A Firewood Day

Yesterday proved to be one of those days when I couldn’t focus on much of anything. My mind had apparently gone to the tavern without me, thrown down several shots of tequila, and passed out at the end of the bar. I didn’t feel like watching television, surfing the internet, reading, or doing anything requiring my undivided attention. Before long, I found myself out in the garage chopping wood with an axe.

I find chopping wood inordinately satisfying. I enjoy the physical aspects of it—especially driving the axe down to "whunk" apart a round. Every piece of wood offers a unique challenge, depending on the grain and the presence or absence of knots. Wood without knots tends to “twick” apart at once. Some pieces with knots require a long negotiation followed by concentrated ferocity.

I also have three species of tree: fir, spruce, and lodgepole pine. Each species behaves differently. Lodgepole pine readily flies apart because the trees lack big knots. Spruce is reluctant to split and tends to explode once you finally land a decisive blow with the axe. Straight-grained fir splits nicely, but the knots are first cousins to armored trucks—you’re not getting in easily.

I worked for a long time out in the garage, chopping rounds and large pieces into lengths of burning wood, kindling, and what I call “pick-up sticks.” Pick-up sticks are slightly bigger than kindling, and I use them crisscrossed above the kindling to catch and feed fire into the full-sized burning pieces I stuff into the woodstove. I felt better for it. My brain returned from the bar later in the afternoon, and I read a few articles about the Beatles online.

Firewood in My Garage

—Mitchell Hegman

Squanto

I spent a few minutes on the internet reading about the origin of our Thanksgiving celebration. The celebration really revolves around one Indigenous man named Squanto.

Squanto, a Patuxet Native American also known as Tisquantum, served a pivotal, albeit controversial, role in early Plymouth Colony history. Captured in 1614 and sold into slavery in Spain, he was freed by friars, spent time in England, and returned home in 1619 to find his tribe wiped out by European diseases brought by settlers across the ocean. In 1621, Squanto met the newly arrived Pilgrims. Employing his capability to speak English, he taught them survival skills like using fish as fertilizer and brokered peace between them and Wampanoag Chief Massasoit. This was crucial for the settlers' survival and led to the first Thanksgiving, a feast in which the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag celebrated together following a successful harvest season.

However, Squanto's legacy is complex. Some historians argue he manipulated tensions between settlers and tribes, seeking power over Massasoit. His alleged false claims about Massasoit plotting against the English led to his ostracism, though the Pilgrims protected him, defying Massasoit. Squanto developed a fever and died in 1622, leaving a legacy as both a Pilgrim savior and a divisive figure among his people. Here we are, 400 years later, celebrating Thanksgiving in our own ever-changing and sometimes divisive landscape.

—Mitchell Hegman

Image: Kean Collection/Archive Photos/Getty Images

Giving Thanks

Since today is Thanksgiving, I thought I would share a list of things I’m thankful for:

• Thanks to shoe manufacturers for coming up with shoes I can step into and wear without tying laces.
• I’m thankful that rain falls down more often than it falls up.
• Thanks to John Lennon for writing those lyrics in I Am the Walrus: “I am the eggman, they are the eggmen, I am the walrus, goo-goo g'joob,” so I can sing along: “I am the Hegman, they are the Hegman, I am the walrus, goo-goo g'joob.”
• Though I never saw this coming as a kid, I’m thankful for broccoli.
• Thank you, time and time again, duct tape.
• I’m thankful that my island girl has adopted Montana as her home.
• I’m thankful that my shoes don’t catch on fire from friction when I run really fast.
• Thanks to the National Electrical Code for making me install a lot of receptacles in my house—I really need them when Desiree starts in on the Christmas tree lights.
• Thanks to the Wampanoag and Pilgrims for starting this celebration in 1621.

—Mitchell Hegman

Image: lexingtonchronicle.com

Lemon Tree Update, October 2024

Our sunroom lemon tree started life in October 2022, when Desiree germinated a seed from a lemon and poked it into some rich soil in a small pot. The tree grew robustly for several months, but sometime in mid-2023, it fell under assault from spider mites. For months on end, I battled the mites with an assortment of agents that were supposed to either kill or discourage them. I managed to tamp down the mite infestation but failed to fully eradicate the little monsters.

Meanwhile, the tree continued to grow—a few mites still clinging on. Eventually, Desiree, I, and all the hotshot arborists on the interweb agreed the tree was too spindly. To address this, on September 23 of this year, Desiree grabbed a pair of snippers, marched into the sunroom, and pruned the tree wholesale. The gurus I consulted online prior to her snipping recommended cutting up to 25 percent of the “flagging” growth. Desiree likely approached 90 percent with her pruning. I will admit, I was somewhat alarmed.

Now, two months later, the lemon tree is bursting forth with vibrant new growth. Most impressively, the pruning alarmed the mites so much, they vanished entirely. I have posted three photographs of the lemon tree, including one from yesterday that features me and a Cold Smoke beer as a scale for size.

Spindly Lemon Tree Before Trimming, August 23, 2024

Desiree Trimming the Tree, September 17, 2024

Lemon Tree, November 25, 2024

—Mitchell Hegman

Alive for the First Time

Nicholas came alive on the third of October, which was strange because he was born on December fifth, twenty years earlier. His mother had often told him he was an accident, a claim that never made sense to Nicholas. Why would someone—his mother, in this case—accidentally go to the hospital and have a baby?

Nicholas did come alive accidentally. He had been trying to figure out why his toaster wasn’t working and had flayed it open while it was still energized—“plugged into the juice,” as his father would say. In Nicholas’s estimation, the disassembled toaster was not as interesting or mysterious as a fish in the same state. Then, as he thought this, his pinky finger inadvertently brushed against a shiny screw connecting a wire to a widget.

At once, the world smeared into a bright white light. The kitchen table, the cupboards, the entire house—everything sucked up inside Nicholas through the tip of his finger. He felt as if he were riding atop a shooting star.

An instant later, Nicholas found himself sprawled across the kitchen floor. Though achy and disoriented, he felt alive for the first time.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Deepest Blue

Our northern winters are long and can provide tough conditions. You will need a snow shovel, and where I live, you can expect a stretch of sub-zero temperatures at some point. But winter also has a handsome face. There is nothing that equals an entire landscape softened and whitewashed by several inches of freshly fallen snow.

As sunset approached yesterday, I walked along the lakeshore below my house. The lake lay dark and yet unfrozen, while the sky above displayed the deepest blue imaginable. All of this was highlighted by a layer of freshly fallen snow on the land and on the docks extending out into the dusky water.

Gorgeous. No other word.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Art of Forgetting

I think I broke my personal record for spaciness yesterday. I managed to space out in two rooms in a row. First, I wandered into the kitchen for something, only to realize, once I got there, that I had forgotten what I went in for. After scratching my head for an appropriate amount of time, I remembered something I needed to do in the bedroom and headed in that direction (with a side trip to the bathroom).

Upon arriving in the bedroom, I realized I had lost the thread entirely and had no idea why I was there. Leaning against the wall, I thought to myself, what did I want in the bedroom? I tapped my toes on the floor and stuck a finger in my ear, hoping for inspiration.

After several moments of mental freight train derailments and imaginary rodeo clowns getting smacked by angry bulls, I dragged myself back to the kitchen and pretended I wanted an apple.

—Mitchell Hegman