A Shoulds and Shouldn'ts Nighthawk
On Mountains and Bullets
Vol. 109, July 16th, 2024 Published a day early online
Shoulds & Shouldn’ts
Heraclitus said No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river, and he’s not the same man.
I sat on the stones placed by unseen hands of the CCC boys, and looked west on Friday afternoon. Cloud shadows drifted across the valley, baking in the heat below. A cool breeze rustled the tiny flowers at my feet.
Back to the car, up to the lodge, friends gathering. We prepared for an evening of showing tourists the stars at Big Meadows. A buddy’s toddler granddaughter laughed from her high chair. This is how things should be.
Then the news came, and we saw the bullet graze. A mental earthquake, civilization rattled, an attempt to overturn this board game that works only by agreement. This is how things shouldn’t be. One could argue that this is how things are, but I draw the line, and refuse to shrug it away. It’s time for me to get serious and do my part. (More to follow.)
Later, throngs of visitors marveled at views of the moon through a telescope. The skies turned crystal. I saw so many stars, they looked like static on a TV. The toddler learned to say “Josh.”
I looked at the vista the next day, then headed back into a changed world. There’s work to do for the Shoulds.
Looking West, Shenandoah National Park
Book of the Week
The Righteous Mind-Why Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion
(Jon Haidt)
An illuminating, timely read, especially if you’re feeling adrift in current events.
That’s All Right (Mama)
Elvis’ first ever song hits the airwaves this day, 1954. It resonates instantly.
Quote of the Week
“Laws made by common consent must not be trampled upon by individuals.”
–George Washington
Alpine Blooms at Big Meadows
A bumblebee visits a Knapweed flower in the heights of Shenandoah.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Puts me in the mind of (reminds me of). “That chair puts me in the mind of the one on Sadie’s front porch!”
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. #194)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Pickin’ and Spinnin’
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Bless those who prepared this meal is a nice line, but–I eat a lot of gas station food. In the flickering lights of a parking lot by the highway, it’s not good to think about how industrial grade cheese is made. (Although I always wish my fellow workers the best.)
How many lives helped make the food? An uneducated guess...fifty? Add honey to it, and you’re at thirty thousand. Bees, folks, bees. And that’s not counting the beekeepers. This is where our story starts today.
The sun blazed down on the mountain. The dust billowed up as my little red car sped up the driveway, carrying two boxes of liquid gold sealed in wax–two boxes of honey frames. It was time to visit the folks, and bottle it.
The bees have been, well, busy. The phrase comes from somewhere. All season they’ve been foraging, turning nectar into honey, packing it away in countless little cells. The tulip poplar put up dark and rich this year, the sourwood light, almost white, like liquid morning sunshine from high atop the ridgeline. Each type of flower makes a unique honey, and each season is a little different. One bee visits thousands of flowers each day, bringing the goods back to the hive, while workers inside fan the honey until it’s dry enough to cap each cell with wax. It sits there, until the bear with the white suit–that’s me–shows up. I always greet them. “Hello, bees.” They only reply with a buzz, but you’ve got to meet people where they’re at.
A little smoke, a gentle lift of the frame of honey, like removing a prized file from a cabinet. Then, a firm shake sends the bees buzzing into the grass, a brush to get the stragglers off, and into the box the frame goes, awaiting extraction. Cue the dust, the red car, and a trip to the farmhouse.
The folks had everything set. Their honey frames stacked, bins on the table, and the decapper–an afro pick crossed with a spatula. I put the first frame in the bin, and started. A push of the pins just under the surface of the honeycomb, and a flick back to remove the wax ceiling from the cell. Repeat a hundred times, and a hundred times more, and then some more. Finally, the honey exposed, the frame was placed in the spinner, a small stainless steel tub, similar to a washing machine. With a whir and a whine, the honey spun right out of the frame. Repeat, and repeat again. The spinner drained into a bucket, the bucket into jars, and the spring of 2024 gleamed a butterscotch glow.
I stood at the bin, decapping row after row of comb. The wax is so strong, it’ll hold the honey inside even if it’s spun. The hours blurred by in a sticky haze, with plenty of snacking. It’s good to be a bear, pickin’ and spinnin’. (I was grinning by the time it was done.)
The jars of honey are a thing of beauty. Hold one to your ear and listen close. You’ll hear thousands of tiny wings, carrying nectar across the fields, drying the honey, and even trying to argue with the bears. “The taxman is back!” The next time you eat anything with honey in it, take a moment to appreciate those little workers. They’re pretty groovy.
–Josh
