Lemon Tree Update: Montana Tough

Late this spring, our lemon tree became something of a frustration. Well, not so much the tree—more the ebb and flourish of a spider mite infestation. As the days lengthened and warmed, the mites made a pretty good run at things.

One evening, after a wee dram of Scotch, I said to Desiree, “Maybe we need to drag the lemon tree outside. It needs to toughen up.”

She gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s a mite spreader. We need to move it out for a while.”

So, we hauled it from the sunroom to a spot off the back deck. Since then, the tree has had a full taste of Montana. Temperatures have dropped close to freezing. Windstorms have slapped it silly. A fierce hailstorm pummeled it mercilessly. Hot, dry days have baked it. And for the last few weeks, it’s been hosting a big cat-faced spider.

Frankly, the lemon tree has taken a beating. Many leaves are tattered and discolored.

But it’s hanging in there.

I suspect it’ll try a little harder when we bring it back inside for the winter.

The Lemon Tree Today

Closeup Revealing Hail Damage

—Mitchell Hegman

Morning Report, August 13, 2025

The sun has yet to find firm footing on the day. I’ve opened a half-dozen windows in my house and stationed fans near three of them to draw in cool air in preparation for another mid-90s summer day.

The much-anticipated Perseid meteor shower—sparked when Earth slices into trails of debris scattered by the passing of Comet Swift-Tuttle—was to peak last night and into this morning. I stood on my back deck soon after waking and scanned the caerulean firmament, hoping I might witness a flash of something extraterrestrial. Instead, a dime-sized moth flapped into orbit around my head, seeking a mate.

The moth was not my type.

In the broader view, The Revenge of Alice Cooper, his latest album, recently launched at the No. 6 position on the Vinyl Albums chart, becoming Cooper’s first top 10 on the tally. And, finally, midway between that and me standing on the deck, one of my neighbors has released long-horned cattle onto his grazing. Their lowing calls fill the early-morning spaces once occupied by songbirds.

End of morning report.

—Mitchell Hegman

Where Water Slithers

They came at length to a deep swale. Water slithered dark and silent over smooth stones, and the first full light of day blinked only now and then through the dense timber.

“Is this the place?” asked the woman.

“It is,” said the man. He was older, laconic at all times.

“Will there be birds?”

“This is not a place for birds.”

Somewhere beyond, trees parted and a sword of light cleaved briefly through the liquefied shadows. Only then did she see the glowing thing in his hands.

“What do we do now?”

“We bury that which has led us astray.”

The ground proved spongy. The man ripped a hole in it, dropped the glowing thing into the dark opening, then swept soft detritus and threads of green grass overtop to seal it.

“It will slowly die in there,” he said.

“So, we can go find some birds in the forest now?”

“Yes. Birds.”

“Good.”

“And good riddance to that damned smartphone,” said the man. “It’s always led us in the wrong direction.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Life Lesson #3

 Never underestimate the importance of having toilet paper—or a suitable equivalent.

—Mitchell Hegman

Life Lesson #2

There is no advantage to participating in a cash economy if you’ve run out of cash.

—Mitchell Hegman

Life Lesson #1

Working for a small family-owned business has its advantages—although working for a small family-owned business is not one of them.

—Mitchell Hegman

Silence Taking the Stage

While drifting about in our hot tub late in the evening, Desiree asked, “Is that crickets I’m hearing?”

Like a dog set out to hunt, I cocked my head in several directions. “It might be crickets, but I don’t hear a thing.”

Fact: the world is going quiet on me. As part of the normal aging process, my ears are tuning out higher frequencies. Essentially, my mechanical parts are wearing out. And now, species by species, insects are falling into silence around me. This summer, the chirping crickets and singing whiz-by whatnots have taken the stage to an audience now deaf to them.

Some songbirds are likely to join them onstage in the future—singing the sounds of silence.

The show goes on, whether I can hear it or not.

—Mitchell Hegman