Waking Tired

I slept for my normal allotted time last night, but woke this morning feeling tired.   My left arm was numb from sleeping wrong.  Even now, while sitting on my sofa, I feel as though I am pinned under a big rock.  I just don’t have the energy or desire to free myself.

That, and a moment ago I picked up my smartphone and tried to use it to turn down my television.

—Mitchell Hegman

S-M-I-T-H

Sometimes, you can confound people just by over-explaining the simplest of things.

My favorite example of this comes from a friend of mine with the last name of Smith.  A well-known name for sure.   The surname Smith is, in fact, the most common last name in Great Britain, the United States, and Australia.

According to Ancestry.com, the business of surnames largely came about in the Middle Ages, when people identified themselves by their trade.  Back then, nearly every village in had a smith, usually a blacksmith, who made horseshoes, weapons, and all the tools needed for their version of modern living.  Some names were more specific, with people called Combsmith or Smithson.  These were all later shortened to Smith.  This explains why we have so many Smiths today.

My friend with the name of Smith made a habit of purposely overplaying his hand whenever he checked into a hotel or whenever someone needed to write down his name.

“My name is Tim Smith,” he would say.  And then he would quickly spell out his last name: “That’s S-M-I-T-H.”

More often than not, the person taking down his name would suddenly register confusion.  All forward motion would stop.  “I’m sorry…could you spell that for me again?”

—Mitchell Hegman

Stemless Wine Glasses

I have entered scary new territory.

Over the last week—for whatever reason—three of my remaining stemless wine glasses have broken.  One simply shattered when I attempted to lift it (while empty) from the sink by the brim.

The loss of my glasses has actually created something along the lines of a full-blown “Scotch Emergency.”  I wrote about these in a 2014 blog.  Below is a quick recap of my levels of Scotch notifications:

Scotch Alert:  Less than a half-bottle remaining.  Notes are written to remind me to purchase a bottle on my next trip to town.

Scotch Warning:  Maybe only two glasses of Scotch remaining.  I might need to make trip to town for the express reason of running into the liquor store.  I may call my brother-in-law to see if he has Scotch in the event I cannot re-supply due to liquor store closure.

Scotch Emergency:  Holy hell!  I am out of Scotch!  How did this happen?

My problem now?  I like my Scotch in a stemless wine glass.  As of this morning, I now have only one stemless wine glass remaining.  If someone were to stop by for a sip, either I or they would be required to drink from the next best thing.  For all practical purposes, the next best thing is a red solo cup.

I will be heading to town to purchase glasses sometime after first light.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sky is My Garden (Part III)

The sky is my garden.

Though I have neither planted nor tended the horizons,

all my colors grow there.

I give some of these colors my own names.

The deep yellow I call “yesterday’s child.”

A red I have named “root of flame.”

I am comforted because the sky is always pressed against me.

At night, either clouds pull over me like a blanket

or stars slowly swirl above, glittering.

Posted today are photographs captured of the sky immediately surrounding my house.

July 13, 2019

July 28, 2019 (North Hills Fire)

November 9, 2019

November 11, 2019

—Mitchell Hegman

Setting a New Record

I am incapable of properly dressing myself.

Sure, I can pull a shirt on and dive into a pair of pants.  But matching my socks, wearing clothing appropriate for the occasion, and safely combining colors continues to evade me.

Over the last two days, here at home and without a witness, I set a new record.  Two days in a row with my shirt inside-out.

—Mitchell Hegman

Chicken Dinner

A domestic chicken (Gallus Gallus Domesticus), if unmolested, might live to an age of eight to ten years.

I use the term “unmolested” because I find the term lurid, maybe jarring.

Consider, the chicken you ate in your last serving of chicken tenders likely lived for only seven to twelve weeks.  Maybe some growth hormones, antibiotics, and unnamed chemicals were involved.  Likely, the chicken you ate never had the simple opportunity to outrun its own shadow, or even feel the strike of a single raindrop.

A few years ago, I watched a documentary about how chickens were raised “commercially.”  Chickens raised in huge metal buildings.  Assembly line chickens.  Chickens that lived a caged, processed, thankless life and were slaughtered before reaching maturity.

The documentary so disgusted me, I stopped eating chicken for nearly four years.

I started eating chicken again when I was able to find so called “free range” or “organically raised” chickens.

I know the term “organically grown” might verge on phony at times.  Perhaps purchasing a bag of organically grown carrots is little more than a feel good gestures to ourselves.  Most importantly, I have done math on broiler chickens to the end—I get it—we are ultimately raising birds for the sole purpose of killing and eating them.  But the middle of this process does not need to be unnatural or cruel or even stifling.

We don’t need to molest chickens on the road to our freezers.

We can do better.

We need to be like the grateful hunter.  Our quarry needs to be respected at all times and thanked in the end.

—Mitchell Hegman

Huckleberry Day

Yesterday, my neighbor, Kevin, and a few of my huckleberry picking companions gathered at my house for a day processing some of this summer’s bounty.  My brother-in-law, Terry, and I started handling the first batch of huckleberry jam at 9:30 in the morning.

Others soon joined us.

We drank a little, ate a little, and laughed a lot.

By 3:00 in the afternoon, we had produced something north of 50 jars of jam and three huckleberry pies.

Kitchen Staged for the Day

Selfie with Montana Chefs

Cooling Jars of Jam

Huckleberry Pies

—Mitchell Hegman