A Cookout Nighthawk

Vol. 105, June 18th, 2024 Published a day early online

Charcoal Smoke

Throw your watch away when you go to the mountains. Time there is older than any clock. It stops, freezing into rock, then zips along to catch the breeze, fleeting as the blooms in the alpine meadow. Ordinary thinking is useless.

But I make plans when I’m in the valley. “Let’s meet for Father’s Day up on Pinnacles ridge.” We did, converging in the blue heights to laugh and catch up. So did a lot of people.

Dogs barked, music drifted through the air. Helios drove his fiery chariot across the sky with the usual precision, but the park seemed frozen into a memory. After a while, somebody’s watch ended up working–I think it was mine.

We all said goodbye, got back in cars, and left. As we rolled out, the road took us by some older folks relaxing around a charcoal grill. If old photos had a smell, surely they’d be of a BBQ.

I wondered what their story was, if they had life “figured out”, or remained a puzzled mix like me. The smoke waved me home to wonder, grateful for a world with timeless afternoons.

For all I know, that day is still happening up on the mountain.

Saturday Afternoon Rambles

The sun turns Route 231 golden south of Sperryville, VA on a warm afternoon as the mountains guard the west.

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

Carol Stuart of Roanoke sends this along: “Heave up”: like pavement in the winter.

Happy Birthday, LP Records

Today marks the introduction of the 33 1/3 microgroove vinyl “Long Playing” record, developed by Columbia, 1948.

Book of the Week: Blue Highways

(William Least Heat-Moon)

A broken heart, a van, and a new chapter lead the author to see the last of the “blue highways” and back roads of America, 1982.

Quote of the Week

“In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion I never did know anything about it.”– T. Edison, on electricity

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. #190)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: The Old Crosscut Saw

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! A happy belated Father’s Day to all the dads out there. I should probably go wash my father’s car. That IOU “gift” from thirty years ago is still good (but don’t tell him).

I made him a real gift this year–twice over. The first picture frame was beautiful: weathered oak board cut with precise angles, and a nice edge on it. Too bad I forgot to clamp the table saw fence, and chopped off the wrong piece. Gladys Knight and the Pips have a relatable tune. Daddy Could Swear (I declare). “Pops” spelled out of order is “opps”, which is close enough to “oops” for the occasion. So I made him another, glanced up at the old crosscut saw on the wall, and fell into a memory.

Dad showed me how to use it way back in the day. My folks built me a workbench in the tiny kitchen of their tiny townhouse. Not sure of what to build, I’d take to sawing the bench itself. Oh how I loved that saw. It was real. It could do stuff.

Time passed. Sawdust fell. Poor mom still has the hieroglyphic carving of a snake and the sun I made her for Christmas. (The cave artists of old have every right to be offended by the comparison.) I grew up, got a place of my own, and built a dining room table with my dad. He had made the childhood one so long ago. It was good to have him help with the new project. The old crosscut saw hung proudly in the shop.

I moved, and took the lumber from the table. More sawdust fell. The new dining room is smaller, and my skill is better. So I cut up the table, and built this desk out of it.

The other day, I trimmed down a mailbox post for my new house while a pal watched. “Hey man, check out this old crosscut saw. Had it since I was a kid.” I hung it back on the wall, next to my grandfather’s saw. That one has done serious work. Table saws whir and band saws whine in the shop now, but the old pieces have a place of honor.

There’s something about dads and saws. We could get fancy, seeing saws as a symbol: showing sons how to craft with effort and skill, cutting boards, building houses, clearing land, building civilization. The idea is even found in the holy texts: The heavenly Father carved land from sea, and light from dark. A saw isn’t safe, and it’s not meant to be. You might cut your finger off. But you might build the world, too.

To the dads, stepdads, uncles, brothers, and all the fellas who show the next generation how to build, to take risks, and to get better: I’m toasting you all today.

I still can’t cut straight. (We call that “rustic”.) But I’m proud of that old crosscut saw hanging on the wall. And I’m proud of my dad for showing me how to use it.

Happy Father’s Day,

Josh

Send tape measures and postcards to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban