Vol. 97, April 23rd, 2024 Published a day early online
The Morel of the Story
How things are supposed to be–that’s April in the country. The hay is getting down to business, and growing a tall, cool green on an overcast day. The breeze carries the scent of the wisteria’s fireworks down the street, a tangle of purple bloom and gray twining. I ambled through the fields and woods, down to where the creeks meet.
Someone said they had seen morel mushrooms growing near the poplars. I’d never eaten one, but good information and a lifelong curiosity spurred me on.
Lime green ferns sprang from their brown winter beds, and Showy Orchids dazzled with purple and white blooms, almost like wild snapdragon. The creek gurgled in the background, and I kept crunching through the leaves, searching, searching.
There! Poking up from the forest floor, a tiny morel mushroom. Maybe I should have let it grow bigger, but with an eager swoop, it was in the box. Further rustling failed to turn up any more, but time in the woods is always well spent. I headed for home, and a pan of hot butter.
Mmm, dad’s old story of sautéed morels was right. Delicious! Good to remember that spring is happening–and taste it.
Not my picture. I only got one for dinner, but I’ll be back on the hunt soon.
Song of the Week
“Appalachian Spring” (Aaron Copland, 1944)
Created for a ballet by Martha Graham, she coined the name for this American treasure. Copland himself mispronounced the name for 30 years. Someone finally must have thrown an “apple atcha.”
A Home Run(s)!
Ted Williams hits his first homer today, 1939. Hank Aaron smashes the first of his 755, also today, in 1954.
Here’s a lesson with the Thumper.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Don’t confuse this with the similarly-spelled country: Gaum/gaumy: “Watch your step. The floor is all gaumy.” (Sticky mess)
Quote of the Week
“Go to your bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.”
–William Shakespeare
Steady, As She Goes
Jimmy ropes the front half of my modular house down for a smooth landing on the waiting basement. Easy does it!
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #182)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Flying Houses
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Have you ever seen a house fly on a sunny day? Fortunately, there were no tornadoes involved. I’m getting a modular house built, and holy smokes, you should have been there.
The crane lumbered up with a growl, big enough to lift a locomotive. “Hate to replace those tires” someone said. “Yeah man, each one costs four grand.”
A Mack truck delivered sixty thousand extra pounds of counterweight. It would be a long reach at the end of a long trip. Built in North Carolina and hauled to the site, the two waiting halves of the house were prepped for flight. The long metal arm of the crane reached up, up, dark against the blue heights, higher than the trees. From somewhere near the sun, the cables dropped back down to earth, a giant metal spider thread to rig.
Neighbors gathered. Jimmy hit something with a hammer till it was right ‘n tight. The turbo on the crane whined. The sun beat down. It was time to fly.
Slower than you’d pick up your mug of morning joe, the first box levitated. Look ma, no hands. With a gentle swing, it floated over the cinder blocks, over the basement, turned left, sank down. It looked like a magic trick.
The set crew grabbed it, snatching it with ropes and guiding it exactly flush with the exactly square foundation. “Dan the basement guy did a good job.” I picked my jaw off the dusty ground.
The hinged roof was craned up, the second half prepped, and another flight, a stately goose in slow motion, settling down on a concrete perch. Porky wrenched the come along, joining the halves, while Burt pried with a crowbar. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy” Sam whistled, giving a final wrangle. If you say so.
Now there’s a house standing there. I’ll build a life in it. There’s plenty of people telling us what’s wrong with the world, and why we’re in a decline because we don’t memorize poetry, and how the Left/Right are leading us straight to hell. But in the middle of that noise, remember: as you read this story, the crane will be spooling up in another town, Jimmy will be swinging a hammer, and Sam will be making it look easy. That’s good news, folks. Keep on building, in whatever way you do.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send pizzas and construction stories to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA or say hello on X @RealJoshUrban
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 email Joshurban@protonmail.com