A Single Feather

I’m incapable of passing up a feather. If I chance upon a feather lying on the ground, I feel compelled to sweep it up and examine the colors and patterns, and then drag it like a soft file against my wrist. Feathers are invariably pretty. The standards iridescent. The structures impeccable, sometimes otherworldly.

Interestingly, a feather grows the opposite manner to a tree. A tree grows new at the top, while a feather grows new at the bottom. Trees add height and reach through their tips, where buds at the ends of branches and the crown extend upward into the light. Feathers, by contrast, push out from follicles in the skin, with fresh cells forming at the base and older material carried upward until the feather unfurls to full length. One reaches higher by stretching at its topmost points, the other by building steadily from its root.

Yesterday, I found a feather near my back door—a northern flicker feather, by my best estimation. That’s a woodpecker, for those of you from my lovely smelterite-filled neighborhood in East Helena, Montana.

Northern flickers are strikingly attired and sure to catch your eye. They also overwinter in our rumpled swath of Montana. For that, I give them due credit. At the same time, they can prove a pest. They are not opposed to pecking away at the exterior of a house if they appreciate the sound it makes or suspect dinner is someplace inside. A few years ago, one of our local flickers took to hanging out with a rowdy band of magpies that regularly descended upon my yard.

Interesting stuff, that. And the feather I picked up is interesting enough that I placed it on a shelf in my den.

The Feather

Northern Flicker (Photo: Audubon)

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Sitting Bull Said

Sitting Bull (c. 1831–1890) was a Hunkpapa Lakota Sioux leader, warrior, and spiritual figure best known for uniting the Plains tribes against U.S. government policies that threatened their land and way of life. Revered for his wisdom and courage, he played a central role in the resistance leading to the Battle of the Little Bighorn in 1876, where Lakota and Cheyenne forces defeated General George Custer’s troops. Though later forced to surrender, Sitting Bull remained a symbol of Native American resilience and dignity, even touring briefly with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He was killed in 1890 during an attempted arrest at Standing Rock Reservation, but his legacy endures as a powerful voice of defiance and cultural pride.

Following are three quotes from Sitting Bull:

— "It is not necessary for eagles to be crows.”

—"Let us put our minds together and see what life we can make for our children.”

—"Is it wrong for me to love my own? Is it wicked for me because my skin is red? Because I am Sioux? Because I was born where my father lived? Because I would die for my people and my country?

—Mitchell Hegman

Another Observation

In my limited experience, mean people make decent electricians, but they don’t make for good cashiers at the local grocery.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Noise Deep in the Night

My house, like all wood-framed houses, makes noises from time to time—all the usual stuff. The floor occasionally creaks or groans under weight. The wind may elicit a whistle or cry at the windows. When confronted with bitterly cold weather, the exterior walls and roof framing might even crack their knuckles.

Late last night, though, my house issued a new, bigger thing. It flung a body against a wall—or dropped it to the floor in another room. The sound had no precise location. It was big but not exactly loud.

After hearing the noise, I lay in bed blinking at the dark, wondering what might account for it. Neither wind nor cold weather could be held to blame. After several slightly uneasy minutes of listening for a repeat, I twisted into my blanket and drifted back to sleep.

Years ago, a similar odd sound in the night later proved to be a tripod I had leaned against a closet wall that had fallen over of its own accord. Early this morning, I swept through the entire house looking for “a body.”

Nothing turned up, leaving the mystery to rattle around with the pipes and beams.

—Mitchell Hegman

Exiting September

Welp, we are on the verge of exiting September, the first of our four “ber” months. If you are married to a woman from the Philippines, as I am, you quickly learn that September through December aren’t just months on the calendar—they’re one long Christmas season.

In the Philippines, Christmas sneaks in the moment the page flips to September—because, well, it ends in “ber,” just like December. By the time the rest of the world is still arguing over Halloween costumes, Filipinos already have lights strung, decorations dangling, and “Silent Night” echoing through the malls. Four whole months of yuletide cheer—it’s basically an endurance sport.

Christmas is serious business there. And pulling a Filipina off her island and plunking her down in Montana is not going to tone down that Christmas spirit—it just means she swaps palm trees for pine.

Desiree was a little slow off the starting line this year, but she made up ground fast over the last couple of days. We are now officially in Christmas mode. Baubles dangle here and there, a wreath hangs over the electric fireplace, and most importantly, the tree is up and fully decorated.

I’ll admit, the tree looks pretty spiffy. I’m sharing a photograph of Desiree placing the star on top—smiling like she just won Christmas gold.

Merry Christmas!

And, oh yeah, have a nice Thanksgiving somewhere along the way.

—Mitchell Hegman

Not Litter

I disdain litter and will readily collect it when confronted with it. But at some point, cans and bottles stop being litter and become relics. Some even elevate to collectables.

The transition isn’t precise, but several decades must pass at a minimum. Vintage motor oil cans provide a perfect example. Collectors will pay over $1,000 for “rare,” well-preserved cans from the early 1900s. Antique purple bottles, in my estimation, qualify as beautiful. They were produced between the 1880s and 1914.

In the buckled hills surrounding my house, relics from bygone eras lie exposed amid splays of sagebrush, gnarls of juniper, and sun-bleached bunchgrass. Iron tidbits. Shards of brown and purple glass. Twists of wire. Occasionally, a can rusted to fragility. I chance upon these things now and then on my walkabouts and rarely disturb them.

Yesterday at midday, I paused over an old rusting beer can a few yards below my house. I’ve passed it many times in my life. I’ve never picked it up, nor ever thought to. I believe it belongs there now—weathered into place, a quiet marker of the past.

It is not litter.

I’ve posted a photograph of the old rusty beer can.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Aging Thing

I’ve reached that stage of life where a host of changes in my person and attitudes are becoming apparent. Here is a list of a few of those:

• My belly has struck out on a path of its own.
• My name recall app is often in failure mode.
• I get urges to kick the kids off the grass, but I don’t really have grass, and, actually, there aren’t any kids around.
• Tying my shoes qualifies as exercise.
• I’ve gone far beyond the point of ever learning to appreciate opera.
• Every day is a hearing test.
• I actually want to organize my garage.
• My body no longer rids itself of aches and pains. It recycles them.
• I’m finding beauty in smaller things—like the slow stretch of morning light across our valley floor.

—Mitchell Hegman