Love – Page 6 – Roadkill Crossing

That’s what friends are for

By Bruce Stambaugh

The sky was clear blue, the morning’s puffy cumulous clouds having moved on. The north wind discouraged any humidity, and helped keep the temperatures tolerable.

Earlier my Amish neighbor had tethered the hay he had mown the evening before, fluffing it up for the breeze to blow away any remnant moisture. The barn swallows that had circled his horse drawn machine still skimmed the ocean of cut hay for insects.

I imagined the next day my neighbor, his family and his circle of friends would follow their given routine of making hay. I have marveled at their consistency each and every harvest of hay, oats and wheat. Their combined labor is as affable as it is proficient.

But isn’t that what friends are for? Like the classic Dionne Warwick/Stevie Wonder song belted out, “For good times, for bad times, I’ll be on your side forever more, that’s what friends are for.”

That pretty well sums it up. Friends want the best for you no matter what. They sympathize with you, empathize with you, are honest with you and you them. That friendly formula leads to trust, understanding and compassion.

As humans, we all need that. We are social beings, and unless you are Ted Kaczynski or Lizzie Borden, friends mean the world to you.

Sitting on the porch alone, I had to think about my circle of friends. I was humbled and honored to recall how many times others had come to my rescue or reassured me or celebrated with me or mourned with me or just took time for a visit.

These may seem like ordinary occurrences. But to me, they are extraordinary events, given that they all involved friends.

Food seems to be an important ingredient in friendship. We have enjoyed many a meal around a table with friends, meaning family, neighbors and acquaintances. No matter how tasty the entrées, the fellowship is always the dessert.

A home in Lakeside, OH by Bruce Stambaugh — A home in Lakeside, Ohio. - Bruce Stambaugh

Years ago when we moved from the home we built in the western part of the county to our current home in the east end, friends clamored to help us. Thanks to them, the difficult task was made simple.

Each time we visit our beloved Lakeside, Ohio we are greeted with hugs and kisses from people we may only see there. They are our vacation friends, but from the reactions you would never know it.

When I pushed my grandsons on side-by-side swings so high they bounced out of their seats, they giggled and laughed like little girls. The bright sun wasn’t the only thing warming me that morning.

Reading the blog by the parents of a special newborn child helped me better understand their critical situation. I marveled at how calm and objective their writings were, especially given their uncertain situation.

A birder friend called to tell me about a very rare bird in the neighborhood. Without his kind gesture, I would have missed the Vermilion Flycatcher.

Butterfy on cornflower by Bruce Stambaugh — A butterfly enjoyed the wildflowers in our backyard. - Bruce Stambaugh

Which reminds me that friends are not confined to human beings either. Pets, sunsets, thousands of blinking fireflies rising from the flowering alfalfa and ripening oats, robins chirping their contentment with the day all qualify as friends by my definition.

All these people and creatures and natural events have abundantly blessed me. Isn’t that what friends are for?

A change of venue for the grandkids

By Bruce Stambaugh

When our daughter told us that her husband had accepted a new job in Harrisonburg, Virginia, we were ecstatic. Although we enjoyed our visits to Texas with our family and their neighbors and friends, we found the flights from Ohio tedious.

With the move to Virginia, our grandchildren would be a quick six-hour drive away. I mean quick in the most liberal sense.

We enjoyed flying but to fly three hours to Texas without a direct flight really consumed an entire day. Add together the drive time to the airport, check-in, security navigations, waiting at the gates, and flight connections and a good day was gone.

Driving to Virginia would be a whole lot easier. To be sure, we knew the route by heart. We drove it often to visit our daughter in college in Harrisonburg. She had met our son-in-law at Eastern Mennonite University, and they had lived and worked in the city for a couple of years after their graduation and marriage. Now he works for the school.

There were multiple ways for us to get to Harrisonburg, an expanding city in Virginia’s beautiful Shenandoah Valley. As long as the weather was good, our favorite route was also the most demanding, climbing and descending eight mountain passes. It was a scenic, curvy drive.

Last week, we made our first trip to Harrisonburg in a decade. Our daughter and her family had moved from Texas, but settling in with three youngsters and a husband who works full-time isn’t the easiest thing to do.

Our excuse was to help our daughter and her husband unpack and to get organized in their Virginia home. Our motive was to see the grandkids. The ever-thoughtful Nana packed up containers of frozen sweet corn and applesauce and we headed southeast.

It was fun to travel again through familiar towns like Elkins, Harman, Franklin and Seneca Rocks, all in West Virginia. Not surprisingly, little had changed in those 10 years. But once we hit the mountains, the road seemed windier than I had remembered, even though it was clear some of the curves had been softened and widened.

I would have gladly crossed 18 mountain passes for the chance to see our two grandsons and granddaughter again. I last saw them in Texas at the end of February.

I was amazed at how much they had matured, if indeed you can say a six-year old, a four-year old and a nine-month old mature. But there were definite differences. The two boys, Evan and Davis, played together well, yet were equally content to play independently, too.

Evan surprised me with how well he could read, even though he had just finished kindergarten. Davis, too, showed his inquisitive prowess with delving questions. When we weren’t watching the World Cup on television, we played soccer on their expansive wooden deck.

Maren cuddled right up to me. She seemed more intrigued with my beard than my conversation, however. When the discussion went sour, Nana was the designated diaper changer.

Maren is crawling, curious and exercising her best operatic voice, although not always in harmony with her energetic brothers. She is one adorable little girl, and has saucers for eyes that match the same Paul Newman blueness of her brothers.

Our stay was much too short. You can be sure that now that they are only hours away, there will be many more visits to come. After all, we have the drive down pat.

I hate waiting, especially in hospitals

by Bruce Stambaugh

I am not an impatient person. But I hate waiting.

For me, that is not a contradiction. There is a gulf between waiting and impatience. Delays in life, often inconvenient, are inevitable. New York City cabbies, with their persistent honking, are not my model for waiting.

When my son had surgery last week, waiting became part of the routine, more than either my wife, his wife or I cared to tolerate. His surgery was scheduled for evening one day, then postponed until early afternoon the next and yet delayed again. It was frustrating. But when you are at the wrong end of the scalpel, what choice do you have?

That state pertains to concerned family, too. When you are assigned to a room appropriately labeled “Waiting 1,” that’s what you do. Time seems to stand still. You feel stuck in an institutional time warp.

The hospital tried to accommodate relatives in 21st Century style. Each family was given a four-digit tracking number for confidentiality purposes. In turn, that number was displayed on a blue and white lined electronic board in proximity of each family waiting area. It was like checking the status of a flight at an international airport.

I grew a little anxious when my son’s number didn’t even appear long after he had been taken to the operating room. Finally when it did, the message simply indicated the original time of his surgery, information that we knew was inaccurate.

The sign continued to display numbers of other patients who were at various stages of their surgeries. Impersonal but efficient “Patient in OR,” “Patient out of OR,” and “Surgery start time” scrolled by in herky-jerky fashion.

About the time his surgery should have ended, the waiting room phone rang. It had rung earlier for other families, indicating that their family member was either going into surgery or was in recovery.

Our lovely daughter-in-law took the call. Wives always trump fathers. That’s life’s pecking order as defined in Robert’s Rules of Order or Hints from Heloise or Emily Post.

“He’s just now going into surgery,” our daughter-in-law said puzzled.

We waited some more. My wife called us for an update on how the surgery had gone. I had to tell her that the surgery had just begun. She arrived in Waiting 1 a half-hour later, and joined the Team Waiting.

We surfed the web via the free Internet service. We chatted quietly and took a few phone calls. And we waited and waited.

It was supposed to be a simple, in-and-out type surgery. In our hearts, we knew no surgery was indeed “simple.” Silent prayers were offered, and yet we waited far longer than we ever imagined.

Finally, nearly four hours after his original surgery start time, the sign said, “Patient out of surgery.” But we waited for human confirmation.

Shortly before 4:30 p.m., the surgeon informed us that Nathan’s gall bladder was so badly inflamed that an incision had to be made instead of the planned laparoscopy. Nathan was fine, but he would be in the hospital three to four more days.

Our wait was over. Only now another had begun, a wait that hopefully, would be more tolerable. We all were anxious to see Nathan, to hold his hand and hear him complain. For that happy reunion, we had to wait another long 30 minutes. But I would have waited a lifetime.

True love is best lived

By Bruce Stambaugh

Love was a word that my late father used sparingly, unless it was in reference to ice cream. Instead, Dad chose to display his affection, devotion and genuine love for people pragmatically.

That could explain why he was so deeply involved in such a wide range of activities in his long life. His presence was his way of saying he cared.

Dad went at life full throttle, never holding back, even when he probably should have. In the process, Dad didn’t let little things like tact and common sense get in the way of enjoying life.

Dad was like a big, little kid who loved life so much, he was afraid he was going to miss something. He immersed himself in any activity that brought him much joy.

That didn’t mean he was a selfish person. Just the opposite was true. If he liked you, Dad would give you the shirt off of his back, and he often did, even if he couldn’t really afford to. Dad liked a lot of people in his lifetime. When you live to be 89, are gregarious and have a variety of interests, life gives you many friends.

Dad had friends in both high places and skid row. He felt at home with either, and often used his friendships to get where he wanted to go. Dad’s goals weren’t lofty ones. But he saw no shame in networking when he needed to. In fact he knew so many people, he may have invented the practice.

If one of us kids needed a summer job, he would make a few calls and more often than not, we were employed. During my college years, I found gainful employment where Dad worked. I thought I was hired because of my charming personality and abundant skill set. More likely Dad pestered the daylights out of the personnel department, as human relations were called way back then.

That’s the way Dad was. He wouldn’t say he loved you. He just did loving things for you or with you. Dad wasn’t a mushy person, and he never would have been mistaken for a Casanova. He just put his love into action.

Hunting, fishing, arrowhead hunting, family picnics, reunions, traveling, civic and church organizations all attracted Dad like a magnet. Dad chose those activities to express his affections. He seldom did things alone. He lived for outdoor expeditions that involved as many of his buddies, family and friends as possible.

Dad hauled us kids along whenever he could. I never could figure out if it was his way of relieving Mom of some of the domestic duties or if he genuinely wanted us to learn how to find arrowheads or shoot rabbits or explore a buzzard’s nest deep in a cave.

In sorting through Dad’s myriad of items that he had saved, we discovered pictures of family, letters he had sent home from World War II, and much, much more. Dad could never throw anything away because it had a special meaning to him or could possibly be used for something. Problem was, only he knew what.

Weeks after Dad’s death, the family is still receiving notes of condolence. Many of those expressions of sympathy include specific, personal images of my father. Several have said they can still see Dad intently walking their farm fields back and forth scouring for any piece of flint he could find.

This year, those kind remembrances have a special twofold purpose. Besides heartfelt sympathies, they are Dad’s Valentines to us, too.