Vol. 64, September 5th, 2023 Published a day early online
Cherishing The Day
Welcoming September in Style
Labor Day has come and gone, and along with it, the summer. Ol’ mister Sun still fires his blast furnace through the month, but there’s something different in the air–a relaxing, a relenting.
The sweet autumn clematis starts to bloom along the waterside and in the green tangles, the sad sweet scent blending Last July and the summer a decade ago in the heavy air.
The changing of the seasons brings a nostalgia, and a new chirp from the crickets. I went back home for a day, strolling in the mellow sunshine with my father and brothers. We wandered down lanes we’d always walked, talked as we usually did, admiring the gardens and window boxes.
Shoppers in bright clothes bustled by on the main street while the trucks rumbled south, the music of the Everyday. Comfortable, casual conversation drifted about my ears, and I floated away for a moment. If the day were an apple, it would be a golden delicious. If this time of year had a word, it would be “cherish.”
Welcome, September!
Happy Birthday “On The Road”
Jack Kerouac’s second wife asked him his life story. Pea soup, pills, and a marathon writing session provided an answer. “On the Road” was published today, 1957.
The Late Harvest
Bees work to bring in the late summer wildflower nectar on a Labor Day Weekend.
Down the Rabbit Hole
For this week’s topic to research, try chasing down the evolution of the bicycle. Did you know that Queen Victoria owned a giant tricycle? (Although she might not have tried it.)
Quote of the Week
“I had noting to offer anybody except my own confusion.”
–Jack Kerouac
Music of the Week
Schumann “Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 54” Composed in 1845, this soaring yet poignant work is the perfect soundtrack should you need a bit of beauty in your day. Crank it!
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. #150)
Late Night Radio–Summer in a Roll
Appearing in the most recent Altavista Journal
Howdy, folks, and welcome back to the show. Thanks for sending the postcards. This is fun! (Keep an eye on your mailbox for a reply.) I’ve got a question for you. Have you ever worked in a fruitcake factory? I know it sounds like a joke, but seriously. I imagine the smell would make it feel like Christmas everyday, then Monday, and then fade entirely. Does the man in charge of mixing in the cherries ever stop to consider his work will be the pride of Aunt Marge’s table setting? Maybe he sprinkles them in with gusto, an unseen angel, knowing he’s making the holidays all the sweeter.
As you might imagine, with these strange ideas, I’m difficult to have on a job site. Friday was square bales in the hay field. Focusing on not botching it up, I behaved. But Saturday’s walk by the round bales planted a new thought: This is going to be a horse’s Christmas dinner. Whoa! Will he appreciate the fine taste of summer 2023, or chomp away, oblivious?
Think of all the ideas in that sweet dry hay, soaked in noon sunshine and summer moonlight: The slow burning sparks of fireflies rising from dewy grass, serenaded by the frog pond, the stillness of dawn broken by the neighbor’s truck heading off to the job; A hot wind rustling the blades that started the thunderstorm on the 4th of July. It almost blew me off Candler’s mountain. Dad always told his sons thunder was the sound of the sky trolls bowling, but I never reckoned on being a ninepin. All of that cut and baled, ready for the chilling rains and the December clouds to sweep in like a quilt for the mountain. Summer in a roll, ready for the horses, snug in the barn.
Ray Bradbury had a similar idea in Dandelion Wine, saying each bottle his grandfather put up captured one day of the summer of ‘28, ready to keep the faith through the bitter snows. That’s poetic, man. Fruitcake for horses is bizarre, but–betcha never look at a round bale the same. Fortunately, no work suffered for this daydream.
What a nice summer to give ‘em. The huckleberry leaves are turning a nice burnished red up by the hollow, the air piney-fresh as the late crew of crickets sing. There was a crescent moon out last night, the Man smiling down at the next batch of hay, raked, ready to be baled in a scrapbook of summer, 2023. I snuck a handful to an old stallion buddy. He approved, and that’s saying something.
Catch you on the flip side,
Josh
PS. If you’ve ever worked in a fruitcake factory, or would like to say “hay”, drop a line at PO box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588.