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Vol. 41, April 4th, 2023
Holy Moly!
(Whispered) “Sit here.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here.”
The choir was doing their thing. The end of the last pew was occupied. So was the other. I needed to get to the middle. The bench was low. Choosing the lesser of two evils, I swung a leg over the chair back, and sat down next to a buddy. They put their face in their hand. It’s been a while since I’ve been to church. It was Palm Sunday, the start of Holy Week. I was dropping off a life-size wooden cross for the pastor to carry on Good Friday. (While I was building it out of old fenceposts, a dormant carpenter bee woke up and buzzed out, causing a holy toppling and yelling.) I used to be “too good” for holy things, little punk that I was. Recently I’ve been too scared to mention them in a public forum. But where would we be without the Sacred? I’d prefer not to find out, although the World seems hell-bent on trying (pun intended). No matter how you observe it, I hope this week holds something holy for you.
And don’t mind any clattering in the pews.
It’s just me.
Happy Birthday, McKinley Morganfield
1913-83 He loved playing in the creek so much his grandma called him Muddy Waters. Music would never be the same.
Song of the Week: “Rollin’ Stone”
Muddy Water’s 1950’s version of an old blues tune influenced some English lads, who named their band after it. Can you dig it, Mick?
Down the Rabbit Hole
Today’s “fascinating topic for further research” is one that’s right outside your window: the humble House Sparrow. Can you spot ‘em taking a dust bath, or enforcing a pecking order in their flocks? Combine with internet research or books for best results...
They’re Back!
Timeless symbols of spring, resilience, hope, ruined lawns, a darn good country wine, and a Bradbury book, the Dandelions are blooming again.
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
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #128)
Howdy, folks! Last week, Dr. Electro and his pals paused in the living room of the abandoned house, listening for voices, hearing only the sinister tick of a clock. Someone struck a match to get a better look. “It says ‘Tempis to Fugit’ - time to fly?” Suddenly, a trapdoor opened. Our heroes tumbled through a maze of chutes, to land at last on a table laden with books. A gray-bearded man looked up in shock. Electro gasped. “Dad?” This is...
The Return of Dr. Electro - #22: Johnny
“Johnny?” The book fell from graybeard’s grasp. “What are you doing..? And who..?”
The crew groaned, still on the table. Preacher sat up, a book stuck to his elbow from the impact. “Ah, Plato’s ‘Republic.’ A classic. Say, this is quite a collection.” He rustled through Hugo, Milton, Aristotle, Aquinas, almost knocked over the collected stories of Mark Twain, moved aside three scrolls, and swung his feet onto the clean stone floor. “I’m Preacher. Those are the buckle bunnies - long story, and well, I think you know Doc.”
“Ow...” Charlotte made a snort like a horse, rolled over, up, tottering. “Who’s Johnny?”
Graybeard leaned back with a grin. “Why - you don’t think I call my son Dr. Electro, do you? Even if I haven’t seen him in a year. His dear old dad, rotting away in a dungeon..” The paternal dart of a glance found its mark. Electro squirmed.
“Dad, I didn’t know you were in a dungeon. I thought you were...wait a minute , did you say dungeon? What are you doing here?” Electro sprang off the pile of books. “Ouch.”
“Well, Johnny, one rainy day, I was at the café, reading Homer...can’t ever seem to finish it, but anyway, a fellow compliments me on the book. Kind of a weird character, but hey, I love a good conversation. I’d see him from time to time, and we’d always talk philosophy. He had a million questions, as if he’d never heard of it before. One night I stayed at the café till closing. When I stepped out into the dark, someone grabbed me and shoved me into a car. I can still smell the burlap hood they put on me. Oh, how long that drive was. We went down a dozen flights of stairs, and...and here I am.” Graybeard spread his hands at the books. “At first I was scared, then I got bored. Two days later, Café man comes down the stairs. Won’t even tell me his name, but he’s got more books for me. Refuses questions, but provides comfort.”
“Dad, did he hurt you?” Electro paced furiously. “What does he want?”
“Besides the imprisonment, he’s been a model host. He keeps asking philosophy questions. Last week, he tasked me with writing a simplified theory for the modern man. Something easy. His eyes tipped me off, though. For some reason, I begin to lie to him. Something seems...”
There was a thud overhead. Everyone froze.
To be continued next week...