Yellow Dragon Fruit

While grocery shopping, Desiree and I came upon a small display of yellow dragon fruit. I’m always willing to try an unfamiliar fruit, so we chose three and tucked them in with the rest of our groceries.

Yellow dragon fruit is native to northern South America. Botanically, it is a climbing cactus that favors warm tropical climates, ranging from dry to humid.

The plant produces spectacular nocturnal blooms known as the Queen of the Night. Each creamy white flower can grow nearly a foot across and releases a sweet perfume into the evening air, an open invitation to nighttime pollinators like bats and moths.

Today, yellow dragon fruit is still grown primarily in South America, though smaller operations have appeared in Israel, Thailand, Vietnam, and parts of the United States where the climate behaves properly.

Inside, the fruit is exceptionally juicy and mild. It nearly dissolves on the tongue. I’ve always found red dragon fruit, beautiful as it is, to be largely flavorless. Yellow dragon fruit, however, has something to say. I like it.

Yellow Dragon Fruit

—Mitchell Hegman

Overrun by Accessories

I purchased an inexpensive underwater sport camera for an upcoming trip to the Philippines, and now I need to hire a team of scientists to put it together.

First order of business, I downloaded instructions from the interweb and read through them a bit. Actually, the camera itself isn’t terribly complicated; it’s standard stuff: charge the battery, format the SD card, set the electronic options to your liking. I can manage that, provided somebody smart (read: Desiree here) can help me if I get a brain cramp.

The mounting accessories are the impossibly complicated part of this toy. There are handfuls of weird parts with ears and knobs and shoes and clamps for mounting the camera to handlebars, helmets, vehicles, clothing, and possibly a UFO if you can catch one.

To simplify, I may just hold the camera in my hand while it’s tethered to my wrist. I’ve posted a photograph of the camera and its attendant accessories.

Camera and Accessories

—Mitchell Hegman

Stranded on Super Bowl Sunday

Somewhere in the gene pool, a glitch occurred when the selections for me were being sorted out. Now, all these years later, this mistake in human design has left me stranded on Super Bowl Sunday.

I won’t be watching the game. Here’s the thing: my genetic mistake makes watching football entirely tedious for me. Over the course of my life, I have watched, surrounded by others who were intensely thrilled, exactly one Super Bowl game. Aside from that, I once watched almost the entirety of a regular football game while captive at a bar in East Helena in the early 1980s.

The sport evades me. It strikes me as a lot of standing around, followed by brief, intense moments of people with helmets and numbers on them rioting whenever a football is picked up off the ground.

They migrate back and forth on a striped field doing this stuff.

Hmmm.

Instead of watching the game today, I’m going to walk around in the scattered timber below my house and look for chickadees. There seems to be a critical shortage of them this year.

—Mitchell Hegman

My New Habit

I’ve developed a new habit. I’ve started talking to the drivers of other cars as I negotiate traffic in town. Mind you, they can’t hear me. They’re in one car and I’m in another. And I’m not bellowing at them. I’m actually speaking in my calm, nurturing voice.

I coax them along:

“Pay attention, Dude… Stay in your lane… Right on red, Lady… Give me a signal… I go, then you go… Easy peasy… Take your proper turn at the four-way…”

When I’m driving alone, I talk my way through the entire trip. If I ever get in a wreck, I can already see myself explaining it to the responding police officer. “I told that guy not to pull out, officer. I said it twice.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Another Batch of Questions

• If, to save mankind, you had to eliminate one color from the visible spectrum, which color would you choose?
• When was the last time you impressed yourself?
• How many pennies can be found in the various catch-all places around your house?
• What is something you keep “just in case,” though you know that case will likely never arrive?
• Have you ever hidden something valuable in the freezer?
• What is your first thought when you see someone sporting a “Mom” tattoo?
• Is there anything hidden in your freezer right now?
• What household item do you own that has outlived its original purpose?
• What ordinary sound instantly pulls you back to a specific moment in your past?

—Mitchell Hegman

Question of the Day

How long would you be willing to drive around a crash-repaired car with a mismatched hood, two off-color fenders, and a missing front driver’s-side hubcap?

—Mitchell Hegman

Chaos

I must admit, I like some forms of chaos. For starters, I like some of the rocks strewn around my house, especially the ones my sapphire-mining neighbor, Blaze Wharton, calls chaos stone. I’ve posted a photograph of a specimen I unearthed on my property, a stone alive with swirling, unruly colors.

Good stuff.

For the last week or so, Desiree and I have been working on another challenging jigsaw puzzle. This one features a panda bear in a thicket of bamboo and is rife with disparate colors. Yesterday, and I’m still not quite sure how I pulled it off, I snapped together six pieces I consider pure chaos. Even assembled, they look wrong, as if they don’t belong anywhere in the larger picture. I set them aside as a little island of order and have yet to place them properly in the puzzle.

I like a good chaotic challenge now and then.

I’ve posted photographs of the puzzle and the chaos pieces.

Chaos Stone

Chaos Puzzle Pieces

The Puzzle

—Mitchell Hegman

The Middle of Nowhere

Back in February of 2018, the Washington Post, for no apparent good reason, used a massive travel-time database developed by Oxford researchers to ask a deceptively simple question: how far are Americans from civilization? For the study, they defined civilization as a metro area of at least 75,000 people. Using these criteria, roughly 98 percent of people in the contiguous United States are anchored within an hour’s drive of an urban area.

Surprising.

But the study also asked the inverse question: which town is the most remote?

The answer landed in northeastern Montana. As it turns out, Glasgow, a prairie town near the Canadian border, emerged as the most isolated town of its size in the lower forty-eight, roughly four and a half hours from a city in any direction. Once buoyed by a nearby Air Force base that closed in 1976, Glasgow now sits amid distances measured in hundreds of miles. To most, it looks like the middle of nowhere; to Montanans, it looks like room to breathe.

Photo: Google Maps

—Mitchell Hegman

Johnny Cash Meets Genghis Khan

Johnny Cash was building a tall post-and-pole fence on his property when Genghis Khan rode up on one of his horses. Reaching Johnny, he dismounted and studied the fence. It struck him as straight and sturdy, the kind of work expected to last.

“You have some skills,” Khan said. “Is the fence meant to keep things in or to keep things out?”

Johnny Cash nodded toward the horse. “I need to hold a pair of those inside.”

Genghis Khan smiled at that. “Our Mongol war horses carried us to victory, but two horses would never do. Each warrior rode three to five horses in rotation, so no single mount was worn down while crossing long lands.”

Johnny grinned. “I’m not planning any conquest beyond the fence.”

“I understand. There is no need. Our achievements already stand,” Genghis Khan said. “What do you consider your greatest success?”

Johnny didn’t pause. “That’s easy. My love and partnership with June Carter.”

“You fell into her burning ring of fire.”

“Happily,” Johnny said. “And it centered me.”

They talked a while longer as clouds slid overhead. At length, Genghis Khan swung back onto his horse and rode off beside the stretch of newly completed fence, the posts standing straight behind him.

—Mitchell Hegman

Lacking the Salt

February has arrived, but the weather is behaving badly. Here, the forecast calls for temperatures in the 50s over the next few days, which is a curious development for a month better known for shoving us down to -30, and occasionally into the -40s. At the same time, the eastern and southeastern parts of the country are being hammered by a bomb cyclone, delivering record snow and cold with little restraint.

You’ve likely heard the old saying, “he doesn’t have the salt.” It’s usually reserved for someone who softens when things harden, someone who looks capable right up until the moment endurance is required. The phrase comes from a time when salt meant survival more than flavor. Long before it sat on tables, salt preserved meat through winter, sustained armies on the move, and kept bodies from failing under heat and labor. To lack salt was to weaken or spoil, and over time it became a way of describing people who simply don’t hold together under pressure.

In some of the places now getting battered, salt is used to melt and clear ice from the roads, and they quite literally don’t have enough of it to fight their way through the storm. Meanwhile, if you stop by a local grocery store here today, you may spot a few residents wandering the aisles in shorts.

—Mitchell Hegman

Importing Part of the Islands to Montana

If you marry a tropical island girl from the Philippines and then drag her off to far-north Montana, you should expect to adopt a few houseplants as part of the deal. Island girls love plants, and in all likelihood, you will end up with some that produce edible parts or fruit and some that hang around just looking pretty.

None of this qualifies as a bad thing in my estimation. I like a friendly plant.

Desiree, not one to shirk her island girl duties, has filled our sunroom and available window spaces throughout the house. We have nurtured indoor tomatoes, eggplants, lemongrass, a lime tree, a lemon tree, and hordes of what I consider “non-game” species. You know, the merely decorative ones. Among these are several orchids.

Orchids range from finicky to persnickety in matters of care. They have their own regimens to adhere to: watering with ice cubes, keeping savage light at a distance, and providing a soft touch with fertilizer. And, for those unaware, regular old dirt can kill an orchid.

Recently, to please a pair of rather muscular orchids, we had to import part of the islands here to Montana in the form of chipped coconut husks, ideal stuff for transplanting orchids.

Fortunately, I can leave all these island details to Desiree. My skinny old Christmas cactus is fine with standard-issue potting soil.

Coconut Husk Chips

—Mitchell Hegman

Touching the Walls

There are occasions when weird things are in order. One of those occasions arrives while driving across Montana on the Interstate highway system. To be more precise, it involves stopping to use the bathroom. And drilling down further, it has to do with the walls inside some of the newer rest areas.

I actually get excited as we approach them. If I’m traveling with someone new, I always offer a bit of instruction: “When we go inside, you have to touch the walls.”

“What?” is the usual response.

“You have to touch the walls. Just trust me.”

So far, nearly everyone who has followed through has been impressed. Many of them make a habit of touching the walls on every return visit.

The rest area walls are a tactile incongruity. They’re made of concrete block, so you expect cold and abrasive. Instead, they’re warm and soft. Almost velvety. The blocks have been sprayed with a clear finish that completely transforms the surface.

I highly recommend getting a little weird and touching the walls if you visit any of the new rest stops along our interstates. I’ve posted a photo of Desiree doing just that at the westbound rest stop near Columbus, Montana.

—Mitchell Hegman

Knowing Where You Are

Desiree and I are spending our last day in Colstrip, a town thoroughly steeped in the coal industry. It isn’t just home to a coal-fired power plant; it’s encompassed by coal mines as well, a virtual hub of industry. And in case you somehow lose track of where you are, the motel where we’re staying offers a helpful reminder: a sign posted beside the door leading into the common hallway. I’ve shared a photograph of it so you can see for yourself, just in case you needed the confirmation.

Entry Door Sign

—Mitchell Hegman

Driving “The Big Open”

Montana is known for its mountains. In fact, the name Montana is derived from the Spanish word montaña, which in turn comes from the Latin montanea, meaning “mountain” or, more broadly, “mountainous country.”

But mountains are only half the story. Drive east for an hour or two after crossing the Continental Divide and you may pass an island mountain range or two, but eventually you will find yourself in the “Big Open.” This is country that surrenders the vertical ambitions of the western half of the state and applies itself instead to horizontal expanses and a sky that feels structurally vital. At times it is all sky, save for the two-lane highway threading ahead into what feels like the nearest thing to infinity.

Yesterday, Desiree and I drove nearly six hours east, much of it through the Big Open, to reach Colstrip, Montana. There is something to love about not encountering another car on the highway for nearly an hour and passing through tiny towns where a single grain elevator serves as standard bearer. We drove through river bottoms and badlands, alongside ragged ravines, and across broad plains.

I am not opposed to this sky-bound country.

Not at all.

I have posted a “driving on” photograph taken through the windshield of our car as we sailed into the widening landscape.

Driving On

—Mitchell Hegman

When You Have a Beautiful Wife

 

This is brief, lovely, and entirely to the point. Don’t miss the video I am sharing today:

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/shorts/RTPDDeRat2A

—Mitchell Hegman

Miracles

Desiree and I have been watching a series called The Surgeon’s Cut. The series documents brilliant surgeons on the leading edge of skill and technology in whatever their chosen specialty may be. Honestly, these are people performing miracles.

Watching one of these surgeons perform life-or-death surgery on a baby still inside the womb, with exactly no room for error, I thought about the way I have remodeled various rooms around the house. All the miscalculations. Boards cut too short. Nails and screws missing the mark. Long pauses, staring at the wall, trying to figure out what comes next.

You should feel profoundly grateful I’m not your surgeon.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Hidden Dangers of Water Softening Systems

Once again, the title I’ve tagged to this blog delivers a glancing blow to accuracy. Per usual, the problem I’m about to expose is less about my soft water system and more about me.

First, a brief look at water softening systems. They’re tasked with removing minerals that make domestic water “hard.” They do this by passing raw water through a tank filled with resin beads that attract and hold those minerals. Over time, the system saturates with what I will call “gunk” and requires flushing. Salt is the agent used for that flushing. To that end, I’m regularly required to purchase and pour salt pellets into a plastic tank feeding the system.

A problem called “bridging” sometimes occurs inside the salt tank. Bridging happens when water causes the loose salt to form a solid crust or mass, making transfer into the beads ineffective.

On occasion, this bridged salt must be broken apart. This is where you enter Mitch, stage left. And this is where the danger comes in.

Yesterday, my tool of choice for breaking up the salt was a long, serrated bread knife.

One could argue that a knife of any kind should never be my tool of choice for anything, but we are well beyond that point. I’ll spare you the precise details of what followed. Let’s just say serrated knives, salt, and Mitch form a disadvantaged mix. As you can see in the photograph I’ve posted, I now have a bandage on the pinky finger of my left hand. And finally, that thing they say about salt in the wound. I can confirm the accuracy of that claim.

—Mitchell Hegman

Updated Self-Assessment

Here is my latest self-assessment. I am as follows:

• 10% looking for my smartphone
• 5% cowlicks
• 5% making retractions
• 20% doing chores around the house
• 10% wading through trash on the internet
• 20% stuck thinking about electrical stuff
• 5% wanting to start a fire
• 5% happy my shirt is not inside-out
• 20% listening to Americana and rock music

And, to toss proper math out the window, I’m 100% enamored with Desiree Hegman.

—Mitchell Hegman

One Moment, Two Leaves

A chill wind unbound two of last year’s fallen linden leaves from the grass and sent them skittering across the drive, only to catch on the grass on the far side. Now they remain there, clutching one another. As witness to this, I am to find meaning, and I find none.

This has nothing to do with love, or worldly events, or the magpie that unfurled and sailed over at the same time. This is simply two leaves sent forth only to get stuck in a new place.

This is something that is nothing.

—Mitchell Hegman

Panic Mode

Some time ago, we established two truths. First, bacon is the duct tape of food. You can fix pretty much anything with it. Second, as my friend Gary suggested, it’s never too early to panic. Given that, let’s talk about my last shopping trip to Costco.

Costco carries a product I require on a regular basis: bacon bits, in particular 1.25 lb. bags of Kirkland Brand bacon crumbles. These are the Mona Lisa of bacon bits. We are talking pure art here.

And this is where the panic part comes in. On my last shopping excursion to Costco, I couldn’t find the crumbles. I made two rounds through the section of the store where I normally find them. As it now stands, I’m down to my last partial bag.

I don’t want to say I panicked in the all-in Scooby-Doo sense, but an argument could be made for something just a notch less than that.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Magnetic Storm

As a G4 geomagnetic storm unfurled curtains of aurora across the night skies north of us this week, a less visible drama was also underway. On Monday, Jan. 19, Earth felt the strongest solar radiation storm since 2003. From a sudden rupture on the sun, charged particles were hurled outward at near-relativistic speeds, crossing the 93-million-mile dark in minutes to under an hour. Some slipped through Earth’s magnetic guard, sliding along invisible lines toward the poles, where they vanished into the upper air, a reminder that we orbit not a lamp but a restless, convulsing star.

While these magnetic events can be disruptive to satellites and the power grid, they are also beautiful to behold, triggering a mad dance of colorful northern lights. Last night, we witnessed another display thanks to the geomagnetic storm. I missed the most intense colors by a minute or two, but managed an image of Desiree on the deck watching the storm. Please note, the strange object in the upper left is a wind sculpture hanging from the overhang of the house, not a UFO.

Desiree on the Deck

—Mitchell Hegman

Lake Ice

I should have titled this “Lack of Lake Ice,” considering present circumstances.

I have lived along Hauser Lake since 1991. In previous winters, ice typically sheathed over the entire lake surface sometime before Christmas. It arrived reliably, easing its way across the water until the lake settled entirely for the season.

Now, here we are having reached January 20, following weeks of abnormally warm weather, and a section of the lake remains open not far from my lakefront. It’s an unfinished thought, a dark patch that looks like it’s still deciding whether winter applies this year.

Canyon Ferry, Holter, and Lake Helena also feature open water. None of them seem quite ready to commit.

At the same time, frigid temperatures and brutal winter storms have charged in and overtaken the eastern half of the country. Winter, it seems, went east and performed with conviction. Out here, we are essentially upside-down in our weather, watching the season happen somewhere else.

Strange stuff.

I have posted a photograph of the lake just below my house.

Open Water on Hauser Lake

—Mitchell Hegman

Naked With Angry Bees

Desiree and I watched an episode of Naked and Afraid filmed on the island of Palawan, the same island in the Philippines we visited in 2024. It’s a stunningly beautiful place, but experiencing it naked rather puts a twist on things. To further add to the weirdity (my word), the pair of naked survivalists attacked a thriving beehive to steal honey.

Full disclosure: I would not attack a beehive fully clothed, even if I were second in line. But I will share a photo of the island where the beehive attack took place. Please note, the beautiful red speck on the beach is our Desiree. Finally, if you go there, wear your clothes.

Palawan Island

—Mitchell Hegman

The Order of Things

The order of things goes as follows: wake up, kiss wifey, plow through the day, kiss wifey, go to bed.

It’s difficult to tinker with this order. Plowing through the day and then waking up is impractical, if not potentially dangerous. If you go to sleep first, you can’t effectively kiss wifey. I don’t want to wake up and then straightaway plow through the day without kissing wifey.

But I think I can work with this: kiss wifey, kiss wifey, let the rest fall where they may.

—Mitchell Hegman

My Personal Wishlist for 2026

Following are a few modest things I want this year:

• I want to see somebody else named Mitch achieve worldwide fame, because we need more noteworthy Mitches.
• Bigger huckleberries.
• Give me one full month where I don’t either jam a finger, stub a toe, or bonk my head on something.
• If I have to cohabit with spiders, I want little, short-legged jumping spiders to replace all the creepy, all-legs-and-hair spiders in my house, because jumping spiders are as cute as arachnids get.
• Find a use for the roll of tar paper in my garage.
• I want to listen to Johnny Horton singing The Battle of New Orleans on an LP record while I watch the turntable spin, a stack of my Legos riding at its center, rotating along just as it did when I was seven or eight.
• See a change in internet query algorithms so Montana is not the first mention when I search for information on “aggressive house spiders.”
• Find an amendment in the governing rules that allows me to reach the end of a rainbow.
• Give me a morning when nothing needs fixing, explaining, adjusting, or improving, and everything is allowed to be exactly what it is.

—Mitchell Hegman

Advanced Age

I’m creeping up on the age of seventy. I can’t even write it in numerals because it looks too big. This stage of life is sometimes called “advanced age” or “young-old age,” but neither quite clears the bar. In practical terms, I’m nearing an age where breaking in a new baseball cap might be the hardest thing I do all day.

—Mitchell Hegman

One Fire at a Time

The Second Law of Thermodynamics states that in an isolated system, entropy (decay) tends to increase over time. Order leaks away. Structures relax. Neat stacks of this and that slide toward cosmic untidiness.

This is where I enter stage left. I love to contribute to the work of the Second Law of Thermodynamics by way of fire. At present, I am unwinding the universe daily inside my woodstove. My fires disassemble carefully fashioned chunks of tree and spread stored energy outward in the form of heat, light, and motion, all of which disperse into the room, up the chimney, into the sky, and eventually into the cosmos.

Good, destructive stuff.

At the same time, Desiree and I dry towels next to the stove. Bathed in heat, we piece together puzzles while exporting disorder through the stovepipe and leaving the distant stars to embrace the cold.

And don’t forget a sip of Cold Smoke beer for one more internal contribution to decay.

—Mitchell Hegman

Amended Rules for Deer

Living with deer can be frustrating because they like to eat everything from decorative plants to shade trees. When I first moved out into the country (let’s call it Deerville), I thought I would establish a few modest rules. You know, things such as: no eating wifey’s lilies, no nibbling at my saplings, no munching on the native currant bushes.

Well, the deer ruffled me by not playing along at all. I grudgingly realized I could best avoid frustration by amending the rules. By amending them, I mean softening them to a point where it’s easy for the deer to abide by them. To that end, I’ve pretty much whittled all the rules down to a single agreement: that they don’t bound up onto my back deck and eat my stack of woodstove kindling. They can have their way with the rest.

With the proper rules established, we get along swimmingly.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Little Thing

While browsing cooking supplies and utensils at CHEF’STORE, I stumbled upon a little thing that clearly didn’t belong. Inside an aluminum pot on display sat a tiny yellow plastic ducky, placed there with soft intention.

I love this kind of random, incongruous surprise. I always wonder about the story behind it. In this case, I imagine a small child standing somewhere near the beginning of the tale. Beyond that, the details dissolve.

Sadly, I didn’t have a Cold Smoke beer with me to pose alongside the ducky as a proper size reference. Still, I managed a quick photograph before leaving the ducky exactly where it was.

Thanks for making my day, plastic ducky.

A Little Thing

—Mitchell Hegman

In the Name of Cooking

As I mentioned before, Desiree and I have been watching a Korean cooking series called Culinary Class Wars. It’s a cooking competition where 80 local cooks (the “Black Spoon” contestants) go head-to-head with 20 renowned celebrity chefs (the “White Spoon” contestants) for a shot at culinary fame and respect.

Some of the dishes prepared are not exactly to my taste, but the variety of ideas and cooking methods is impressive for every challenge. I also get a kick out of the nicknames given to some of the competing chefs. The following are a few examples:

Culinary Monster

Witch With a Wok

Barbecue Lab Director

Three Star Killer

Iron Arms

I told chef Desiree we need to come up with a tag for her. I like the name “Pancit Queen.” Desiree favors “Cooking Godzilla.” Either way, I think she would have a serious shot at winning a cooking competition like this, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the judges learned her name early.

—Mitchell Hegman

Emergency Lights

I am forever dazzled by the simplest solution to a problem. The leap from can openers to pull tabs is a perfect example. Now consider the familiar problem of losing power at night and being plunged, without ceremony, into darkness.

The old solutions: kerosine lamps, flashlights, maybe an emergency generator with some manner of power transfer. But what if the same LED bulb you screw into a lamp for reading, knitting, or botching your crossword after a second glass of wine could also serve as an emergency light? What if it quietly charged itself every time you used the lamp as usual?

That solution already exists.

Yesterday, Desiree and I picked up a pack of Power Reserve light bulbs, each capable of producing up to ten hours of light when the grid fails. I’ve posted a photograph of Desiree holding one of the bulbs, lit entirely by its own battery.

The Emergency Bulb at Work

Power Preserve Box

—Mitchell Hegman

Buckets

 

I have a five-gallon bucket problem. And the problem is, I need more of them.

I would classify myself as “bucket reliant,” verging on “bucket obsessed.” While I have salvaged most of my buckets from construction sites and from products I purchased that came with them, I am perfectly willing (and have) purchased them outright at the hardware store.

What follows is an accounting of my buckets as of today:

• 2 buckets reserved for changing filters and water in my hot tub.
• 2 buckets for potting soil or collecting rocks.
• 2 buckets for hauling split lengths of firewood.
• 1 bucket for kindling.
• 1 bucket for chainsaw oil and assorted chainsaw appurtenances.
• 1 bucket for weed eater and chainsaw fuel.
• 1 bucket used as a utility trash can.
• 1 “roving” bucket that is presently being used for collecting ash from the woodstove.

And, on another list, five-gallon buckets place number two on my personal top three non-tool items of supreme utility, which goes as follows:

1. Duct tape
2. Five-gallon buckets
3. WD-40

As mentioned earlier, I need more buckets. I would like to have at least two more empty contingency buckets on hand, because experience suggests that an unassigned bucket is never unassigned for long.

—Mitchell Hegman

Plato Versus Play-Doh

Let’s do a quick recap. Plato is an absolute giant in the realm of Western reasoning. A student of Socrates and the teacher of Aristotle, he wrote philosophy as dialogue rather than decree, allowing ideas to argue, falter, and refine themselves in full view. His work stretched across mathematics, the natural world, morality, and political theory, laying foundations that nearly every branch of Western thought still leans on today.

Play-Doh, by contrast, is a brightly colored modeling compound designed for small hands and short attention spans. It began life in 1930s Cincinnati as a wallpaper cleaner before being rebranded for school classrooms in the 1950s and eventually landing on department store shelves nationwide.

Plato, Play-Doh. Easy to confuse, apparently.

Officials at Texas A&M University College of Arts and Sciences seem to have done exactly that. In an effort that feels more like housekeeping than scholarship, they recently flagged and banned portions of Plato’s work that touch on gender and sexuality, as though philosophy were a toy aisle where inconvenient pieces can simply be removed. This is not just confounding; it misunderstands the purpose of critical thinking itself. You don’t get to keep the questions that feel safe and discard the ones that make you uneasy. That isn’t education. That’s shaping dough and calling it reason.

—Mitchell Hegman

In the Ground, Out of Mind

There is something deadly in the ground here in Montana. Not slithering or leggy things. Not lethal gases. I’m talking about missiles tipped with nuclear warheads, planted in silos deep in the ground.

At present, the United States operates a land-based ICBM force made up of some 400 Minuteman III missiles. These missiles are deployed in hardened silos across several states. About 150 of those deployed Minuteman III ICBMs are in the ground in Montana, and a fair chunk of those are planted along the Front Range of the Rockies, within an hour-or-so drive from my house. They have been there, marked by fenced-in squares of sterilized ground, since I was a boy.

Most days, I don’t consider them. Just over the mountains, where the Great Plains take grasses from the foothills and carry them east as far as the eye can travel, where the land feels wide and ordinary. It’s easy to forget what rests beneath it. There, set cold and metallic deep into the earth, missiles tipped with atomic warheads idle in a low electronic hum, waiting.

They wait with a patience that outlasts generations, more enduring than memory itself. They wait for a day no one wants to name. And if that day ever comes, they will warm and brighten below the Montana plains and rise from the soil like long, streaking swords. Somewhere far to the north, others may rise to meet them, and the sky will briefly remember what the ground has been holding all along.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Hundred Years of Baby Names

 Top 3 Girl Names in 2025 (Generation Beta)

1. Olivia
2. Amelia
3. Sophia

Top 3 Boy Names in 2025 (Generation Beta)

1. Noah
2. Liam
3. Oliver

Top 3 Girl Names in 1975 (Latchkey Generation)

1. Jennifer
2. Amy
3. Heather

Top 3 Boy Names in 1975 (Latchkey Generation)

1. Michael
2. Jason
3. Christopher

Top 3 Girl Names in 1925 (Greatest Generation)

1. Mary
2. Dorothy
3. Betty

Top 3 Boy Names in 1925 (Greatest Generation)

1. John
2. William
3. James

—Mitchell Hegman

Television Crossover

Artificial intelligence (AI) is still negotiating its way around the learning curve. On occasion, an input might cause AI to swerve a little wildly. The other day, for example, an AI-generated police report claimed an officer from Herber City, Utah, was turned into a frog while answering a call.

Back in December, the Heber City Police Department started using a pair of AI programs, Draft One and Code Four, to automatically generate police reports from body camera footage. The frog issue occurred when, on a call, in addition to recording the words and actions of an officer, a camera also picked up a nearby television, which happened to be playing the movie The Princess and the Frog. AI, being ever-diligent in its transcribing work habits, tied everything into a nice, neat package and then turned the officer into a frog in the ensuing official report.

While a great deal of labor is saved using AI, the officers now know a certain level of oversight is required to keep their reports from drifting into fairy tales.

—Mitchell Hegman

Source: UPI

At the Back Door

It didn’t arrive all at once. I can’t say when or how it settled in, but at some point it became important to me that I appreciate the look of the curtains at our back door.

I didn’t set out to notice them; I just did.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Seaweed Notification

I learned a new thing and, as a general courtesy, I’d like to share it with you. Here it is: Korean seaweed tastes just as seaweedy as any other seaweed.

You’re welcome.

—Mitchell Hegman

My Ground

I recently had a conversation about septic systems with a gentleman I bumped into. I’m just odd enough to find septic systems, and conversations about them, quietly interesting. I’ll spare you most of the details of our chat, but I will mention that the soil type at the drain field is a huge consideration. The ideal soil for a septic drain field is deep, well-drained loamy or sandy loam soil with moderate permeability that allows wastewater to percolate slowly and evenly for proper treatment.

When our conversation turned to the soil, the gentleman asked, “What’s your soil like?”

I laughed. “Oh, I don’t have any of that. I live on a pile of rocks.”

I regularly make this claim about where I live, and I suspect most people assume I’m joking, but I’m not. My “ground” is mostly river-washed cobbles with an occasional run of sand, left behind by ancient waters.

Pretty rocks, I grant you.

To show you what I mean, I trotted outside and took a photograph of the ground not far from my house.

My Version of Topsoil

—Mitchell Hegman