A Spring Blues Nighthawk

Vol. 143, March 11th, 2025 Published a day early online

Read Aloud

WWII history always catches my eye, and makes me wonder: what would I have done?

Charged a machine gun nest? Won a dogfight? Crept through the jungle to rescue a wounded comrade? With a groan, I rolled over and popped a Tylenol. Arrrgh. Maybe not. Getting sick, even for a day, is the pits, man.

I’m back on my feet now , with a new lesson in hand. (But behind on my emails. Hang tight.) A lot of my pals struggle with chronic illness and crippling pain. I immediately though of them. Getting sick for a few days is hardly a mile in their shoes, only a step, but put a new shine on the respect I already feel for those who struggle and smile through it. It’s a darn admirable thing. In my 24 hour “depths of despair”, something popped out that I wanted to share with any buddies who are feeling bored, but too tired to knit or rock a sudoku or go heckle people (A guaranteed way to raise the spirits).

I cued up my audiobooks, and listened. Have you tried them? The library loans out CDs, and if you have a phone or tablet, you can get ‘em online. I prefer the Chrip app, with books for only a few bucks. The recent listen has been The Inimitable Jeeves–but there are plenty of WWII works available, too. Read on!

Happy Birthday, Lawrence Welk (1903)

Who would have thought an accordionist from North Dakota could have gone so far? Cheers to the “Champagne Music”.

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

Directly (in awhile). “Don’t worry, I’ll be there directly.”

Quote of the Week

“When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world.”

– John Muir

Double Miracle

Purple hyacinths greet the early spring. Planted during the summer drought last year, it’s doubly good to see them bloom.

Book of the Week

“The Inimitable Jeeves” (P.G. Wodehouse) The first of the “Jeeves” novels, published in 1923, a “proto Seinfeld”, the hilarious nothings of a rich bachelor and his valet.

Here’s the audiobook link.

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. #224)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Springtime Blues

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! The frogs are piping their song through the night, down by the river, at the pond, and anywhere “fine sounds of spring are sold.”

I've been a musician forever, but no matter how much I practice, Mother Nature's own will always win. Even Beethoven took a seat and learned from the master. These sounds are both a calendar–the cicadas heralding deep summer–and a stunning event on their own. I've heard priceless violins played in concert halls, but the call of southbound geese on a silvery October night shows what beauty can be.

These are ancient traditions, but you might have a more recent one. I do. The sound of blues guitar will always be March for me.

A long time ago, the bug bit me. Maybe it was because Uncle Mike played blues guitar. Maybe it was the tunes Dad brought home. Blues Guitar Greats. Muddy Waters. BB King.

It was March when he said “Start with the harmonica, and we'll see what happens.” I can still feel the keys on my tongue, the taste of possibility. Could I play music? A few notes (surprisingly) sprang out of the wheezing.

The folks heard the sounds of a dying cowboy, and after a short while, decided that it was more than a phase. The family got an electric guitar as spring dawned. God bless 'em. What's the Grinch say about the noise, noise, noise? But my folks are no grinches, and someday I'll buy them a boat for their patience. Or maybe some earplugs.

I took lessons, then joined a band, then another. We were terrible. It was a blast. More styles crowded in to my music collection: Heavy metal, classic rock, 50's jazz, DC funk, classic soul, punk, progressive shred and always a bit of Beethoven. But all along the way, the blues remained a soundtrack, something to return to, the native sound of a new country.

Every spring, I'd crank up the first albums in the collection, and remember that first spark. But somewhere along the way, I forgot.

The years went by. I made a living with the guitar, then drifted to other things, moved away from my hometown, and built a new house.

But the music won't let me be. It keeps pushing up like the daffodils peeking out in the chilly March soil. Driving to Richmond yesterday to talk to retirees about Beethoven, I remembered the songs, and that March feeling. Now things are easy, probably too easy. Pushing a button on the steering wheel, I asked the invisible DJ behind the dashboard to play me some of the old blues, and he did.

Bukka White growled out of the speakers. “Baby please don't go.” Ronnie Earl made his Stratocaster talk. The old gang was back.

I remembered how the sounds called me, stirred me, same as the whistle of a midnight train. I spent decades trying to understand it, but sometimes, things are better left a mystery. There's a forgetfulness that comes from too much logic. Dissecting a frog in the pond defeats the purpose. You might understand how he sings, but never why.

I've got my old albums spinning on this rainy March day, and like spring outside the window, an old memory rolls over, on the way to waking up. A buddy texted. “We're jamming on Friday. Want to sit in?” I told him yes.

So put on an old record, or an old jacket, or a hat that's been boxed up for twenty years, and see what happens. It's the season for these things, you know.

Catch you on the flip side,

Josh

Send old stories and old postcards to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban

(Enjoy some “Robert Nighthawk Stomp” by the talented and influential Ronnie Earl.)