A Lemonade Nighthawk

+ A poem from Carol, The City of New Orleans, and More

Vol. 157, June 17th, 2025 Published a day early online

Lemonade Time

They kept it in the back, near the copperhead’s cage and above the fridge. COUNTRY TIME, summer ground up into a fine powder. Four scoops to the cooler, and a deluge of sink water, and we’d have lemonade for the next event.

Volunteering at the nature center was a formative experience. One day, a non-venomous but grumpy milk snake taught me a lesson in front of a jumpy crowd of city kids. “Snakes are our friends” I said, dishing the propaganda, then he disagreed with his fangs.

WHACK! He wouldn’t let go of my wrist, so I had to dunk in him a tank of dirty turtle water, the occupant paddling around, surprised. The snake, unable to breath underwater, finally relented.

I pulled my arm out, dripping water and blood. The kids screamed and I was the hero of all the other teenagers who worked there. I wish I still had the scar from the bite. (Bet the kids do, though. “Sorry, folks. Doesn’t hurt a bit.”)

We’d drink that horrible powdered lemonade on those hot days of wrangling snakes and turtles and hawks for the curious public. It tasted like summer, so it tasted good. Now I only pick up the occasional snake, but resolve to drink more lemonade this season.

The fresh stuff.

A Poem from Appalachian Carol

Senses

Taste of fried rain

From the city’s summer air ducts

Spurting onto clogged streets

Headlight’s yellow splotches

Against the rising mist

Appearing as Picasso paintings

On the night.

–Carol Stuart

Song of the Week: City of New Orleans

Steve Goodman wrote it. Arlo Guthrie made it a smash. We all win with this genuine piece of Americana. (Dig the cool vid.)

Good mornin’ America, how are ya?

The Illinois Central ran The City of New Orleans for years. Amtrak still rolls it. Here’s a picture of the train from the era that inspired the song.

Quotes for the Day

“Violence does not and cannot exist by itself; it is invariably intertwined with the lie.”

–Solzhenitsyn, from prepared remarks for his Nobel lecture.

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. #237)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: A Belated Father’s Day

(Here’s the Audio Version):

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! I listened for the growl of a dump truck through the sunny morning. Birds. A few cars. The bullfrog out back. Nothing. It felt like June proper, but not enough to push the hat back and predict a scorcher. That’ll be soon enough. I sat on the steps and waited, and thought about Father’s Day. Dad had a newsboy hat. He still does, but it’s not the same as the tan one from ages ago. I had one that matched. Kids will dress up as policemen for Halloween. The costume has a hint of a real cop: authority, respect, heroism if need be. When I put the hat on as a little boy, maybe it was the same thing–a bit of the Dad mystique by association. Whatever it was, it made me proud. It still does.

The growl rattled through the hot morning, breaking my train of thought, and the dump truck rolled up. I jumped up. Waved. Hadn’t seen him since last year’s house build. Grabbing the iron, I climbed up to the window. It’s not cool to admit on the job site, but the best place in the whole world is hanging off the steps of a truck and shouting over the diesel roar. Little boys pretend with wagons and bikes. The real thing is ten times better. “Howdy, sir! Can you put the gravel right by that empty bottle? ”

“Sure, wave me in.” So I did, and he did, dumped the whole thing and slammed the gate on cue. The clang put ripples in the June soup of a day. Dump trucks always make the right sounds, careful musicians of the soundtrack to Everyday. The rest of us stand around, waving like conductors. And like conductors, there’s a knack to the waving. (Poor fellow with the trailer a few weeks ago. My apologies, sir.)

The driver handed me the receipt. I told him we’d be calling him again soon. “My stepdad needs some gravel by the shop around the corner. Keeps turning to mud.” The driver remembered the site. I asked his advice, and he gave it, with a few ideas on the water and right kind of gravel. People around here are nice (and know their stuff). “You got any kids, man?” I asked.

“No.”

“I don’t either. But I’m writing a piece to wish all the guys who build the world a happy Father’s Day.” “Hey, you too.”

The truck lumbered back into the June soup. I went back inside, still thinking about dads, and brewed coffee from Tom’s place downtown. The note on the counter read “Call Jim”, the guy who taught me most of what I know about astronomy. The house still feels new. Bob and Tony and Dan and Steve and Tim and Kenny and David and Matt and Austin and Sam and all the other guys did a bang up job on it. I’d be living in a box if it wasn’t for them. These guys do such a good job that it’s easy to forget life isn’t automatic. But I almost rolled my stepdad’s mini-excavator last week because I made a mistake. Things are harder than they look. He’s got great faith and patience, letting me borrow his skid steer to finish the driveway this afternoon. So here’s a toast to all the men who build the world, kids or no–a toast to those who wear the real hats, who do the hard stuff, who encourage, lead, protect, inspire, listen, bring along, raise the bar in bits so we can clear it, but still have to try. Where would we be without you guys?

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Happy Father’s Day, gents.

–Josh