Spring At The Gallery

A Warbler Nighthawk + Living "The Great American Novel"

Vol. 203, May 5th, 2026 Published a day early online

Spring At The Gallery

I used to go down to the old city, climb the marble steps of the art gallery, and pretend to be sophisticated. Now I walk up through hayfields to visit the mountain, and pretend to be wild. Maybe we’re all just visitors here.

In those stone halls of rare paintings, I’d catch snatches of unknown languages flitting through the air. The world’s echo thrilled me. Now, on the mountain, in the fresh air and trees and fleeting spring flowers, another tourists’ accent catches my ear. Something unknowable, speaking of midnight skies and tropical lands and lush northern forests: the wood warblers start their spring migration. These tiny birds sport their traveling best, brilliant plumage of gold and tangerine and cerulean, offset by the latest trends in charcoal.

After wintering in Central America, they head back to Canadian woods to build nests deep in the spruces. They stop by my town to forage for a week or two, probably turning up their fancy foreign beaks at the local fare. Ew, caterpillars again.

Keep an ear out for their buzzy songs, distinct from the locals. There’s mysterious in their accent, ephemeral as the spring breeze.

Old-Fashioned Roses

Transplanted successfully, old stock blooms afresh, perfuming the gentle May morning by the porch.

Carol’s Appalachian Word of the Week

Tickled (pleased). “I’m really tickled to be invited.”

Cinco de Mayo

Gen. Zaragoza sticks it to the French at the Battle of Puebla today, 1862. Strangely, the holiday is bigger in the USA. Mexican Independence day is on September 16th.

It’s also the day my grandmother arrived. (On earth, not in Mexico.) Happy birthday, Granny!

The Good Word

“The fruit of the righteous is a tree of life.”

–Proverbs 11:30, KJV

Book of the Week

The Great Gatsby

(F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1925)

Speaking of Great American Novels (see Letters from Josh), have you read Gatsby lately? What a gem of the jazz age.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

A Place To Write Back

The Nighthawk is a new old-fashioned way to connect: neighbors writing neighbors. We’re real people, with real things to say. Does one of our stories remind you of one of yours? Drop a line: P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588

Letters from Josh

(A weekly update from Josh Urban’s adventures on the farm and in the city. #283)

Appearing in the Altavista Journal, etc.: The Great American Novel

Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show! Sometimes it’s a joke, sometimes a half-threat, sometimes a compliment. That’s going in the novel. What a parade life is. Who needs reality TV? We have windows. And one day, I’m going to write it all down.

As the 250th birthday approaches, I’ve been wondering: What is America? In a way, it’s a government, but something has happened to the American Dream. No matter how we vote, we get the same thing: war, poverty, predators. That’s another can of worms, but the good news: a country is more than bureaucrats and faceless three-letter agencies.

So I’m focusing on the fabric of our nation–the land, and the people.

Once upon a time, a man named Robert May wanted to write the next Great American Novel (think The Great Gatsby), but got stuck penning advertisements for men’s shirts at Montgomery Ward. He wound up inventing Rudolph The Red Nose Reindeer. Not too shabby.

I’d like to write my own Great someday, but when I look around, I realize I’m living in it. Barbara would be one chapter. In her 80s, she arrives at church each Sunday, places her carefully-prepared hymnal on the upright piano, arranges a few pages, and begins. The light streams in through the stained glass, purple, blue, yellow, green. Her playing mingles with the hum of voices, inviting us to worship with some timeless song both as fresh and as old as the sunbeams. She’s my favorite pianist. If you were to make a movie about a little country church where people work hard and pray hard and make a mean casserole, you’d cast Barbara for the actress and the soundtrack.

The kind-hearted HR ladies would be another chapter. They were crawling around in a greasy parking lot yesterday on a rescue mission, alternately cooing and cursing at the stray kitten lurking under cars. “Tammy, let me at him. Your clothes are nicer than mine” I said.

“Nah, they’re already done. OH there he is. Now he’s back up in the engine.” They finally saved him.

The chapters continue: the New York bus driver and the personality of his hat, the zealous astrology girl yelling about Saturn, the chimney sweep dancing aloft with no rope and a cigar, the cashier kid doing accents at the night gas station, the artist who sees colors everywhere like a bee would, and the children who all deserve a future.

Oh, I could go on, and someday, I will. But for now, I’m living this book.

“Don’t leave your bike in the rain, Josh.” That was the rule. Now I don’t leave my bike in the rain because I understand. I don’t want it to rust. Noticing the Everyday seems similar. Attention is the first step to appreciate, to value, to cherish. And perhaps that’s a way to restore.

America, what a book you are. Keep writing that great story.

Catch you on the flip side,

Josh

Send postcards and hymns to P.O. Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588 or on X @RealJoshUrban