace and fulminate all you want. They’ll be no seminal effect on me. I’ll continue to shamble along without hyperbole.
Of course, that could be deceitful subterfuge on my part. However, I’m no nihilist nor am I illiberal.
I am sure there are some cognoscenti readers out there. If so, I will parry their harangues. They are not protuberant to me. Neither am I servile to them.
We can still rhapsodize together on this lexicon of gibberish. After all, I’m no pugilist or sycophantic snob.
I get the feeling that this peripatetic retinue is moribund. Its ethos is unequivocally irrefutable. Mayhap, its thrall is winsome at least.
My actual intent was to be ruminative and instructive. At the very least, this pellucid piece will generate impermanence. Also, here’s hoping that the piece achieves diptych from opening to closing. In that case, abstemious reticence will suffice.
Will I deign to manufacture a whelp to this ineffectual encyclopedia? Probably. I can assure you that it won’t be pernicious. I will admit, however, that I do have a predilection for such febrile panoply.
Bloviator that I am, the comportment for significance here is scandalously bodacious, if not excruciating and specious. I had better halt before my loquaciousness parboils my audience.
This invective could go on for perpetuity. I must skedaddle. My hangdog thesaurus is pooped. Ergo, this is the epitome of epistemic closure.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
Good Friday is a sacred day in the life of Amish. Most Amish church districts hold a long church service, usually for adults only. The focus is to remember Christ dying on the cross for humankind.
“Good Friday gathering” is my Photo of the Week.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
By Bruce Stambaugh
For the first time in our 45 years of marriage, our anniversary falls on Easter. I couldn’t be happier.
Both our fathers were big sports fans. They watched baseball, football and basketball games on TV and listened to them on the radio, too, sometimes simultaneously. We wouldn’t have been surprised if Neva’s dad had walked her down the aisle with a transistor radio held to his ear. He didn’t of course.
There was another thing about our wedding date. Neva and I were both teachers. What kind of a honeymoon could we take in the middle of a school year? The answer was a very short one.
The years have flown by. Like all couples, we’ve had our ups and downs. Through thick or thin, one little gesture has helped keep us together. We hold hands a lot.
Our handholding started on our real honeymoon the summer after we were married. We ran a church camp located at 10,200 ft. on the eastern slope of Pikes Peak in Colorado.
A lot of water has run down life’s stream since then. We are fortunate to have family, friends, neighbors and church members who lifted us up when we needed it the most. We have tried to return the favors whenever possible.
Serving and being served in and by the community has strengthened if not defined our marriage and our shared purpose. But it’s the everyday interactions with one another, with strangers and friends that have helped see us through.
No matter the situation, Neva and I automatically reach for each other’s hand. That purposefully keeps us together.
I have read Neva’s heart and mind simply by touch. Cold and firm or warm and gentle, good times or bad, we still cling to one another. It’s a constant reminder that neither of us is ever alone in any situation. I thrive in that reassurance.
I remember the joy of playing horse as our two youngsters rode on my back around the house until I collapsed. They long ago became responsible, productive adults with careers and lives of their own. Our three growing grandchildren are wonderful blessings to us now, too.
I’m hoping the Easter weather will be beautiful, as lovely as my bride. It’s been a while since I’ve called her that. It will be great to share this holy day with folks who have lifted us up all these years.
I’m overjoyed that Easter and our anniversary coincide this year. It’s the perfect day of hope and joy for us to celebrate our reckless, uncalculated love together.
In the evening, we’ll sit and watch basketball games on TV. I’m pretty confident we’ll be holding hands.
© Bruce Stambaugh 2016
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