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Vol. 43, April 11th, 2023
An Easter Egg of a Day
It was the best kind of a road. There were no lines, no cars except mine, rolling north under the overhanging branches of the budding oaks, and a pure, redeeming spring sky. The redbuds bloomed along the lonely byway in pink squiggly lines, decorations on the Easter egg of a day. “Smith Mountain Lake Dam - 5 Miles.” The sign’s green was festive on this sunny Easter Sunday. A mineral teal flash of water though the spring forest, and the park opened up. The tamed Roanoke river flowed obediently past the picnic benches, letting the humans win this round. I stepped out to look. A mighty wall of concrete and steel spanned the notch between the hills, 235 feet high, yet small in comparison to the 500 mile shoreline lake it creates in central Virginia. Some forgotten engineer must have been proud in the efficiency of his design. A spring breeze swayed hopefully through the new leaves, whispering promises of another summer. Soon the boats will return to the lake. What a blessing a beautiful day is.
Feel the Power!
The Smith Mountain dam, built in the early 1960’s, can crankout 560 megawatts of electricity (a technical term for “a boatload of lighting”), and created Smith Mountain Lake in VA.
Happy Birthday, Ellis Island
Opened 1890, it processed over 12 million immigrants. Nearly 40 percent of Americans have an ancestral connection to the Island.
Down the Rabbit Hole
For today’s intriguing topic, try some genealogy. The Ellis Island Foundation has immigration records on-line. It’s free! Visit their website at:
Reader Spotlight
George P. is a retired heavy equipment operator. He roots for the Ravens, and lives in Annapolis, MD.
Book of the Week
“The War of the Worlds” (H.G. Wells).
This 1897 sci-fi classic would cause a stir 40 years later. Orson Welles’s panic-inducing radio drama was a bit too good.
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. #129)
Howdy, folks! Dr. Electro finds his dad a prisoner in a dungeon library. The gang smirks at Doc being called Johnny, and the patriarch explains his captivity among the stacks of books. “My jailer wants me to write a simplified theory of living for the Modern Man. I’m not sure what he’s up to. For some reason, I’ve been lying to him.” Just then, a thud overhead...
The Return of Dr. Electro - #23: A Real Bad Guy
The thud turned into thunder, a troll’s bowling ball rolling left, right, down, ever closer. Somebody was in the same chute that had dumped the gang into the cellar. The clattering grew, mingling with a chilling laughter. “Ho ho ho, don’t you see, one plus one ain’t two it’s three.”
The rumble reached the opening of the chute. A ragdoll figure twisted through the air, landed in a heap on the table, leapt up, waving gangly arms in a cloud of dust, never ceasing to cackle. “Oh yes, what a ride! What a tumble! Down is up and up is down, let’s get ready to rumble!” The small man retrieved his green bowler hat, dusted it with exaggerated motions, and placed it carefully back on his mop of dark greasy curls. His comical appearance doubled the foreboding in the room. There was something off. Straightening his bow tie, he feigned surprise at the wondering faces. “Why, a party? He didn’t tell me. Hate to drop in uninvited, my dears!”
“Charlie Chaplin?” Surprise broke through the usual coolness of Charlotte’s voice.
“No!” The small man whirled, scowling. “I’m much older. And much younger. I’m the original. He ripped me off.” With a dramatic flourish, he hopped onto a pile of books. “I’m the Deluder. I make it up as I go along, and I’m never wrong. Do you like it here?”
“Now listen, buddy. Why don’t you just make up a good reason that this is all a joke, and let my old man out of here.” Electro’s growl grew into a shout. “We won’t take this.”
“Ohhh, my dear, I only try to bend Reality. I don’t make the decisions. He does that.”
“He?” the gang answered in a chorus.
“Him.” The Deluder pointed. The gang turned on its collective heel.
An ordinary man stood quietly by an unnoticed door. He was dressed in gray, with gray-rimmed spectacles that obscured his eyes, a gray fedora, with a plain gray tie. His moderate height complimented his moderate shoes, in that he appeared entirely unremarkable. A cigar dangled, unlit.
“Hello. Welcome.” His bored voice didn’t echo, but sounded strangely hollow.
To be continued next week...