An Apple Picking Nighthawk

Vol. 120, October 1st, 2024 Published a Day Early Online

High Peak Mountain

We ran down to meet the creek, then wound up through the walnuts and oaks. A sudden turn, and the road sprang towards a vista, High Peak Mountain guarding the west. “What a day for apple picking” someone said.

A week of rain stood aside, and a bit of clear sky smiled down on the Southwest Mountains, eastern sisters of the Blue Ridge. An arrow pointed the way to Morris Orchard.

Here, in a quiet dell away from the screens and traffic and malice of the TV anchors telling us to fear, real things grew. Untold tens of thousands of apples ripened silently on the trees. A cow mooed in the next pasture. I started down a row, apples everywhere, the air fragrant with them, branches laden with gems for the picking. So I did.

I’ve seen an apple before, but something struck me: the setting, the quiet, the reminder that we can grow good things that nourish, and are worth visiting with your family. I filled a bag with apples, and my head with ideas of orchards.

There’s the kind to plant in the back yard. I’ve been wandering the property with a coffee cup and plans. Then there’s the larger sense of growing Good things in the world, no matter where we are, especially if the land is barren.

Let’s get to work.

A Bountiful Harvest

Stayman apples ripen on a ridge halfway up High Peak Mountain at the Morris Orchard, Monroe, VA. There’s good things growing out there.

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

Devil (Tease): “Don’t devil that dog, he may bite you!”

Happy Birthday, Model T (1908)

The first Model T shipped today. The windshield was optional.

Book of the Week: The Hobbit

(J.R.R. Tolkien)

The first change of leaves mean it’s the season to read, or re-read. Can’t you feel the adventure in the air? Book No Further in Roanoke has it in stock, too.

Quote of the Week

“Whatever it is, I’m against it.”

–Groucho Marx

Write to Us!

Welcome to The Nighthawk, 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. #205)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: 99 Bottles of Years on the Wall

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! October is for nostalgia. New things stir in spring: ferns, a look to the future, the hope of summer. The dog days bring a boiling, crushing Now-ness: a humid afternoon or night alive with katydids. Winter’s gray sky goes on, forever present. But autumn is for the past, both recent and distant. Echoes of summer linger around the pond today: the blooming goldenrod, and a few birds ready to head south. It’s my grandmother’s birthday in a few days, and she’s the queen of Remember When.

“Don’t turn 90” she told me once, only half joking. She’s disobeying her own advice, and I’m celebrating. She turns next week.

With my musical background and knack for being unhelpful, I thought of bringing 99 red balloons, a nod to the 1983 Nena song. But, nobody would get the joke, and it seems poor taste to explain: “Well, in the story of this Cold War-era song, people let off red balloons for fun, but it scared the generals, causing nuclear holocaust. You’re 99, so here’s that many balloons. Get it? Happy birthday!” And no way they’d fit in my car.

Likewise, 99 bottles of beer (on the wall) might result in a birthday party that nobody could remember or forget entirely, and regret eternally once the hangover wore off. I doubt St. Peter would allow the pun to tip the scales in my favor.

99 bottles of years on the wall seems a better theme. Oh, and does she have stories of those years, too. I’ve been calling her up for ages to hear them: seeing FDR on the back of a train, dancing with the soldiers at the USO, driving the kids across country in the 60’s, visiting every church but one in Malta, and seeing an old boyfriend years later on another trip.

“You mean we could have been related to a state senator and diamond miner?’ I teased.

“Yeah, yeah” she laughed. More tidbits followed: How the coal would clang down the house chute when they’d get ready for winter, and horse drawn garbage wagons in Hartford; kids thronging ‘round the ice man giving out shavings of the summer treat, and the wartime margarine with yellow dye to knead in “to make it look natural.”

I saw the drum she used to carry for her dad as they traveled by streetcar on the way to a polka gig. There was a hushed moment in dad’s living room when he showed it to me, a ghost alive again.

I don’t know why I like hearing these stories so much. Maybe some brain scientist will come along someday and tell me why, but in a way, I hope not. Too much knowledge can destroy. Cutting up a frog might show you what he’s made of, but he’s ruined along the way. Best to watch him lurking in the pond, next to those goldenrod blooms and the birds still hanging around, almost ready to head south–but not yet.

I hear whatever those birds do, too, although I couldn’t tell you what it is. October starts, with sweet memories of summer and the reminder it’s time to wander, either in thought or in a car.

It’s over the rivers and through many woods to Grandmother’s house I’ll go, to hear some more stories, bring her a jar of honey from my bees–and this newspaper clipping. She’s been sending me interesting ones for years. It’s a delight to return the favor.

I still might sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” No promises.

–Josh