Vol. 84, January 23rd, 2024 Published a Day Early Online
Party Time, Excellent!
A Reply to “Waine’s World” on the Elderly
“BR” sent me a newspaper clipping from Georgia called “Waine’s World.” I immediately turned green with envy at the reference to a favorite movie.
Columnist Dr. Waine Kong is both wise, and blessed with thematic names. His Dec. 27th piece for the Upson Beacon asks “Do the Elderly Have Anything to Offer?” He met with a peer, and begin to discuss the challenges of life with a culture that often overlooks the retired.
“We are both 80 years old and eager for the generations that follow to benefit from our life experiences...we have experience and know-how. Just because we are inept with technology they blow us off.”
At a strange middle ground of 38, I agree. (And no matter how shiny my new phone is, my IRA is still depressing.) It’s easy to see the flash of the youthful generation, and be blinded. What do the rest of the ages bring?
As Dr. Kong states later, the human library of wisdom and knowledge gained through living is priceless, and worthy of sharing. But how? A governmental program? Memoirs? I propose something in the meantime: new conversations.
Nobody to talk to? Drop me a line. I can always use advice.
What do you think?
And since we’re on the subject…
Happy Birthday, The A-Team
The iconic series starring “Hannibal,” “Face”, “Howlin’ Mad Murdoch”, and Mr. T premieres today, 1983.
“I love it when a plan comes together.”
Quote of the Week
“To have a comeback, you have to have a setback”–Mr. T
What’s Your Favorite Classic TV Show?
Are you a Gunsmoker, or a Beverly Hillbilly? Is Columbo the man to solve the crime, or Rockford? Drop a line!
Book of the Week: The Alchemist
(Paulo Coelho)
A modern classic based on an ancient fable that will uplift, inspire, and remind us to value the Here and Now.
Never Meet Your Heroes
Venus shines brightly in the pre-dawn January sky, a lovely “star” in the sunrise. But you wouldn’t want to visit it. The Venera-14 lander snapped this picture of the toxic 847 degree surface, then broke.
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 email JoshUrban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #170)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal: Snow Day
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Whatcha think of that snow day last week? I’ve always loved them. As the flakes fell, the work emails said “please confirm.” I looked out the window. “Confirm this”. With a leap, and a bound, and quick lace of the boots, I escaped outside. The freight from Crewe rumbled in the distance. About my ears, icy snowflakes fell to the ground with a sound like applause. A snow day is a show not to be ignored.
A brisk step down the alley of the old horse fences, through the gate, and downhill, then back up, staring across the field. Dude–if I were an ant crawling on a plate of spinach Alfredo at Olive garden, it would be like this! The cedars had the color of overcooked vegetables, the grass a pasta beige, and the sky grated a glorious amount of Parmesan cheese down on the scene. Delicious. The wind carried the smell of wood smoke.
Being sensible isn’t for snow days. I left the path to investigate the forest. A little precipitation changes everything. The glade, smelling of pine pitch on hot September afternoons, shivered now as the icy flakes swirled down through bare branches, and persisted through evergreen needles. Crouching under another overcooked-spinach cedar, I peered out across the next pasture, as many snowflakes in the air as items on the to-do list. Whatever. The world is new when it snows, and it will melt back to normal in a day. It’s not to be missed.
Do you remember sledding as a kid, hoping it would never end? We all grow up, but it took me a minute to realize it. It landed with a jolt when I hoped, for the first time, that it wouldn’t snow. My guitar students would cancel, and I’d lose money. It’s ugly to forget ourselves. Good thing nature reminds.
Down the next hill, to where the creeks meet, flowing clear and cold. The climb took me up and up, following the valley of the smaller stream, no worry about yellow jackets nesting in the banks now.
Finally, I found a perch, halfway up the ridge. On a clear day, the Peaks of Otter rise blue in the distance. Today, a gray wall closed in, starting to swallow the ridge a quarter mile away. The wind picked up, the snow beat down harder, slanting from the northeast. The ridge vanished. After a spell, it cleared, a clump of trees framed like a figures in a giant snow globe. I rose and crunched on, leaving footprints down an alley of pines. Another gate, another treeline, guarded by leafless sourwood. Does it miss the honeybees? Hang on, buddy, spring is around the corner.
The stream crossed the path again back in the holler. On humid days when everything is green, I like to visit it as it splashes down rocks half a billion years old while gnats float above the little pool. But the only thing in the air today was ice: cold, bracing, asking in a northern accent “Hey, what are you doing out here in general, and with yourself specifically?” The green will be back soon, and the birds will sing their solitary mountain tunes, but today was a brisk day. Back, back down, a handful of clean snow tasting fresh, across the back pasture, down a hillside, across the noisy creek, up another hill, back home. Snagging a few pieces of split red oak, I threw them in the wood stove, and remembered summer.
–Josh