Vol. 152, May 13th, 2025 Published a day early online
Call Me Bubba
The cow stood still and huge and black by the neighbor’s fence, watching me step out of the car. After three years in the country, I still haven’t been able to say a proper hello to a cow. “Happy Mother’s Day...hey cow, it’s okay.” Easing up, not looking in the eye...Huh, wonder why she’s headbutting the fence.
Cats, dogs, and horses appreciate a hand smell, so I stretched out the obligatory. The cow eyed me. My hand closed in towards a mistake. SNORT!
EWWW! A huge cow booger coated my horrified left. Mom, watching from a distance yelled “what’s wrong?”
“The cow sneezed on me! Wait...Oh, this is a bull.”
Mom laughed uproariously. In the new light, sneezed is a generous term. It’s male vs. male now. Malicious snotting is more accurate. Later, around a mother’s day bonfire, the bull’s owners had a good laugh. “Oh, that’s Waylon. He’s been ornery.” Perhaps it was an initiation, though, baptism through snot into country living.
As the moon rose and the embers simmered down, the neighbor looked towards me and said “Hey Bubba, throw another log on the fire.”
I reacted with typical suave understatement:
“EVERYONE! I’VE ARRIVED. I’M BUBBA.”
Altar Call
I found a photo yesterday. My great great great grandfather helped build this altar in 1873–with no power tools. (And I thought I was good with a table saw. Time to up the skill.)
St. Boniface Catholic Church, Erie, PA. Photo c. 1995
Song of the Week
Violin Concerto in D Major (Tchaikovsky)
This 1878 piece has become one of the most beloved in the world. It’ll play on your heartstrings.
Quotes for the Soul
“Love, love, love–that is the soul of genius.”
– Mozart
Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Kin (relative): “We got a bunch of kin coming in for the reunion.”
The Marbles Craze Starts today, 1922
Teenage Buster Rech from New Jersey wins an obscure world championship, sparking an enduring era of marbles competition.
Buster and the other 1922 Jersey City playground champs
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. #232)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: Belated Mother’s Day
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! A happy belated Mother’s Day to all the moms out there. We couldn’t have done it without you.
Driving along, I admired the view. What a perfect time of year for Mother’s Day. The blackberries and wild roses scent the air while the trees are at full shade. The leaves are all out, fresh, and slightly wrinkled, like a shirt out of the dryer too soon. They wait on the iron of a good summer’s day. All around, the land smiled.
I pulled up next to a truck. “Hey buddy, your trailer lights are out.” The young driver gave me a thumbs-up–and a blast from the past. He looked like I used to, long hair gnarly in the breeze.
We call my mom Jane Goodall sometimes, after the chimpanzee researcher. One year the three Urban boys were all teenagers–at once–and all scruffy like the truck driver. We were mostly good and all, but poor mom. How did she do it?
The memories from an earlier year flooded back. Mom had the unenviable task of teaching me the state capitals. How does one make that compelling? She improvised stories, stressing they weren’t historical facts, only memory aids. They worked. I repeat them to this day.
“Once upon a time, Christopher Columbus traveled inland, far to the west. Suddenly, he stumbled into an eastbound band of Indians. The moment was awkward. He raised his hand in greeting, unsure of what to say. He managed an ‘Oh!...Hi!...Oh...’ That day marked the founding of Columbus, Ohio.”
Her flummoxed Columbus impression lingers on. Oh...Hi...Oh.
I don’t remember the bugs, but Mom does. She doesn’t like ‘em, especially in large number. (Once I realized this, I’d go out of my way to point out swarming ant nests, etc. Hey, she had to earn her halo somehow.) Luck would have it that a 17-year cicada cycle coincided with my toddler years. Steeling her nerves against the hordes of creepy crawlies, she’d say “Look, Josh, a nifty little bug there. Isn’t he cool?”
Apparently, I thought so, and learned not to fear them. To this day I’ll flip over logs to see what’s under ‘em, unbothered. Oh, the sacrifice.
Things didn’t get easier when I grew my hair out and pursued a career as an electric guitarist, but she was always there, even opening up our small house for band practice. My mangy friends would forget themselves, then remember. “Hey man, don’t curse through the microphone. Josh’s mom’s around.”
One of these days I’ll buy her a boat. It’s the least I can do. We’ll call it The Ohio.
Happy Mother’s Day,
Josh
Send Postcards and your favorite ways to remember state capitals to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA or on X @RealJoshUrban