The editor must have ESP. Without ever seeing one of the usual Wednesday “Pre-apocalyptic Poetry” posts, she knew to keep an eye on me.
She leaned over her desk, pointed a finger at me, and said “don’t get fancy, ya hear?”
“Yes ma’am.”
I am thrilled about this project. Oh, I’ve wanted a column for years, but for selfish reasons. Lately, the world has me riveted, partly with genuine concern, and partly because the temptation to point out specks in neighbors’ eyes is eternal. The power of words becomes clearer, but so does the allure of idolatry, and the deadly trap of any writer: overvaluing one’s thoughts. (A glance through some national bestsellers should disabuse any author of the idea that more readers = better ideas.)
:)
Twitter is filled with the same. Sometimes, the absurdity of others reflects an uncomfortable light back to me. The self-improvement gurus wax shrill remarkably fast. Is “brutal honesty” a lazy excuse for lack of tact, a mask to cover deficiencies in the skill of persuasion?
I guess it always seems easier to fix the world than to do the dishes. At least that’s how it is for me.
A few weeks ago, I witnessed some especially ugly behavior (from someone I sometimes agree with), wrapped in a cloak of crusading truth. It got wedged in my mind, and repeated shakes of the head wouldn’t loosen it.
Later that day, I got the column gig. It wasn’t causal. I didn’t strike out to “do something about the national discourse.” It sort of…happened.
You can be assured that I’ll be on my toes to write from a place of service, of building, of constructive connection. You’re invited to keep an eye on me, and check me if I wander. The retirees do. A few of them left my talk yesterday when the rambling got out of hand. God bless ‘em.
And now…
Today’s column, appearing in the Altavista Journal and The Union Star
Late Night Radio – With Josh Urban
Welcome back to the show, folks. What's your favorite song? That question always stumps me, but around this time of year, I'd have to pick the sounds of nature.
When the sun rises, the swamp cicadas start to rattle in the trees. Hearing the first one of the season is a treat, like the first tomato or the first firefly. One sang last week as I loaded a turntable into the car. Summer is official now. Step aside, Beatles. A moment of appreciation for the bugs! (A fitting album to play would be The “Chirping” Crickets, Buddy Holly & The Crickets.)
Speaking of crickets, keep an ear out for the Katydids. They're back in the summer trees, an invisible symphony orchestra, playing the night away with tiny violins. Katy did, Katy didn't. The hotter the night, the faster the beat, as if an unseen conductor is waving with an imaginary baton, sweating. They're really rockin' it this July. If one visits your porch light, dig how much it looks like a lime green leaf with legs.
But of all the rock stars and maestros of the forests, the whippoorwill is my favorite. Sometimes one calls late at night, down by the creek. Hank Williams' glorious twang comes to mind.
“Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, he sounds too blue to fly.”
(Consider this a public service announcement, a reminder to play “I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry”.)
If you're like me, sneaking to the fridge in the middle of the night, stepping outside to take the air is doubly helpful: nobody hears the cookies crunch, and there's bound to be a nifty scene awaiting.
One night, it was a waning moon peeking through the pecan branches, and glancing off the barn roof. Away in the pines, a chuck-wills-widow (a relative of the whippoorwill) chirped his mysterious nocturnal call. Another cookie run the following night brought the sounds of a mockingbird running through his set list in the wee hours. Some folks say he imitates lots of songs to confuse would-be competitors to the territory.
“Listen to all these birds living here, we're all full up, go away.”
Another theory is the mockingbird sings to impress the lady birds, and the more songs he knows, the better. Maybe like Hank Williams, the whippoorwill down by the creek made him feel lonely, too. There he was, singing in the moonlight, practicing.
Do you have a favorite sound of the season? Let's talk songs and birds. Drop a line the old-fashioned way: PO Box 783, Rustburg, VA 24588, or say hello on the blue bird (Twitter) @RealJoshUrban
Keep an ear out, and catch you on the flip side.
- Josh
A column! How exciting! ;)
Thoughts to ponder! Since the beat of the Katydids song is temperature dependent via chemical reactions, how and why do the songs of the related Whippoorwill and Chuck-wills-widow differ. Is the song encoded by the bird's genetics, learned, or a little of both? If genetic, is there a chemical process behind the differences in the different musical notes of the song? Josh, I know that you like the beautiful song and so do I, but the scientist in me wonders what is the cause for these things we observe.