Two Riders, Four Directions

Two cowboys on horseback spotted each other across a broad plain scoured by a constant sun. The riders were heading toward one another: one riding east, one west. Neither man had seen another person in many days. Naturally, they directed their mounts such that they would meet at the center of the plain. Riding on, they watched each other grow from a speck to full-sized. The two men drew to a halt when their horses were nose to nose.

The cowboy riding east tipped his hat. “Where are you headed?” he asked the other cowboy.

“Heading west,” the other man answered. “How about you?”

“Purty obvious I am heading east,” the cowboy answered.

“Well,” said the west-riding cowboy, “we appear to have made ourselves one of them impasses. Since our animals can’t ride through each other, I 'spect we’re gonna have to turn aside.”

“Yes, sir, I accept your reasoning.”

With that stated, the west-riding cowboy turned his horse toward the north and trotted off. The east-riding turned and cowboy headed due south.

The distance quickly grew between them.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Pile of Dirt

I had the remarkably good fortune of having a father who never finished anything he started. One of the more notable things this provided for me as a kid was a big pile of dirt in our weedy yard. Originally intended as topsoil for a lawn, the pile lingered long after the dump truck that delivered it rumbled away down the street.

For a young boy, not much surpasses a pile of dirt immediately out your front door. Consider the possibilities: it’s a mountain to climb—king of the hill material. Easy digging meant endless opportunities for holes, caves, and makeshift fortresses. Might there be buried treasure? Perhaps gold just a few inches in. A hill to roll down. A rough course for toy trucks. My pal Kevin and I spent countless hours playing on the pile of dirt in my yard.

Good stuff, that.

Just the other day, I passed by a new house with a fresh pile of dirt deposited for landscaping. It made me wonder if some lucky kid with an unambitious father was living there.

—Mitchell Hegman

Saving Earthworms

Following substantial rains, I saved a dozen or so earthworms yesterday by plucking them off my concrete drive and carting them off to some nearby soil. The worms emerge from the soil and head across the concrete for one or more of three reasons: the waterlogged soil may suffocate them; they can safely migrate in the wet environment; or they are seeking a bit of earthworm sex (which is not particularly sexy in my estimation). I am forced to save the worms because more often than not, they get stranded on the concrete and wind up baking to death when the sun returns.

We never had this earthworm problem when I was growing up in East Helena, Montana, because we didn’t have earthworms. Over the years of operation, the lead smelter on the edge of town had spewed forth a cocktail of heavy metals and other pollutants that sifted down onto the ground and poisoned out the earthworms. The only notable exception to this was my Uncle Stack’s yard across the street from where I grew up. He had imported some good soil from the nearby mountains and had a small section of that in which he tended earthworms for use as fishing bait.

In saving the earthworms from my concrete drive, I suppose I am following Uncle Stack’s lead in my own fashion.

An Earthworm on my Drive

—Mitchell Hegman

Appropriately Named

Some stuff is not appropriately named. Plains, Montana, for example, is smack in the mountains. Greenland is largely covered in ice, making it not very green at all. It was named by the Norse explorer Erik the Red, possibly as a marketing ploy to attract settlers. Iceland: In contrast to Greenland, Iceland has lush green landscapes in many areas.

Hitting your funny bone is not funny in any manner.

Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few minutes sitting in my sunroom while thinking about nothing in particular. In doing so, I determined one thing for certain: the sunroom is appropriately named.

Sitting in the Sunroom

—Mitchell Hegman

Early Spring Report

We are finally experiencing more 'traditional' spring-like weather. Songbirds are singing all across the prairie. The ice is almost entirely gone from the lake. And just yesterday, I spotted two butterflies, but in typical Montana fashion, the wind pretty much kicked their asses.

—Mitchell Hegman

Big Eyes

Margaret Keane was an American artist renowned for her "Big Eye" paintings, characterized by their exaggerated depictions of children with large, expressive eyes. Keane's art gained widespread popularity in the 1960s, captivating audiences with its unique style and emotional depth. Despite facing challenges, including having her husband fraudulently claim credit for her work for years, Keane's talent eventually received recognition, leading to a resurgence of interest in her art. In 2014 director Tim Burton made a movie about her titled “Big Eyes.”

Interestingly, there is a condition known as Axenfeld-Rieger Syndrome that causes some people to be born with abnormally big eyes. Such people look just like the subjects painted by Margaret Keane. At the end of the blog, I have posted one of Keane’s works along with a beautiful young girl with big eyes as result of Axenfeld-Rieger Syndrome.

Big Eyed Girl

The Stray (Margaret Keane)

—Mitchell Hegman

Harvesting Spaghetti

In 1957, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) conducted what still ranks as one of the most famous April Fool’s Day gags of all time. Eight million people tuned in and watched Panorama’s three-minute feature on the “Swiss spaghetti harvest.”

The prank included a backstory claiming that an unseasonably warm winter brought an end to a devastating “spaghetti weevil” pest control issue. Following the weevil population decline, the region of Ticino near the Italian border was said to have yielded an “exceptionally heavy spaghetti crop.” The footage featured people picking strands of spaghetti off trees and bushes.

The prank worked so effectively, viewers soon phoned in to find out how they could purchase their own spaghetti trees, the BBC told them to “place a sprig of spaghetti in a tin of tomato sauce and hope for the best.”

A Spaghetti Plant in My Sunroom

—Mitchell Hegman