Vol. 98, April 30th, 2024 Published a day early online
Playing Chicken
“Murder! Treason! Fire! ! Put me down, you oaf!”
I don’t speak Chicken, but some shrieks are universal. The little chick, furious at being caught, wiggled and waggled, yelling at the top of her tiny lungs. I put her in the bin. She stopped.
“Time to go back inside, Chicky. Don’t be mean to Uncle Josh.”
Her five sisters darted ‘round the pen, zipping out of arm’s reach, squawking like news anchors when their politics go wrong. Finally, all six wound up in the bin, en route to the house pen for the chilly evening hours, scratching and rustling happily till the morrow.
When they get bigger, they’ll stay in the coop outside. Mom got chickens this year, and it sure has been fun to help her with the little ladies. Being a city boy, I’ve never worked with chickens, or any birds. They’ve always been in the tree.
At three weeks old, these chicks are growing fast. They’re taking short flights, have grown fluffy tail-feathers, and are fast. They also live up to the name “chicken”.
They’re the neatest little critters. I’ve already grown attached. While bees are my main jam, chickens have a big advantage: they don’t sting. Drop a line if you have any hints!
Picking Up Chicks
A spring chicken eyes Josh suspiciously. “If that boy keeps making puns, I’m gonna peck him.”
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Fixin’ to: getting ready to. If you’re “fixin’ to” learn a new phrase, that’s the right idea. Thanks to Carol Stuart for the nifty lingo.
It Was The First of Times
Charles Dickens published A Tale of Two Cities in periodical form today in 1859.
Quote of the Week
“Three chords and the truth–that’s what a country song is”
–Willie Nelson
Song of the Week
“On the Road Again”
(Willie Nelson) The King of outlaw country turned 91 Monday–and is on tour! Give this one a spin and celebrate.
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. #183)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: He Got It Right
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! It's fun to pretend this is a radio program, something you'd hear during the wee hours, a little encouragement and sunshine crackling over the airwaves. I've got some for you, although you might think it strange that today's positive message is from a funeral way up north in a big city. Here's the story.
Pastor John's laugh was big. His spirit was big. His smile was big. His hands were big. He could wring a note's skinny neck when we were playing blues guitar. He was big. Last Friday, his casket didn't fit through the door.
Two inches too wide someone said at the last-minute service.
“I'll take the whole box” I snuffled to the usher holding the tissues as we all filed by his coffin in the back room. People look like guitars on a shelf when they're dead, but they won't play again. Decades of Tuesday events passed in a flash. Pastor John took guitar lessons for years. We'd dive into scales and chords and always, always play the blues. I'd teach him guitar, and he'd teach me life. We both relished the time. Like any, it drew to a close, quickly. And now the hum of florescent lights took over for the buzz of electric guitar amps: cold, harsh, final.
We all sat in the sanctuary, then stood, then praised God with a hearty clap on the backbeat, then sat again as Pastor John lay in the back room.
The reverend plunged into the eulogy. “Pastor John served in the air force, receiving an honorable discharge. I believe, I believe that Pastor John was a good man. I believe, I believe that Pastor John received an honorable discharge from the army of the Lord.” He talked about Matthew 25:14, and the parable the the Talents, asking the congregation what they were doing with theirs, and what they might do to work towards the theme of an honorable discharge and be a good and faithful servant.
I noticed the tough guy next to me had bowed his head to hide his tears. Another, infinitely cool, looked shell-shocked in his sadness. Pastor John, who left so suddenly and unexpectedly that we couldn't even find the right door for him, lay in the back, mission accomplished, bringing his mentees together on a Friday afternoon one final time. He showed us how it was done: how one conversation leads to another, and another, how that quiet dedication to what one believes adds up, and how much the everyday things matter when you treat them like they matter. He was always trying to help us get home, especially the youth. All around, young men grieved, profoundly changed by the care that John had taken with them, their own versions of Tuesday guitar and life lessons.
Casual conversation post-service proved impossible. After another bursting into tears and “I'm so sorry, man” (talk about being counterproductive to the family), I left, skipping the repast. So much for being a rock.
I got the lesson. Many times I've left a cautionary tale of a funeral feeling bleak, wanting to avoid the mistake of a life unlived. This time was different. Even him not fitting in the room seemed a metaphor for the beauty in the brokenness of life. That's how things go, but what can you do in the face of all of the shortcomings? Turns out a lot. I agreed with the reverend. Pastor John sure got his time here right. Now I want to make mine count, too.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send life lessons and other correspondence to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban