A Late Winter Nighthawk
Trains roll again, and America Gets to Work
Vol. 138, February 4th, 2025 Published a day early online
A Late Winter Report
A hawk leapt from his perch, gliding across the wintering hayfield, pulling me outside. My shoes, ready by the door, waited. So out I went into a chilly Sunday, laying hushed under a low gray sky.
Another call of the wild snapped me to attention, then a run. A distant train horn sounded from the track south of town.
It’s the one that runs by the farm, that founded the hamlets between here and North Carolina. Gladys was named after the fascinating daughter of the railway’s president.
This winter, the rails sat silent, sulking, rusting, forgotten. I walked along them last week, hoping that some office in some florescent-lit purgatory hadn’t generated some...decision. My feet crunched through drifts of leaves on the ties, loud in that morning’s still.
But now, that distant whistle hurried me out to the field, wobbling over a barbed-wire fence, picking through the brambles, to wait. The woods slumbered, resting in a deep winter sleep, the pre-dawn weeks before spring. Something roamed, though. The distant throb grew clearer, along with a rolling sound ‘round the corner. I waved and gave a thumbs up trackside. The engineer returned the greeting.
Two black diesels hauled empty hoppers back to the mines, northbound.
Back.
On The Road Again
After three months, trains roll by the farm again, cleaning rusty rails with the rumble of diesels–the sound of progress.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Helt (held). He didn’t make it through fourth grade, he got helt back.”
Happy Birthday, Y’all!
Charles Lindbergh, Rosa Parks, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and Facebook were born on 2/4.
D’s got a movie out, too.
Book of the Week
Dubliners (James Joyce)
This 1914 collection of short stories from life around Dublin is spellbinding, with vivid description and careful introspection springing from the page.
I’ve been enjoying the audiobook version with the Irish accent.
Quote of the Week
“When I can’t talk sense, I talk metaphor.”
–John Philpot Curran
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #223)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: The Night Shift
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! I’ve got another American snapshot for you.
The road wound on and on, and the sandwich vanished too quickly. Orion and his hunting dogs marched into the western sky by the time I crested the mountain pass. A roar and a flash of light pulled my eye to the roadside tracks. A train growled up the steep grade, and another met it, hustling a mile of shipping containers downhill. I raced it along Rt. 29, hurtling into the blackness. Those Amazon orders would be there by dawn.
The road wears my tires out, but does me good. I tossed the second sandwich wrapper to the empty passenger seat, thinking back to an hour ago.
“$120 an hour?” My eyes bugged. He nodded, his knit cap matching his reddish beard, standing by the food pickup counter. Tinny music played in the background. I picked my jaw off the gas station floor, and shot out my hand in admiration. “Way to go, buddy.” Tim shook it, his glasses glinting modestly in the florescent lights.
“Who would have thought it, right?”
This story is good, but it’s not always the case. Talking with strangers goes sideways sometimes. The world seems perpetually five dollars short. Some days find me burnt out on people, and turning bitter. Then I’ll remember with a start, and snap out of it. People like Tim help me, a reminder of the good things, good people, and good stories you’ll find waiting in line.
Once upon a time, I’d travel by train with my guitar, and play street music in the cities, talking to all the strangers I could find. “Maybe the world isn’t as bad as they say it is” I’d gush, seeing if brute positivity could overcome reality. It didn’t. The world was worse than I could imagine. Sometimes a little kindness went a long way, sometimes it came up woefully short. Or made it worse. Or seemed downright delusional. The fix can’t fit on a bumper sticker.
I also believe that we’re made in the image of God, and sometimes live up to that. People continually amaze me. They’re better than I’d ever hoped. It’s complicated. And then they do the “ordinary” stuff like keeping the lights on, the trains running, the food cooking, and a million other things to write home about.
There I was in the gas station, talking with Tim, waiting for the girl with the cotton candy-pink hair to finish the sandwich.
“You’ve seen Mike Rowe’s Dirty Jobs, right? Always been fascinated. When I was a kid, I’d bug my folks for stories like that. I would have talked your ear off.”
“Yeah man, it’s a niche thing” he said.
A cop walked in for a late night coffee, another moth to this porch-light for people The sandwich reached a toasty perfection. Cotton Candy handed over a marvelous creation of three-cheese grease.. I flitted back into the cold with the fast food prize–and a story, proud to be part of all this. And Tim? He makes bank unclogging sewer drains.
My fellow Americans...Rock on.
–Josh