A Labor Day Nighthawk
Vol. 116, September 3rd, 2024 Published a day early online
Summer at the Ballpark
Crack! The bat connected with the pitch at the ballpark Friday, like summer ‘24 kicking off.
It whizzed up, up, foul, into the dusk, and then right towards me. I stared up from the bleachers, a dinosaur looking at the meteor, waiting my whole life for this chance, and now fervently wishing it would avoid my nose.
It loomed larger, whirling towards my face. “I got it!” James yelled, a pal to the left. The ball screamed into the stands. He caught the bounce. With that, the summer of ‘24 was over.
At the last weekend of games at the local park, I relished the joy of throwing peanut shells on the ground, talking with friends about everything and nothing, and sitting on hard metal while the lights came on.
The home team lost in the fifth, the opposing knuckleballer made it official in the 9th with a baffling close. We all walked into the night, thankful.
If I had to host an alien from Mars, and he asked me what summer and people and America is about, I’d take him to a night game at the end of summer.
“Buddy, Labor Day is on a Monday, but it should be a Sunday; the way that day closes out a week, this closes out a season.”
The clematis blooms now, and you might catch a scent on the heavy breeze: sad, sweet, and glad.
The Holy Grail of the Bleachers
A pop foul, still cooling, from one of the last home games of the summer. (Lynchburg Hillcats.)
Book of the Week
The Man Who Planted Trees (Jean Giono, 1953)
A story of, well, a man who planted trees. It’s considered an allegorical piece–not true, but it could be about you. (Thanks to baseball James for the loan of the book.)
Happy Birthday, eBay!
The online auction powerhouse is founded today in San Jose, CA, 1995.
Quote of the Week
“Man’s maturity: to regain the seriousness he had as a child at play.”
–Nietzsche
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
“Poosh” (push). “You need me to get out and give you a poosh?” (Get the sound right.)
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. #201)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: The Dinner Party
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! If a genie popped out of his ol' lamp, and offered you a dinner party with five famous people in history, who would you pick?
I asked some friends yesterday as we sat around at their retirement home. “Don't worry, the meal would be catered. Jesus wouldn't judge your cooking.” Three of the ladies looked relieved.
My current guest list is Jesus, Johnny Cash, Mark Twain, Ben Franklin, and...Ozzy Osbourne. (I imagine him accidentally invoking the Lord's name, Jesus answering, and everyone getting confused. You know, good dinner party stuff.)
It's been a conversation starter in my family for years. It's been imaginary, something to picture.
Until now.
The talk at the retirement home yesterday was about Artificial Intelligence (AI). We pulled up the Elon Musk-owned Grok, and asked it to draw us pictures of these dinner parties (and other stuff).
Son of a gun, if there wasn't Goofy sitting next to Neil Diamond at the table. Elvis transformed into a Japanese steakhouse chef (“He needs a hair net”), and Jerry Lee Lewis turned into a big league baseball player from the 40's. We'd type in prompts, and the computer drew what it thought they were–with startling precision. A horse became a star hockey player, skating across the ice in a blue and pink uniform.
We talked about how it worked: neural networks, the computer learning patterns that humans use, and replicating them. Then we had it write us a few poems.
The real talk started after that. None of us are computer scientists, and most won't use AI. Me? I wish the stuff had never been invented. “The question becomes: what makes us different than robots? How can we be make a difference in this new era?”
We discussed God, feelings, love, being “real.” My friends eyed me suspiciously. The topic still seemed abstract: something to concern people on TV, not them.
There's a lot of things like that. It seems like the people who make a difference are rich and famous, or think about useless things and get paid too much. Are the rest of us forgotten, irrelevant?
Sitting there with my friends, the disagreement landed on me like a ton of bricks. Suddenly I knew that's not true.
“You folks changed me. We went through the COVID lockdowns together, and you showed me how to live right. Nobody saw you, except the night nurse, the day nurse, the food guy, and me. But you lived with patience and grace and bravery, ordinary people tackling extraordinary times. And you showed us all how it's done. That transformed me, and now I go around and talk and write and witness about all of this. Strangers know about you.
I know it seems like nobody can make a difference. But I know for a fact that they can, and do. You're sitting right here, and you've already shown me once.”
Maybe the Powers That Be want us to feel helpless, distracted. I gassed up the car late last night. The little screen by the pump blared to life with plastic people talking about stupid things, as if sunshine could be stored with dryer sheets forever. They never remind you to read the Bible or eat right or do pushups, do they? The screen went quiet after my money was gone, and I rolled on.
It's too easy to think we don't matter. But don't lose sight of what you might do, now. Don't give up the fact that you do.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send your best ideas and postcards to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban
Jesus seems to ask across the screen “Is this what you’re using your gifts for?” (Image made with Grok, using a prompt “In your most humorous tone, Elon Musk and George Washington playing pool, while Jesus looks on.)