An Opening Day Nighthawk
The Mountains, Blackberries, and New Words
Vol. 155, June 3rd, 2025 Published a day early online
Audio Version, Complete with Poem!
Watch & Listen to the Nighthawk
Prefer to watch this instead? Here’s the latest episode of Hey Man, Nice Typewriter.
Opening Day
Spring finally made it, a long climb from the valley. The wind huffed and puffed, and I stood on a stone wall, looking to the blue west. Opening Day. Each summer, the mountains call, and I answer, with a car full of gear. There are stargazing programs to help with at Big Meadows. High above the cares of the world, we set up telescopes and invite everyone to look through them.
There’s something special here. The park is old, built in the 30’s, hewn from ancient stone. These mountains are the second oldest range in the world, forged before trees existed, carved into their modern form by the winds and rains that sweep their worn faces. Sometimes that same rain falls when it’s time to stargaze, but that’s how it goes. “I say there’s a 100% chance of weather” quips Rich the host. “But there’s never a bad day on the mountain.”
He’s right. Blackberries bloomed like roosting stars across the meadow, and flavored the ice cream pie for dessert in the lodge. A hailstorm blew up, then blustered east. A pale crescent moon hung in a cold sky, and the wind howled in a raggedy night, pure, mountain-fresh. A thousand birds sang in the misty meadow next morning.
The season begins.
Blackberry Fields Forever
Blackberries bloom across the expanse of Big Meadows, Shenandoah National Park, near Stanley, VA. Spring is late at 3500 feet, and doubly beautiful.
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Mess: A batch of. “I’m fixin’ a mess of field peas today.”
Oh Snap: Washington & The Bees Nest
A young and overzealous George Washington starts to build Fort Necessity today, 1754, after rashly sparking war.
Quotes for the Day
“The idea does not belong to the soul, the soul belongs to the idea.”
–Charles Peirce
Poem of the Week
Casey at the Bat
(Ernest Thayer) Published today, 1833 in The Examiner, this overlooked piece would become a cornerstone of America.
The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day:
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that -
We'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despis-ed, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Johnnie safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped-
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And its likely they'd a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.
"Phin"
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. #235)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Moon Dogs
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Have you ever seen a moon dog? Sometimes, when the sky is just right, it looks like the full moon is out walking two little “dog” moons, miniature patches of light, faint in a partly cloudy night.
The ice crystals in cirrus clouds bend moonlight into patches of light, often 22 degrees away from Luna. Leave it to experts to make anything dull. Bet those guys are related to the folks who try to disprove Santa and put up mist netting for the Tooth Fairy. I like the dog explanation better.
Anytime I see a ring around the moon, dogs or not, I think of Granny. She’s great at painting nightscapes. One hangs in my dining room: the moon over a lonely road. Once, when I was a boy, the moon followed me home from her house, over a busy city road. I watched it the whole way.
Cue the experts: “Parallax, Josh” they’d say. “The illusion that more distant objects move slower than foreground things. That’s how we measure the nearby stars.”
They’re not wrong–I’ve looked through the antique telescope that mapped out a local patch of our galaxy–but talk about missing the point. I prefer to think the moon made the drive, too. Some things are better like that.
But the moon isn’t out tonight. It’s raining. Granny is in the hospital, and I wish things were different.
I wish we were sitting on her patio, drinking coffee and talking about something sunny, like her cherished art history or the cat or how the light up north is different if you put it on canvas, and mostly, that we lived in a place where time never wound down and things were as we wanted them to be.
It’s raining one of those Hollywood rains. The stoplights bleed all over the pavement, and I’ve fallen into thought. I wish a lot of things. Don’t we all? Maybe it’s well and good we don’t get to wind time back. We wouldn’t try to remember.
I’d miss reaching back for the smell of pine trees in her unlikely suburban yard, how I’d scramble up and back down, shirt snagged, how the sap wouldn’t come off my grubby little hands. I’d stand next to my grubby little brothers on the red rug in her art room to get scrubbed with turpentine, and she’d make that little sound of effort and loving frustration as she battled the grime. Or the whimsical crochet monster face, the one that she’d hide a chocolate in on the living room table (first kid to remember it won), or the votive candle paintings and the stained glass feeling of church and sadness and some grownup news that the adults would murmur about and turn away. It’s strange what sticks to memories.
Sometimes what is and what isn’t blends together, and what might be calls through. So I’ve been thinking about the past, the future, Granny, and what matters. I hope she gets better soon. I’ll ask her if she’s ever seen a moon dog. The lights spill green on the wet pavement, and I drive home, thinking.
Catch you on the flip side,
–Josh