Vol. 80, December 26th, 2023
New Year’s Eve Ideas
Welcoming 2024 In Our Own Ways
New Year’s Eve was always fishy–sardines, to be precise. I remember how Dad would set up in the kitchen, peel back a can, and hunch over the grainy TV. The tiny men in Washington, serious as their ties, would talk politics. After a while, with a crunch, Dad would flip the channel to Columbo.
I’ve always been a fan of my pops, grew into Columbo, and often pontificate about the government, but man, I still can’t handle the fish. The crunch, man.
Each year arrives regardless. I love making resolutions, and write plans for what I’d like to do with the precious gift of another opportunity. How do you like to observe it? Some Colombians walk around with an empty suitcase to summon a year of travel.
An old Irish tradition involves slamming loaves of Christmas bread against walls to chase away evil spirits. And STAY out!
You might see ‘em jumping seven waves in Brazil, or drinking excessively in..well, everywhere.
While massive parties seem standard, there’s something personal about the arrival of the year.
Wherever you are, may you and 2024 share a warm handshake, and a special wink. What a blessing. Happy New Year!
Song of the Week: “Auld Lang Syne”
It’s thought that Scottish poet Robert Burns set the words to an ancient melody. Guy Lombardo helped make the song a tradition here, first on the radio in 1929.
Quote of the Week
“Dare to be honest and fear no labor”–Robert Burns
Hope Your Christmas Was Gnarly, Bro
Wishing you a festive rest of the season, and a totally rad new year, dudes and
dudettes! (Who knew Santa was so chill?)
Happy Boxing Day, Jeeves!
Servants traditionally received presents on this old British holiday. Now it’s a big shopping occasion.
What a Year!
Thanks for such a fun year of The Nighthawk. Cheers to an excellent 2024. May it be full of laughter, stories, and friends. Toasting you, and can’t wait to talk soon!
Write to Us!
The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect, published weekly. You’re invited to write back, or just enjoy reading. Let’s have some fun! It’s a social paper! Send stories, etc to: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or JoshUrban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #166)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal: Late Night Radio
Think Like a Bee
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! It's that delicious quiet between Santa's antics and the fireworks of New Year's Eve, and time for a toast to 2023. There are plenty of reviews of this year's sadness: the wars, pop culture, and the insanity of politicians. I thought of something a little different–a bit of imagination, a reminder to look out the window when the TV gets to be too much. How about...a 2023 recap from the perspective of one honeybee writing to another? I reckon they're too busy keeping warm to write a column even if they could, so I'll do it for them. (Put on your pretending hats.)
A Letter from One Bee to Another
“Dear Marge, I hope you're cozy and your queen is well. Long may she lay! Hard to believe it's been a whole year since we talked last. How'd you do over the winter? It was wicked cold last Christmas. The roof blew off in the storm, but the bears in the white jackets put it back. We stung 'em in the summer for the oversight, but it's all good. We're bees, and how mad can you get when it's your job to stop and smell the roses?
The spring dawned bright and green, with an excellent tulip poplar crop. The blackberries on the mountainside tasted fine, and the smaller bear in the white coat planted pumpkins in the garden. Talk about an orange blossom special. Speaking of Johnny Cash songs, we all huddled inside during that June monsoon, and asked her majesty “How high's the water, mama?” (Nine feet high and rising by the railroad culvert.) The road washed away, and the bears had a heck of a time fixing it. Ol' Mister Sun chased the rain away for weeks, making up for that flood.
But those bears in white coats....! They came by in late July with a leaf blower, took off the third floor, and a whole squadron of the girls got buffeted halfway to the creek. When we all regrouped, the third floor honey store was clean gone. Some of the older bees whisper that they're not bears at all, but something far cleverer. One of the drones named Patrick talked about tax one day, and started shouting about representation. (He's taken to wearing a wig and saying liberty. It's weird. And you should hear his friend Tom.) The queen said it was misinformation, though, and we carried on.
The Sourwood sure delivered this year. You should have seen it back on the mountain! Winging through a clear August morning with a fresh batch of nectar is something that makes all the busywork worthwhile. Ain't it grand to be a bee? The autumn was a gorgeous russet, and the hickory burned with a slow yellow fire. A few purple asters bloomed by the hay field, and the small bear in the white coat–or whatever she is–planted pineapple sage by the big box. You must try it. It's simply divine.
We called it a wrap when the frosts showed up, but still go out to stretch our wings when the sun smiles on the mountain. We're all busy keeping Her Majesty warm, and can't wait for the first taste of red maple in the spring. Best wishes for a cozy winter, and kind regards to your queen.
Yours truly,
Bertie
Yes, folks, happy New Year to you. I hope yours was as good as the bees. I'm toasting you with a cup of tea...and honey. (Shhhh.)
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh the bear
Send letters and weather reports from the woolly bears to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or @RealJoshUrban on Twitter