It’s the Berries

In the end, the Townsend Solitaire wins.

If you are unfamiliar, the Solitaire is a somewhat bratty, juniper-berry-obsessed bird. Gray in color and quick on the wing, it’s a member of the thrush family, which includes the Western Bluebird and the American Robin. Here in Montana, these slim gray birds don’t bother migrating. Instead, they overwinter in the scrub and survive almost entirely on juniper berries. But they don’t just eat them: they stake claims. A single Solitaire will pick a cluster of juniper bushes in the fall and defend it with unwavering conviction, chasing away any bird or any innocent passerby (read “Mitch” here) that wanders too close to its chosen stash.

I am familiar with this because solitaires have been staking claims on my property for as long as I can remember. Typically, I see them perched high in the ponderosa trees or junipers so they can watch over their holding of juniper berries.

Theirs is a simple strategy: “It’s the berries, stupid.”

Given the abundance of juniper here, these birds thrive. While other nearby species have struggled to maintain stable populations, the Townsend Solitaire has held firm.

Both last year and this year, a Solitaire has included my house in its area of claim. So far, we’ve gotten along swimmingly.

Photo: Jonathon Jongsma

—Mitchell Hegman

More Valuable

Perhaps the earth underfoot is worth more now that it has swallowed Robbie.

This is by Robbie’s own accounting, of course. In a practical way of thinking (as opposed to the emotional), Robbie imagined he would be more valuable if he swallowed things of value.

As near as I can tell, a realistic 2025 estimate for the elemental value of a human body is around $130–$150, assuming you’re just breaking it down into its basic elements—oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and our weird mix of trace minerals.

That’s not terribly valuable, and maybe that’s what Robbie considered when, at the age of about ten, he swallowed a small piece of flint he’d found on one of our excursions into the open fields near our hometown. “There,” he said, “now I’m worth something.”

Looking back, I realize that swallowing sharp rocks is likely not the best idea, but at ten years old such judgments are unreachable. At the time, there seemed a firm logic to his thinking.

I lost track of Robbie as we entered our teens. Perhaps he escalated to swallowing sapphires and gold to appropriately increase his value. I can’t be sure. But he passed not long ago and the ground swallowed him. Surely the earth is more valuable when it swallows your friends.     

—Mitchell Hegman

Band Strategy

Every jigsaw puzzle requires a unique strategy, or a mix of strategies, for piecing it together. We’re talking about all the normal stuff: starting with assembling the edge pieces, sorting pieces to your liking, finding and assembling them based on color, and letting the shapes speak to you.

Then come the bigger-picture tactics. Maybe you chase the sky first. Maybe a little house, a moose, or a boat catches your eye. Whatever the focus, most puzzles end up the same way: scattered islands slowly appear within the borders and then gradually connect as you hover over the table, feeding pieces in.

Good stuff.

The puzzle we are presently working on is strange. The usual methods don’t form islands at all. As you assemble pieces, they march you straight into building rows and then full-length bands across the entire scene of Emerald Lake. It comes together almost like a loom weaving a rug: one tidy row followed by another, the whole thing sliding into place with notable orderliness.

I find the weird organization of this puzzle satisfying. It feels more mechanical than organic.

Emerald Lake

—Mitchell Hegman

A Little Jazz

As part of the remodel for our small bathroom, we opted to add small, dark brown trim pieces to the existing whitewashed pine crown trim at the edge of the ceiling. It’s not much, just adding a little jazz to the simple lines of the existing wood.

We’re pleased with the results. The room feels decidedly different with just that small addition. It’s like adding racing stripes to a muscle car.

Crown Before Adding Trim

Crow After Adding Trim

The Bathroom as of Today

—Mitchell Hegman

The Clothes Dryer Riot

I’ve never been in or near a riot. But I’ve spent plenty of time partying in the bars of East Helena on rodeo nights, which may be as close as you can get to one without courting substantial jail time. As a kid, I also survived recess at a Catholic grade school—an experience that ranged from raucous to downright lawless.

Last night we stumbled into another near riot right here at the house, at least the audible version of one. After washing two pairs of tennis shoes, we tossed them into the clothes dryer for a spin.

Oh my. Even with towels pitched in to soften the blows, it sounded as if sofas and lounge chairs were slam dancing inside a barrel.

A quick life hack: after washing your tennis shoes, let them air-dry on a sunny sidewalk.

—Mitchell Hegman

Smashed Dinner

Desiree smashed last night’s dinner. I’m not talking about mashing it by some mechanical contrivance. I mean she literally stood atop our dinner and wiggled to squash it flat. This is not as crazy as it sounds. The idea was to make a thick shell from pre-cooked small potatoes pressed between two cupcake pans.

I need to preface the next part of our story by mentioning that this is exactly the sort of thing that makes me love Desiree unconditionally. Here it is: the next step is where she filled the cups with cheese and bacon bits.

Pure brilliance, this.

I’ve posted three photographs documenting our smashed dinner.

Desiree Smashing Our Dinner

Small Potatoes Mashed Into the Pan

Potato Cups Filled with Cheese and Bacon Bits

—Mitchell Hegman

Falling Stars

Somewhere north of 2:00 AM I woke with a start. The tail end of a sound had just whipped past me. A single, strange rush of air. Not a bump. Not a clunk. Not anything metallic or fleshy. Just one odd sweep and then silence.

As I lay there in the predawn dark, I rather quickly surmised that whatever it was, it wasn’t dangerous. Something that weird almost had to be harmless. I figured daylight would sort it out.

Late the following afternoon, Desiree found her window display of lighted plastic stars collapsed onto the sill and spilled to the floor. And, there, our answer. I had been awakened by the sound of falling stars.

Our Fallen Stars

—Mitchell Hegman