An October Wind Nighthawk
On autumn messengers and new orchards
Vol. 122, October 15th, 2024 Published a day early online
October Wind
The wind is back. It must go on vacation in the summer, heading up to the clouds, and pushing them along to either rain too little, or a deadly too much.
It returned to earth yesterday, hot, lofting a late dragonfly. He glided along, wings catching the golden afternoon light. I wandered through the back pasture, watching him, reveling in the same breeze.
This morning it shifted to the northwest, ruffling the trees along my new driveway in a new song. The leaves fly along, russet and gold and green, flags of change and a stirring of adventure. A crow makes himself known above the roar.
There’s something of train stations and airports in this time of year, when one season packs and goes, and another rushes in. We stand on the platform, spectators of this great bustle and dropping of leaves, watching like the shortleaf pine, unchanging. He’s not dropping needles, and I’m staying right here with a cup of coffee and a wondering eye.
Today, in the wind, I’ll be both Aunt Polly and Tom Sawyer. The back deck needs to be painted with weatherproofing. I’ll be both the boss and the unreliable labor. I’ll brush off the leaves, and brush on the clear coat, listening to the stories that might blow in.
You never know what you’ll hear.
Song of the Week
“Night On Bald Mountain”
Mussorgsky’s chilling and thrilling musical fantasy premiered in St. Petersburg today, 1886, a timeless classic.
Urban Orchard
The backyard apple grove kicks off with four new saplings right near the beehives. I’m looking forward to learning the art.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Raisins (Raising). “Don’t go getting above your raisins!”
Happy Birthday, I Love Lucy
The iconic show hits the airwaves today in 1951. It would run until 1957.
Quote of the Week
“Beware of all enterprises that requires new clothes.”
–Thoreau
Letters From Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #207)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: What’s In a Name?
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! I've been wandering the highways and byways, putting a thousand miles down and eating at too many gas stations. Not all subs are created equal.
On the trek to wish Grandma a happy 99th in person (you'll be pleased to hear I did not sing “99 bottles of beer on the wall”), the road took me across six states, tall mountains, wide rivers, and past new names.
There's something good about seeing a new set of road signs now and then. It shakes me up, and puts a new flavor in the mug. I wonder about the people who live there, and the men of old who built them.
Who names these places? I rolled by there in the gathering dusk, not trying to annoy the New England drivers, but succeeding. I'm slow around here. They hate me up there. The sign flashed by: Fishkill. I kicked the gas pedal as the orange crush sun yielded to the purple hills. A minivan passed me up the grade.
A long time ago, before Uncle Eddie fought in WWII and pitched horseshoes in peacetime, the Dutch named the place. Fish, for the obvious, and Kill, for creek. I had to look that up.
The ballgame crackled on the radio as the road went from Pennsylvania to New York. The Mets turned the tide against the Phillies in the eighth. What a perfect track to return to roots.
That sound: the static, the announcer, the crack of the bat. That's in the family, somehow. Eddie played third base in the minors in the fifties. The rest of us stuck to sandlot ball or listening to the game, but it's an Urban family ideal, baseball. Give us a genie, and we'll give you a world series. But don't ask me to throw a snowball.
The road went on into the night, past towns with unfamiliar names. Indian names, English names, lots of “News” and “Burys”. Then it was Hartford, with that familiar ring. I stepped into the land of family legends, of Wilson street and humble roots and hard work. Grandma pointed out where she remembered the horse-drawn carts.
Twilight fell on the Berlin turnpike, the burning sugar maple, and the sign for the Putnam bridge. It was time to go, so with promises that I'd be back soon, I kicked the gas again and headed west.
Scranton seemed a battlefield between man and mountain–and the outcome still hangs in the balance. The name fits. Minerstown and Frackville make sense. Conyngham made me glad I wasn't a radio announcer there. (Messing up the parents last name at a wedding DJ gig is bad enough. True story.)
Even Merle Haggard noticed names. They say someone looked out the tour bus window one day, and, noticing the sign, said “bet they don't smoke marijuana in Muskogee.” The song was born.
It's been good to wander, but even better to be back in good old Rustburg. Jeremiah might have been a bullfrog, but his namesake donated 50 acres to found the town way back in 1784. Come to think of it, that must have been Jeremiah Rust, and not the frog from the song at all...
The suitcase is unpacked, and the wheels cooled. Now it's time to get back to work, and make this town sign proud.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
Send travel tales and postcards from Poughkeepsie to my town at P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban