Vol. 46, May 2nd, 2023
Zero Turns & Max Fun
How does a Frenchman cut the grass? He mous deLon. (Pardon my French. I’ll pardon yours. The joke is so bad, it’s worth it.) Lawncare ‘round this time of year sure is a joy, before the gnats and yellowjackets set in. When I was a wee lad growing up in a townhouse, I’d spring up with the fresh sun, a squeaky gate matching the blue jay calling, and push the mechanical mower over the postage stamp lawn. The art of mechanics manifested through small engine repair later in the new house. The brothers and I dug up a 1960’s lawn tractor from bank of weeds in the neighbor’s yard, took off the blades, and had our first go-kart. We named it, and sold racing shirts: “Team Plague.” (It fumed to high heaven. We stenciled a rat on it.) Later, I was king of suburbia in my first house and first riding mower that did what it was supposed to do, vanquishing the sweaty push rig. Today I was helping ‘round the farm with a “zero turn” pro mower, power sliding along embankments, not crashing through fences, and only destroying one garden border.
Yes!
Winged Jewels
The spring migration of songbirds is in full swing. From their winter homes in central America, they’re heading north to raise families. Dig this Magnolia Warbler bound for Canada.
Book of the Week:
My Family and Other Animals (Gerald Durrell).
A loose autobiography of the British naturalist, it’s a fascinating, uproarious tale of family, nature, and intense curiosity on the isle of Corfu in the late ‘30s.
You’ve Got a Deal!
The Louisiana Purchase closed today in 1803, priced less than 3 cents an acre. Now that’s some grass to cut.
Down the Rabbit Hole
This week’s topic for further research is:
Philosophy. Are you a Rationalist? Existentialist? Pragmatist? Relativist? (Or, like my aunt Betty, just plain right?) Did Socrates have it dialed in? (Probably.) What’s your school of thought called? Happy hunting!
Reader Spotlight:
Andy R. hiked the Appalachian Trail in the 80’s, and cheers for the Mets
in Dover, DE.
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 email Joshurban@protonmail.com
Letters from Josh
(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #132)
Howdy, folks! Landing in the black depths of a subterranean warehouse, the gang discover crates of trophies, bicycles, and awards. Preacher strikes a “John light”, and they set off to explore. A drip of water splashed Electro’s neck. Another echoed in a pool unseen. Then, they heard the footsteps...This is...
The Return of Dr. Electro - #26: Hold Your Fire
Ringing, hollow, echoing, slow...Clomp. Clomp. The footsteps approached with a chilling steadiness, a beeline in the dark.
“Guys, here!” hissed Charlotte. She waved from an alley between towering walls of crates. Electro followed. Her eyes glittered in the torchlight. He tried not to stare. There’s real danger, man, pay attention. The rest of the gang swept in behind them. Preacher snuffed the light.
“It never goes out, it just pauses” he whispered.
“Shhh!”
Clomp. Clomp. The footsteps had an echo. And another. And another. A group? They were nearly at the alley.
There was a tap on Electro’s arm. With a sound like a frog, he gulped down a shout. Charlotte whispered in his ear. “Move back.” He heard the slightest click as she cocked her revolver.
Clomp. Clomp. A terrible pause. The silence beside their hiding place was as heavy as his grandmother’s pecan pie. Suddenly Electro remembered it, a cozy Thanksgiving long ago. The vision seemed melancholy, spiced with nutmeg, a reminder to take care, and come back for seconds.
In the brooding empty, faint but unmistakable...Click. Another revolver. He felt Charlotte raise her arms to aim. Oh lord...
Another vision swam up inconveniently, his brain’s habit, from his parents’ kitchen, years ago. “Well, son, just why do you pick women who look like they want to kill you?”
“I dunno, pops, I just do.” His mother shook her head, stirring her tea, the golden afternoon sun of yesteryear taunting Electro as he remembered. Guess some things never change.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” a familiar voice shouted.
“Lady Wilkes?” Preacher lit up the John light in a blaze, to find the chrome barrel of Lady W’s Colt aimed squarely between his eyes. “Uh...hello.”
“Gracious, I almost shot you, young man!” She lowered the massive piece with a relieved laugh. “And you can put yours down, young lady.”
Charlotte complied. Electro thought he saw a tremble. “Good heavens, ladies, you’re the wild west!”
“I tried to tell her to take it easy, but she never listens.” Jimmy the trucker stepped out of the shadows. “Walter said he’s on his way, but he had to check something first.” A searing blue flashed out of the gloom, followed by a crackling buzz.
To be continued next week...