A Moon Dog Nighthawk

Vol. 114, August 20th, 2024 Published a day early online

Moon Dog

Didja see that moon? The Green Corn Moon is shining down on the land, looking full for three days. Reduced to baseball stats, it’s a super blue moon, full at the close part of the orbit, looking a bit brighter and bigger, and the third full moon in a season with four.

But the moon can’t be boiled down to names and facts and figures, much as we try. The silvery light won’t let us get away with it. I saw a “moon dog” last night, when the clouds catch the light, and bend it into a spot, 22 degrees to the right or left. It’s a faint imitation of Luna, herself reflecting pale sunlight down to us through the short summer night.

Hexagonal plate-shaped ice crystals in the clouds are the scientific reason for this paraselene, but to see this “moon of a moon” while the frogs sing in the night, and starry Cygnus the swan seems to fly above the break in the clouds, well...you tell me that the moon isn’t out walking her dog across the night sky, off to the place where they keep the dreams and smell of chocolate chip cookies your grandma used to bake. Somewhere down in the silver and black pond, a bullfrog concurs.

Daylight will be here soon enough, with the blazing clarity of the Sun and fact. August nights in the moonlight are for dream.

A “moon dog” appears faintly, to the left of the moon over Long Mountain.

Song of the Week

“Bird’s Lament”(Moon Dog)

A mysterious, haunting tribute to Charlie Parker, composed by the enigmatic Moon Dog. Crank it while the silvery beams light up the countryside.

55 Years After Hurricane Camille (1969)

The storm swamped the blue ridge this day in history, hitting Nelson county with 27+ inches of rain.

Quote of the Week

“We are two mirrors crossing their swords.”

–Octavio Paz

Jimsonweed (Datura stramonium)

This member of the Nightshade family is trying to take over my yard. I let it grow along the edges. What a nifty plant!

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

“Reckon” (suppose). “I reckon I’d best get goin’.” I still can’t use it right, bless my heart.

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. #199)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Putting Down Roots

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! The echo of the machines has faded, and my new house is blending into the yard. There’s a lawn in place of dust, but the ground is still tilled up, with lots of “disturbed soil” around. (Talk about a humorous phrase. Maybe the dirt is having a tough time.) The jimsonweed loves it. I think it’s scaring the geranium on the porch.

The botanical nerds call this spooky fella by the scientific name Datura stramonium. This seems a bit Areyoukiddingme overserious, but the classification is a handy way of sorting out living things, a geek genealogy. Datura varieties belong to the Solanaceae family–Nightshades. These include tomatoes, eggplant, peppers, the actual deadly nightshade, etc; cousins, if you will.

Narrowing things down a bit to the level of Datura, we get to jimsonweed, with it’s eerie white night bloom and purple stems. The leaves smell like burning rubber when they have an argument with the weed wacker. It’s not an empty threat, either. There are stories of colonial British soldiers hallucinating for days after accidentally eating some in their stew. (Maybe they tripped so hard, they thought we’d obey them, but that’s another topic.) Jimsonweed packs a nasty punch, but is fine if left alone.

I like it from a distance. It grows along the fill by the driveway, and where the gravel got pushed up by the drainfield work. It keeps trying to take over the lawn, looking straight out of a haunted garden. I give it battle every now and then, but it’s persistent. Even Mark Twain wrote it onto the first page of Tom Sawyer. Aunt Polly hollers out for Tom, but only the tomato vines and “jimpsonweed” hears.

Mom dropped off two angel trumpet plants the other day, and they looked like jimsonweed. A bit of internet searching turned up the real name: Datura innoxia. It’s a brother, with the name to prove it. What a relative.

The smell of the angel trumpet, with it’s large white night flowers, brings the memories of childhood summer nights flooding back: bare feet in dewy grass, and the neighbor’s garden in full bloom. I’d take turns with the hawk moths, wafting in the heavy perfume between rounds of hide and seek with my brothers, the parents talking late into the evening. Each flower lasted only a brief summer night. Both seemed fleeting, even then. Now, the scent makes my head spin.

I’m heading out to plant the two new arrivals, making a garden where there is none. The plants are stock from that old neighborhood. It’s good to be here now, putting down new roots from distant memories, carrying on traditions, and growing new ones. Jimsonweed by the driveway, angel trumpet by the house, and things to wonder at everywhere. I’ll tell the geranium on the porch to calm down. Not everything can be normal.

Let me know if you have any gardening suggestions. I’d like to grow a good place here.

Catch you on the flip side,

Josh