appreciation – Page 3 – Roadkill Crossing

Writing is as hard as it is easy

colorful sunset, Ohio's Amish country — Inspiring sunset. © Bruce Stambaugh 2015

By Bruce Stambaugh

I attended a writing conference recently, an opportunity I always enjoy. Mingling with a group of fellow writers has its definite rewards.

The assembled participants and workshop presenters represented a typical cross section of the global populous. That’s as it should be.

The attendees ranged from teens to octogenarians. Men and women, short and tall, round and thin, assertive and shy, professional and novice, poets and novelists, suits and dresses, jeans and leggings, dreads and bald like me gathered for one purpose. They wanted to learn about writing.

Writers attend conferences to grasp new ideas, to share their stories, to gain confidence, courage, and knowledge about the craft. Presenters enable that to happen.

Often at conferences like this one, papers are presented, and awards proclaimed for various categories. There appeared to be no sore losers, only happy winners, and supportive family, friends and audience.

I marvel at how many people both write and want to write. I feel honored to be among them.

Now and then when I am out and about, someone thanks me for a piece I have written. They mention how much the column or article meant to them. I kindly thank them and walk away fulfilled. It doesn’t take much to make a writer’s day.

It happened at this conference, too. Two different ladies thanked me for my writing. One even said she cuts out each column and saves them. I smiled as humbly as I could.

I am also often asked how I come up with something to write about week in and week out. I always answer, “It’s easy really. Every day is a new day full of astonishing moments and opportunities.” It’s my charge to note and share in words what I uncover.

As a writer, I look for things, for activities and experiences that interest me, that I think might interest my readers. The truth is, though, that the process is much, much harder than that.

It’s difficult because I can be selfish, stubborn, silly, serious, prone to mistakes, omissions, too attuned to other sensory activities as I interact with others, with nature, and with myself. I am human. Just ask my loving wife and family.

However, I sometimes miss the obvious. Then I obsess.

I strive to write what is on my heart or what I have observed or experienced, hoping that at least some of my readers might identify with my subject. I do so because I know not everyone can or cares to write.

I am not the best writer in the world. I just want to write the best I can. I know I am not always successful in that endeavor.

A writer friend of mine, a nationally syndicated columnist, once gave me some excellent advice when I struggled to find my written voice. She said, “Write what finds you.” And so I try.

I wait and watch and pray for what finds me. When the words do come, I write for me. I write for you.

Writing is both easy and hard. I hope you find both joy and hope in the words you read. Nothing satisfies a writer more than knowing their written words have touched someone in a personal way.

I am grateful to be published. I am grateful for faithful readers, too. That’s the deep, dark secret in making a hard task easy.

inspiring scene, Amish children — Scenes like this one inspire me to write.

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.

alleyesbybrucestambaugh — All eyes. © Bruce Stambaugh

When Evan was a baby, he spontaneously grabbed Alice’s finger and held on tight. A decade later, Alice still won’t let go of that golden moment. She laughs about it every time she shows me the photo, and points to Evan and says, “That’s the little guy that hung on to my finger.”

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.

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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.

A generation of giants and rock stars

By Bruce Stambaugh

I stood in the background with my camera capturing the unfolding, tender moments. I did so out of appreciation and gratitude for this gracious, gregarious family.

I had known Betty Findley and her late husband, Bud, for a long time. We lived just blocks away from one another when we were all much younger. Now here we were celebrating her 100th birthday in a different place and century.

Her son, Dave, shared a timeline of his mother’s life with the assembled friends and family. It was ironic that her birth came as World War I, the war to end all wars, began.

If ever there was a peaceable woman, it was Betty. She loved her family, community and church, and expressed that love in faithful graciousness. Betty was and is equally loved and respected in return.

Maren, left, and her two brothers came 350 miles to celebrate with Betty. Quinn and Elise, two of Betty’s great grandchildren, joined in the fun. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.

When our granddaughter heard that our friend was turning 100-years old, Maren asked my wife if Betty was a giant. Her four-year-old logic reckoned that the older you get, the bigger you become physically.

There is a kernel of metaphoric truth in that innocent comparison. If you hit your 100th birthday, you most certainly are a giant. Not too many people live that long and get to see the world change the way Betty has.

In reality, age has a way of humbling you physically. Notwithstanding, Betty may not be a Goliath in stature, but she sure has been by nature. Her son tearfully ticked off her fruitful lifelong achievements.

Betty canned and baked and sewed, and was a favorite room mother in my elementary school days. She made the best heart-shaped sugar cookies a kid could conjure.

Surrounded by family, Betty readied to blow out the birthday candles. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.

Betty does exhibit one minor flaw, however. She has always been a faithful follower of the Cleveland Indians, and still watches them on television.

The morning of Betty’s birthday bash, I heard another shocking descriptor. The speaker at church called Paul Roth, another senior citizen friend, a rock star. Everyone in attendance chuckled, but nodded their heads in agreement. I think modest Paul enjoyed the flattering hyperbole, too.

The speaker said her two sons referred to him that way out of admiration and reverence. After all, he was the doctor who brought them into the world and treated them for childhood illnesses and bumps and bruises. It was most appropriate that this kind, humble country doctor be elevated to Mick Jagger status.

I concurred with that assessment. Dr. Roth, as he was most commonly addressed, had brought our daughter and son into the world as well. He treated patients of all ages kindly and compassionately, even making house calls. He usually charged less than he should have, too.

Paul Roth shared with a friend at his church. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.

He was the consummate small town doctor. In his many years of service to the community, Paul, too, was and is a gentle giant.

Our granddaughter’s literal pronouncement spoke volumes. Persons born early in the 20th Century have experienced major transformations in their lifetime, the wars, the Great Depression, the herculean jumps in communications and transportation, the advances in medicine, and so much more.

To honor these two titans is to also celebrate all other productive individuals of what Tom Brokaw has labeled “The Greatest Generation.” Their work ethic, devotion to family, friends, community and country set the solid foundation for society to advance, as it never had before.

I bet you know genuine giants and rock stars, too. Let’s celebrate their magnanimous contributions to the world while we can.

Food and photographs create great conversations

By Bruce Stambaugh

Recently, I had the privilege of sharing with two different senior groups. They had asked to see a few of the many photographs I had taken.

Most of the shots I shared were captured within 10 miles of our home. I wanted to show that, though travel to exotic locales is nice, we don’t have to go far to see the real beauty in any season. That may be true no matter where you live.

I think I was preaching to the choir. Most in attendance were seasoned citizens of the kingdom, people who had lived through hard times, much more difficult than whatever the Great Recession has thrown our way.

atthefeederbybrucestambaugh — A Baltimore Oriole and a Red-headed Woodpecker shared opposite sides of the same backyard feeder. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.

You could see the joy in their eyes, hear the love of life in their queries and comments, and sense their genial concern and caring for all creation. These were good folks for sure.

Colorful landscapes dotted with farm animals and farmhouses predominated the slideshow. I threw in some family photos and shots of birds that frequent my backyard feeders for a change of pace.

I have to confess that I did it for effect, too. The close-ups of Eastern Bluebirds sipping at the partially frozen waterfalls of my garden pond, and the shocking size of the Pileated Woodpeckers that frequent the suet feeders created a few muffled sidebars.

The presentations were dominated by slides of our lovely rural geography. Some of the same scenes were shown during different seasons. An Amish farmstead was featured in winter and summer from the same vantage point.

The photograph that meant the most to me wasn’t a beautiful bird or a lovely landscape. It was the shot of my late parents at their 65th wedding celebration. It perfectly summed up my parents in one click of the camera shutter.

Dad wore a suit and tie, his usual attire for any formal social gathering, be it a family Christmas dinner or an anniversary remembrance like this occasion. An outdoorsman through and through, his pheasant patterned tie reflected his life’s priorities.

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Mom was elegantly natural in her pose, too. Her eyes beamed what she longed to say but could not due to her advancing Alzheimer’s disease. She had long before expressed her appreciation for being in the world through her lovely landscapes and her abundant patience and compassion as a mother, wife, and artist.

I was sure to credit my folks for my passion to see things creatively and appreciatively. Dad gave me the love of nature, and Mom the ability to see it through an artistic perspective.

plieatedwoodpeckerbrucestambaugh — Female Pileated Woodpecker. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.

I never could paint the way Mom did, though she tried to teach me once. After several attempts, Mom kindly suggested I stick with writing and photography. And so I have.

I recognize that there are far better writers and photographers than me. Still, I am passionate about both, enjoying the attentiveness and inquisitiveness of people like these marvelous seniors.

My guess is their values and perspectives closely matched those of my folks. Familiar with several people in both audiences, I know they have and continue to share their gifts in their family, church and community.

These gathered folks formed their lives around the old adage, “It’s better to give than receive.” They gave me an opportunity to share, and graciously tolerated my lame attempts at humor during my presentation.

In both settings, these generous folks extended their warm hospitality around food. Food and friendship generate the best conversations.

That was genuine sharing, no camera needed.

fallviewbybrucestambaugh — The view in fall from our backyard. © Bruce Stambaugh 2014.

The day I almost died but didn’t

By Bruce Stambaugh

It happened in a flash, as scary moments often do. I was mere inches from serious injury if not death. My guess is we all have events like this.

I don’t mean to overdramatize this. The split-second incident helped me further appreciate both what had previously occurred that day and what I was about to encounter.

I had already had an illuminating morning. I got to help my Amish neighbors run some timely errands. They had made dozens of glazed donuts for an open house at a nearby greenhouse. My task was to deliver the golden goodies and their makers to the party. It was hardly a chore.

whereithappenedbybrucestambaugh — Where it happened, without our granddaughter present.

I also got to see the wayward Rock Wren again. Why this cute little creature landed two miles east of my house smack in the middle of the world’s largest Amish population, I have no idea. I just know it did, and the property owners were more than hospitable to any and all who wanted a chance to see this rarity.

Hundreds came to view this bird that belonged in the Rocky Mountains. This was only the second recorded appearance of this species in Ohio. After taking too many photographs of this feathered rock star, I returned home.

I checked to see if the mail had been delivered. With a small hill to the north, I have been especially careful about crossing our busy county highway for 34 years. The vehicles tend to zip along despite the posted speed limit. Just like my mother taught me, I looked both ways, and crossed to the mailbox, which sets well away from the road.

I grasped the handful of letters and turned to retrace my steps. At that exact moment, a car driven by a young man roared by going south in the northbound lane. As he passed two other vehicles, his rearview mirror nearly clipped me.

barredowletsbybrucestambaugh — Barred Owlets.

I don’t think the young driver ever saw me. He was too focused on getting wherever he was going. At first, I stepped back to catch my breath even though the roadway was now clear.

Then I smiled. Rather than be mad or frightened, I immediately became filled with gratitude for many things. Being kept safe topped the list. Others included the fulfilling experiences and interactions I had already had that day.

I determined to be even more grateful for the rest of the day and all the days that followed. I would he thankful for the people I meet along the way, too.

My life continued. I visited friends near Mt. Hope that had a pair of Barred Owlets roosting on a tree near their home. The afternoon sun beautifully highlighted the cute, cuddling pair.

hardymealbybrucestambaugh — Our hardy meal of morel mushrooms, an over easy egg, and locally cured bacon.

Another friend had given my wife and me our first morel mushrooms of the season. Neva sautéed them with olive oil and a dash of salt, and we downed them with over easy eggs and some locally raised and cured bacon.

It may have been one of the best meals I had ever eaten or was glad to eat, given the close call. For dessert I relished the relationships with friends and family as much as the savory mushrooms and bacon.

My mailbox episode was an important universal lesson. We need to express our gratitude whenever and wherever we can as often as we can. We just never know when we will no longer have that chance.

rockwrenbybrucestambaugh — Rock Wren singing.

Celebrating a creative mother and sporting father

By Bruce Stambaugh

When I was asked to give a talk to volunteers for a local retirement community on April 23, I didn’t hesitate. My mother had died on that day at the nursing home a year ago.

I thought the opportunity more than appropriate to share about how much the volunteers meant to residents like my mother. After all, some in the audience likely delivered needed and appreciated services for my both my mother and father as they finished out their lives.

My assignment was to show some of the many photographs I had taken over the years around Holmes County, Ohio. I offered to include some shots of other places in the world where I had traveled. The organizer said just Holmes County scenes would be fine.
That would be no problem at all. I had thousands of shots from every season from around our bucolic countryside. In some cases, I had photos of the same scene in different seasons, and sometimes from multiple views. I thought that would serve my purpose very well.

colorfulbuggybybrucestambaugh — An Amish buggy crests a hill amid a rainbow of colors in Holmes Co., Ohio.

My aim was to honor my loving mother and gregarious father, not to hype my photographic abilities. Dad had taught my siblings and me to appreciate our environment, to respect nature, and to understand the careful balance between harvesting her resources and preserving the earth’s beauty. Hunting and fishing, along with conservation, had been priorities in his life, especially in his retirement years while he was still able.

Mom, on the other hand, was more reserved but equally adamant about appreciating and sharing nature. She just chose a different venue. Mom skillfully captured her love for God’s good earth on canvas.

shockingscenebybrucestambaugh — A shocking but typical scene in Holmes Co., Ohio.

Mom painted hundreds of landscapes from all around the country, mostly in vivid watercolors. She skillfully replicated scenery as she saw it, and if you were familiar with the local geography, you could often identify the location of the setting. Mom was that good.

Ironically, none of her five children caught the artist’s gene or desire. Mom once patiently tried to teach me to paint. But given my poor efforts, she wisely encouraged me to “paint” with my camera and through my writing. It was sage advice.

muddylanebybrucestambaugh — A long, muddy Amish farm lane in Holmes Co., Ohio.

Mom taught me to have her artist’s eye by understanding perspective and composition through the camera’s lens rather than smearing colors on a canvas. Believe me, smearing was the appropriate verb for my practice runs at watercolors.

On April 23, I complied with the organizer’s wishes. Only three of the 170 shots I shared on screen with the volunteers were from outside the county. To set the tone, the first slide was a picture of Dad and Mom at their 65th wedding anniversary gathering.

Though family members were the only humans shown in my photo presentation that day, I asked those in attendance if they had seen themselves in the slides. Not surprisingly, I got looks of bewilderment.

horsesinsnowbybrucestambaugh — Draft horses on a cold, snowy day in Holmes Co., Ohio.

I told the volunteers gathered that they were the forests and the lilies of the fields, the sparkling brooks and crimson trees in the lives of those at the retirement community. Because of their individual situations, the residents may not be able to express their appreciation for the little things the volunteers did. But speaking from personal experience, they do.

I am certain I am not alone in my gratitude to them for all their good efforts. I also wanted them know how much my folks had blessed me with a rich and rewarding appreciation for the Creation in which we live.

A model for keeping Christmas

selectingthechristmastreebybrucestambaugh

By Bruce Stambaugh

My late father loved Christmas. In truth, he lived for Christmas. Dad got so excited about Christmas it was as if our poor mother had six children, not five. When it came to Christmas, Dad was a grown man who never grew up.

Dad’s exuberance for the holiday was prolific, to the point of over-spending an already limited income. No matter the economy, there were always plenty of presents for everyone under our Christmas tree. I really don’t know how my folks financially did it.

dickstambaughbybrucestambaugh — My late father, Dick Stambaugh, with Senator Bob Dole at the World War II Memorial, Washinngton, D.C., Sept. 12, 2009

His joy for the season wasn’t limited to gift giving. Dad dragged us downtown in frigid weather to watch Santa arrive on a fire truck in the annual Christmas parade. He hauled us to his workplace where we stood in line with thousands of others to receive Christmas candy and small gifts.

Choosing the Christmas tree became a family event, too. Dad would stuff as many of us kids as he could catch into the car, and off we went, oftentimes tromping through the snow to select and cut the perfect tree.

Dad made the house a priority for being properly trimmed for Christmas. The tree was erected in front of the large plate glass window in the living room for all to see. Garland, tinsel, lights and heirloom ornaments nearly hid the needles. The plastic white star always crowned the glittery tree.

decoratedtreebybrucestambaugh

A little plastic church that lit up took center stage on the fireplace mantel between a pair of red candles in glinting glass holders. Of course, the stockings were all hung with care around the hearth.

Dad’s perennial priority project, however, was outside the house. His beloved light display seemed to grow each year. It started with the six-foot pine planted on the corner of our lot at 44th and Harrison in Canton, Ohio. It was a rather busy intersection in our post-World War II suburban neighborhood.

Dad loved to load up the tree with string after string of colored lights. The single lighting option then was using strands of large bulbs, which were individually screwed in. We got lots of compliments about the tree, which only encouraged Dad all the more.

As the tree grew, he added additional cords of lights. Later, the extension ladder came out until it was no longer practical for Dad to try to decorate a 20-foot tree. Instead, he loaded up the shrubbery with lights, and outlined the ridge of the house with those big bulb lights. By then, all of us kids were no longer kids. We had grown, married and had families of our own.

christmasgatheringbybrucestambaugh — Each Christmas the Stambaugh family, like thousands upon thousands of other families, gather to celebrate the day and its meaning. We continued to do so long after our parents were unable to host the annual family gathering. Our late mother, Marian Stambaugh, is in the center of attention.

Dad kept his holiday lighting tradition going nevertheless. When the dainty icicle lights came out, Dad draped those from the multi-colored lights around the facing of the house. It was festive, but not exactly aesthetically award winning.

Dad capped off the holiday merriment with buying out the neighborhood candy store of its assortment of tasty chocolates. I think he alone kept the store in business for years.

On each Christmas Day, my brothers and sisters and I gathered with our families and extended families in the home where we grew up out of celebration for the day and respect for our Santa Claus parents. Those were magical days, made more so by a man who refused to grow up, and who bequeathed his fervor for sharing joy to the next generation and the next.

If anyone knew how to keep Christmas, our spirited father, artfully aided by our loving mother, surely did.

A good day made better

By Bruce Stambaugh

The dawn broke cloudy with a promise of needed sunshine. Compared to the previous gloomy day of overcast skies, gusty winds and chilly rains, the sun, even just peeks of it, would be more than welcome. It didn’t disappoint.

By mid-morning, the layered blanket of grayness drifted east. Stray cumulous clouds took turns hiding the sun, until they tired of the senseless game. By noon, the wonderful warming sun had the entire blue sky all to itself.

By that point, I had already embarked on my dedicated plan for the day. Having been holed up for several days due to illness, I was ready to get out and about. I headed to one of my favorite places, the retirement community where I used to work and where my folks and my wife’s parents used to live.

I needed to visit with an elderly friend from church. Fannie’s welcoming smile always makes me feel right at home. This day was no exception. I enjoyed the comfort of her old wooden rocker while she chatted away.

Of course I had to hassle the office staff with whom I used to commiserate for five years. Aides, nurses, therapists, and other staff members greeted me as well. The place and people were as gracious as ever.

While there, I decided to check on several other residents I knew. All are old enough to be my parents. Each one always asks how I am doing, and I always respond, “Pretty good for an old guy.” They laugh, refute my declaration, and assure me that I’m still a young man.

I don’t always feel that way. But with every visit there, I come away feeling blessed and motivated. It seems an oxymoron to be renewed at a retirement center. But it’s not by any measure.

I see people I have known all of my adult life, some since I was a child. Despite their various ills and infirmities, I still envision each just as I knew them in earlier days.

There was Betty, my favorite homeroom mother in elementary school; Eileen, the most pleasant of cooks at the school where I taught; Ethel, a model of encouragement for many, and Frances, who radiates sunshine on the gloomiest of days.

Fred, the retired minister, filled me in on his trip to Virginia, hardly missing a detail. His 91-year-old mind was sharp, his eyes bright as he recalled his reunion with friends, brothers, children and grandchildren.

There are others to be sure. Each has captivating stories to tell, yet they sincerely want to know how I am doing, and my wife, too. I always answer that question by saying with a twinkle and a smile, “She’s as mean as ever.”

My senior friends laugh and scold me in the same sentence, proving that they indeed are still deserving of my respect and honor. It heartens me to see and hear them laugh as if they were 40 and not 90. They ooze wisdom.

As they settled in for their lunch, I headed for the car. The dominating sun had warmed the once chilled fall air. It was a beautiful day, made more so by the lovely and loving folks who call me “young man.”

The day had promised to be a good one. My mature friends made it even nicer than the amiable weather.

This column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Leaves may change, but appreciation for them does not

By Bruce Stambaugh

When I was a youngster, each fall my father would pack the family into the old jalopy and head to Holmes County, Ohio from Canton to view the leaves.

The trees were gorgeous, the pastoral vistas delightful. It was like stepping back in time once we crossed the county line. I suppose some people still feel that way today.

Like my father, I loved coming to Holmes County. The colorful leaves, the tangy Swiss cheese, the horse and buggies, and the images of a simpler life left a lasting impression on me, even as a juvenile.

The air was crisp and clean, the views splendid, the people quaint. With Mom a landscape artist, Dad kept pointing out scenes she could paint, as if Mom needed any help noticing.

Before entering the county seat, Millersburg, we always stopped at the same place. Dad would pull off to the side of the road by the golf course so we could all admire the giant, vibrant sugar maple tree that stood on the course near the highway. It was a stately fixture to be sure, aglow with yellow, orange and red leaves. Against the manicured green fairways, it was a picture of beauty.

Dad would pull out his pride and joy eight-millimeter movie camera and film away. He loved to show the home movies over and over again at family gatherings. I don’t need to view the old footage to recall the moment. The memories are as vivid as the leaves on that old maple.

Perhaps that’s because irony of irony I ended up spending my adult life here. I pass by the memorable spot frequently. The natural beauty is a nice reminder, especially in autumn.

I don’t have to pile in the car and drive 35 miles to see the living artistry. I just have to look out the window. With the leaves at their peak, the real life painting outside our door is ever changing.

Of course, I do like to tour the hills and valleys of our county to take in the complete show. I have my favorite routes.

I especially enjoy traveling around taking digital photographs on partly cloudy days. One minute everything seems dull, then the sun breaks through, and I can’t snap the camera shutter fast enough. My father would probably tell me to get a camcorder.

I love the brilliant fencerows dotted with burgundy ash, yellowy white oak, crimson red oak, sunny sassafras, and red, green, yellow and tangerine sugar maples. The hardwood rainbows highlight emerald hayfields and stands of brittle corn shocks.

I also enjoy occasional drives through the heavily forested Killbuck and Black Creek valleys. The steep hillsides are loaded with the same mixed hardwoods as in the eastern end of the county.

White clapboard farmhouses and weathered barns, surrounded by lush green lawns, lay at the feet of the dappled hills. More often than not chocolate soybean fields fill in the narrow bottoms.

Even with that much splendor, I still return to the side of the road by the golf course. Though the old tree my father loved is gone, time has matured others nearby.

Buoyed by the beauty and the memories, I snap a few shots of the delightful scenery. I am keenly aware of being in both the present and the past. Like the changing seasons, the ebbs and flows of life’s ironies have that everlasting effect.

The column appeared in The Bargain Hunter, Millersburg, OH.

Lunch on the porch includes more than just good food

By Bruce Stambaugh

Everyone needs a sanctuary. For my wife and me, our back porch is our quick retreat from life’s demands. A few short steps and we are in a special place. Over the years our back porch has given us many marvelous memories.

We recognize that we are fortunate to live where we do. Our home, built three decades ago off an Amish farm, is situated between Benton, Berlin and Mt. Hope, all in Holmes County, Ohio. Our back porch provides panoramic, inspiring scenes.

The open-air porch was added to our modest home several years ago. We wanted a quiet place to relax during Ohio’s warmer climes. When the weather does cooperate, we especially enjoy lunches together there. It helps to have a wife who is a great cook. I’m no chauvinist, but I’m no chef either. Neva rules the kitchen and I reap the rewards and help clean up.

Lunch by Bruce Stambaugh — A recent lunch that we enjoyed on the porch.

Somehow the food tastes even better on the porch. One recent lunch featured her homemade butternut squash soup, sprinkled lightly with toasted bread crumbs. A fresh spinach salad with crasins and vinaigrette nicely complemented the soup.

A simple dessert of sweet cherries was washed down with fresh sweet peppermint tea, spiked with basil, giving the tea a sweet-tart taste. The mint was picked just minutes before being doused in boiling water. Other than the tea, no seconds were needed. A single course of each was plenty.

The house serves as a buffer between our busy highway and the backyard, minimizing the traffic noise. We love the quiet.

Well, perhaps quiet isn’t the proper word. Abundant backyard activity breaks any hint of silence. While we dined, we heard the undulating hum of a mower and the rattle of horse harnesses as our Amish neighbor completed his second cutting of hay before taking his own lunch break.

In the meantime, the birds and wildlife kept us entertained as they also dined. With the porch open on the sides, it’s not unusual for birds to zip over our heads to the feeders. That is especially true for the acrobatic hummingbirds. Their feeder hangs from the edge of the porch near the kitchen window. It is fun to watch the territorial hummers chatter and chase each other away from their own version of lunch. They wouldn’t have to do that. There are several places to perch.

If we stay immobile, even the woodpeckers light upon the peanut butter suet feeder that dangles next to a hanging basket of flowers. The little downys, however, are the only ones that aren’t spooked off by our presence. Still, they nervously but needlessly chip and jerk their heads warily as they jab at the rich mixture, making sure we keep our distance.

A green frog, one of six that inhabit our little garden pond, waits patiently for lunch to fly by. The green frogs that patrol our little garden pond adjacent to the porch patiently wait in the sun for their own lunch to fly by. When I hear a plop, I know they are as satisfied as we are.

Beyond the pond, monarch, swallowtail and red admiral butterflies partake in their own flowery buffet on the patch of ever-changing wildflowers. Along with volunteer sunflowers, the coneflowers, Black-eyed Susan’s, daisies, gaillardia and bachelor buttons paint a colorful palette in the shade of the canopy of pines and giant sugar maple.

When human guests arrive, their smiles reveal their appreciation for our sanctuary. Added together these pure and pleasurable ingredients always make for enjoyable and hardy gatherings. I’m more than happy to share the recipe.