A Valentine's Week Nighthawk
Love songs, diesel power, and moonshine
Vol. 139, February 11th, 2025 Published a day early online
Play Us A (Love) Song
You’re the DJ Man, Play Us A Song Tonight
It’s Valentine’s week, and I’ll be spinning records at retirement homes. The whole of music would be sparse if love songs were removed. It’s nice to float away on that warm fuzzy feeling.
Still, the day is a complicated one. Lots of my friends there have lost loves of their lives. I’m on the other end of the scale, and realize I can’t truly understand.
Still, the quest to find Mrs. Urban has brought some hilarious standup comedy to our musical programs (If you know, you know.) One song bubbles up, along with a story if you’re feeling sad.
Many years ago, a fine summer romance wound down. She was heading back across the water soon as planned. We sat in a cheap restaurant and both grew quiet as reality sank in with the air conditioning, cold.
I stared at the empty table, suddenly lifting my head. “Hey, you ever hear that Gershwin tune ‘They Can’t Take That Away From Me?’”
“No.”
“Well, it goes ‘The way you wear your hat/the way you sip your tea/the memory of all that/no no, they can’t take that away from me.’”
She brightened a little, and squeezed my hand. I always smile when I hear how true that song is.
I hope you do, too.
Quote of the Week
“Love and a cough cannot be hid.”
–Herbert
Happy Birthday, Thomas Edison
Born in Milan, OH, today in 1847. He called the phonograph his favorite invention.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Jawing (talking rough or talking back). “You better quit jawing at me or I’m taking a switch to you!”
Yardwork for Big Boys
Picking up sticks is more fun with diesel power–and gasoline. Clearing brush and ice storm damage the other day. Good news: I still have my eyebrows.
Movie of the Week
Casablanca
This 1942 classic gave us one “As Time Goes By”, a love song for the ages.
Play it, Sam!
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. #220)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Beggar Ticks
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! We’re almost to spring. Almost. It’s time to make plans of green things and sunshine. Most gardeners collect the usual variety of seeds in bright packets, with visions of hot July days and cool jars of pickles, dill on fresh salads and refreshing mint teas chilling in the fridge. But I’ve been collecting a different variety of seeds: beggarticks.
“What’s that that on your jacket?” Dad asked, a long time ago. I looked down at my sleeve. A strange bug-looking thing clung to it. I flicked it. It didn’t budge.
“Oh, it’s a beggartick” he said.
“A what?”
“Its a seed. We must have walked by some dried flowers in the field this morning. Their seeds have little hooks, latching on to animals, or people walking by, who carry them far and wide to new soil.”
Ever since that bright autumn day many years ago, I’ve liked beggarticks, or hitchhikers, as some people call ‘em. I found some round spiky ones snarled in my boot laces the other day. Nature is clever.
I’ve never stopped wandering the fields and woods, and smile every time I see a beggartick. Lately, I’ve noticed that a different type clings to all of us: our stories. Little bit of the past latch on, hoping for someone to listen. They’ll sit there quietly, until someone notices.
Last week, I asked an audience of older folks for stories about moonshine. One gentleman raised his hand, smiled, and leaned in to the tale.
His father worked on a crew up in the mountains. Race relations were fine with a common goal of 100 proof to brew. Half the town was in on it. (Now that’s community spirit, if you’ll pardon the pun.) But one day, someone built the fire wrong. The Feds came by on choppers, and spotted the smoke. All the guys got busted.
“What happened?!” (I’m a good person to tell a story to. I’m flabbergasted often.)
“Dad spent ten days in jail. Eventually got all sorted out from the guy who owned the mountain–and funded the operation” he laughed. These stories wait patiently, tiny kernels of history stuck on a sleeve or a shoe.
After another show yesterday, a refined lady with silver hair spoke to me about her native Austria. (What a beautiful accent.) She shared a fun story about a local bishop pranking his guests, then turned serious, a cloud passing over her kind face. The early years. “Vienna was destroyed during the war. I saw it as a little girl.” I didn’t ask her more about that.
But, spring follows winter, and life returns after tragedy. She learned to waltz, and appeared in the the Vienna opera’s opening gala, wearing a beautiful gown and matched by height to her partner. “Do you have pictures?” I asked. “No, not anymore.”
She straightened the chairs and tidied the room as we talked, marshaling her grace and precision to make her retirement home a little more pleasant.
More stories, hitchhikers from the past, clinging unnoticed to our shoelaces as we wander the world. I’m collecting these seeds and planting them here, on white paper instead of red Virginia clay. There’s a lot of life in them. Seems like they should grow somewhere, doesn’t it?
Catch you on the flip side,
–Josh