The old truck sat red as Christmas, waiting. The blaze of the July sun made everything alive, real, gave the grasshoppers extra kick as they thronged in the fescue. All the sounds of the day were right: the cicadas, the diesel growl of the tractor, the click click of the ratchet strap. Dave waved the gnats away, waved the next round bale in to the hay trailer, spit, mopped his face. 19. “That’ll do.”
I helped hook a strap, standing in the shadow of the wall of grass. Everyone gathered ‘round.
“It looks like a Santa truck, don’t it? Used to work for Coca-Cola.”
“I dunno about the FARM USE tag tied on with bailer twine.”
“Well, if Santa had a truck, tell me a better one than this.”
Maybe Father Christmas used to raise cattle, or grow corn, or cut hay. I get the feeling Santa would pitch in on a day off, standing by with a greasy blue mechanic shirt, with a little white and red patch that said “Kris.” Of course he’d have a pipe clenched in his teeth, and smell smell good, tobacco mingling with sweat. He’d stop when one of those funny cool July breezes came by, and glance up with a faraway look. “Did you feel that?”
In the middle of this broiler of a day: the first hint of winter.
Hay bales go down the road
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Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week
Soak (coffee soup): a cup of hot coffee with broken up biscuit in it or toast bites.
Happy Birthday Twitter
Launched in 2006, renamed as “X” in 2003, The world’s town square is 19 today. I’m @RealJoshUrban (Swing on by. I post a weird blend of borderline memes and interesting quotes.)
Song of the Week
“Walkin’ After Midnight” (Patsy Cline)
An iconic track, especially for summer nights when the moon is out.
Like any painting, this one is better in person. Say hello at the National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC.
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. #241)
Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc: A Little Night Music
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! The Sandman was late. Maybe he went to the Metallica show. I laced up my shoes and stole down the stairs. Time to take Patsy Cline’s advice, and go Walkin’ After Midnight. Well, Thelonious Monk and the jazz guys were more accurate. It was ‘Round About Midnight.
A hot moon hung in a hazy sky, no Wild Night of Van Morrison. The wind slept, but the frogs didn’t, settling into their second set like some blues band at a juke joint on a thick summer night. The treeline throbbed with the Katydid orchestra, and the Chuck-wills-widow, the big brother of the Whip-poor-will, sang in the pines. Hank didn’t write about him, but maybe he should have.
A Little Night Music. Mozart would be pleased. I almost saw his ghost, writing a symphony with all the sounds, and then turning to me, saying “what are you doing up at this hour, young man?”
I almost see lots of things when the glare of the sun and screens go to bed, and I’m left with my thoughts.
The wet grass grabbed my shoes, yielded to gravel, then short grass, then long grass again. The night was alive. I forgot how dark a forest looks. Bigfoot. What about him? It’s easier to laugh in the sunlight. Shadows make me agnostic. I think the scariest thing he could do would be to jump out and say Hey, I don’t believe in you, either. But then we could both sit down and have a beer and say “rough night, buddy?”
The shadows proved empty. But I stopped to listen now and then. Even the stream seemed to slumber, flowing at half speed in the heavy night.
This is Robert Johnson time I thought. “I’ve got ramblin’ on my mind.” A wandering, restless, haunting night song, of lonely railroad tracks and those signals burning a red watch through the long hours.
A little night music. Chopin wrote some of the prettiest piano music you’ll ever hear, and called them nocturnes. Some artists paint in that style, too–night scenes. The modern musicians keep the idea alive in all of their ways, in all shades and feelings. I saw their point.
The moon went behind a cloud, and a few drops of rain fell, then stopped. Bigfoot never showed, although something seemed to be breathing near the creek. The dim shapes of the trees loomed across the hay field, and I walked on through the soft, the sleepy, the uncertain, the wet grass grabbing at my feet. Then the shorter grass, then the crunch of gravel, walking Further on up the Road (Johnny Cash) then stairs, then light, and a cheese sandwich. Where would we be without a little night music?
So if the Sandman is late for you, too, flip on your favorite tunes. They’ll get you through. Maybe Bigfoot will bring his guitar by. They say he can flatpick like Doc Watson.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
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