If you know me, you know I am not a litter-bug. Far from it. On my first date with that girl a couple years ago, we hiked into Crow Creek Falls. I ended up filling my backpack with litter I picked up along the way in and on the way out. On our Sunday drive a couple weeks ago, I stopped on the backroads and pitched a few littered cans and bottles into the back of my truck. On Friday of last week, that girl, I, and our cabin neighbors picked litter from a mile stretch of Highway 200 near Lincoln, Montana.
Yesterday, the tables turned on me.
I became a litter-bug.
I have an explanation. It was not technically me.
While driving home along the Frontage Road, I rolled down the windows on both sides of my truck to allow the sweet new-grass-and-spring-tree scent to swirl around me. What swirled around me—instead—was a loose plastic grocery bag the wind picked up from someplace on the floor.
The bag circled right around me, snapping, and was then violently sucked outside. I saw the bag in my review mirror as it whipped across the road, sailed over the barrow, sailed over an irrigation canal, and sailed over a fence into a field of new green.
No retrieving that.
A pox on my record.--Mitchell Hegman