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Vol. 41, March 28th, 2023
Two Bees in My Bonnet
“Richard, a little help? Got another bee in my bonnet.” The adventure kicked off with an unexpected email, and then a call. “Hello, Jane? I’m a beekeeper. I hear you’ve got a swarm. In a tree? Fifteen feet? Can I get to it? Fine, fine...be there in a half hour.” It’s swarm season. A colony of bees raises a new queen, and before she hatches, half the workers fly out with their old queen in search of a new home. They’ll settle on a branch along the way (dig the photo). I’ve never captured five thousand bees before. I used to be scared of ‘em. And they don’t speak English. After suiting up and securing the ladder, I climbed up, face to face with a basketball-sized cluster of bees. Hmmm...SCOOP. PLOP. Down the ladder with a buzzing box. Back with the bucket. SCOOP. Four trips. They rallied ‘round Her Majesty, and gathered in the box. Two got inside my face screen. Richard got ‘em out. I put the box in a trash can, and drove back to the bee yard. Now they’re happy in a new hive with a mountain view.
Road Trip!
A swarm of bees nestles under a branch on their way to a new home. Josh came along and scooped ‘em up and brought ‘em back to the bee yard. No stings, no ladder falls, all wins!
Happy Birthday, Weight Lifting Contests
A 40 year old Brit, Edward Lawrence, made sports history by winning the first international weight lifting contest this day, 1891.
Down the Rabbit Hole
“Why is the sky blue?” is a classic fascinating question. For this week’s suggested dive into the land of research (bonus points for emphasis on the second syllable), check out Rayleigh scattering for the answer. While you’re at it: How old is sunlight?
Book of the Week:
The Notorious Jumping Frog of Calaveras County (Mark Twain)
One of the funniest, most relatable short stories ever penned. A perfect break from the usual News.
Reader Spotlight:
Ruth G. loves to write poetry and funny stories, starring her neighbors. She lives in Richmond.
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
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #127)
Howdy, folks! In last week’s installment, Dr. Electro steps up to investigate the strange explosion from the house next door. Preacher lends a hand, while Charlotte, shaking her head, brings her cowgirl Buckle Bunny Gang along with their revolvers. Preacher jimmies the front door. A sinister voice floats down a dark staircase to greet them. “Dr. Electro, is it really you?”
This is...
The Return of Dr. Electro - #21: Tempus to Fugit
Electro froze. That voice - somewhere from the past. He strained, listening. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. The darkness in the foyer was stuffy. An unseen clock tick...tocked..slowly, leisurely, as if to chuckle at the drama unfolding. Silly humans, always rushing.
Preacher stirred. “I dunno, man. He knows you?” Silence. Tick...tock.
Charlotte coughed, reproachfully, Electro thought. Talk about pressure. A beautiful woman watching, friends outside, voices in the dark, the clock... He stepped forward. “Hello?”
Silence. A mouse scuttled into a dormant fireplace, cold and sad. Their breaths mingled with the clock’s voice as they huddled together, eyes negotiating with the dark - and losing.
A few more steps. Someone struck a match. The clock sprang up in the flare, a suddenly illuminated illusion, immobile. It was a fine old grandfather, coated with the dust of many lonely summers and forgotten Christmases. Preacher’s breath caught.
“Who winds it?”
Electro leaned forward, striking another match. “It says ‘Tempis to Fugit’ on the plate.”
“‘Tempis Fugit’ - Latin for ‘Time Flies’” elaborated Preacher. “Common on clocks.”
“No... ‘Tempis to Fugit”. Electro paused. ‘Time to Fly?’”
Charlotte’s yell was only half heard over the thundering, creaking, groaning, grinding crash of the floor opening beneath them. Electro could hear his, though. Bring it down an octave, man.
They tumbled and rumbled and tossed about down a great system of chutes, slamming into the sides, turning the metallic walls into colossal gongs of war. Never thought I’d be a drumstick. After even Gene Krupa would have ceded the spotlight, the racket finally came to an end. The gang came to rest on top of a giant table, their fall partially broken by an enormous pile of books, papers, and scrolls strewn about. A quiet gray-haired man, bearded, bespectacled, and bewildered, looked up from a musty volume at the far end. Electro gasped.
“Dad?”
...To be continued next week...