A Single Sober Thought

Some people need to recognize that having a perfect smile isn’t the same as having an actual personality. Even a crocodile can flash a toothy grin.

—Mitchell Hegman

Training Dirt

When you live on a pile of rocks, as I do, planting a tree is a righteous ordeal. Most of my yard consists of an extremely thin layer of something once removed from topsoil. Below that is a layer of cobbles ranging in size from a large coffee mug down to a chicken’s egg. Finally, underneath that is a hard-packed fusion of larger rocks, smaller rocks, and sand.

I have been hand-digging a hole for a future apple tree in an on-and-off fashion for about a week now. So far, I have removed eight five-gallon buckets filled with rocks of various sizes.

Alongside the hole, I have two piles—one from the thin top layer and another (much larger) pile of what I term as “training” dirt. This is what remains after I have removed the biggest rocks from my digging. I call this stuff training dirt because I will mix a bit of compost with it and use it to surround the root ball. In my way of thinking, as the roots splay out into the training soil, this slightly improved native earth will train them for what’s coming when they reach the hard-packed native ground beyond.

I am sharing a photograph of my planting project. Please note the can of Cold Smoke beer I placed in the wheelbarrow (as a reference for size) alongside the most recent array of rocks I unearthed.

Rocks and Training Dirt

—Mitchell Hegman

The Romantic Me

Two deeply romantic things I said to Desiree yesterday:

1. After realizing Desiree had picked up a t-shirt I dropped on the way to the laundry, I said, “You know, honey, without you, I’m just a pile of dirty clothes.”
2. After Desiree watched me lug a bag of salt pellets from the car, I said, “Honey, I need you the same way the water softening system needs salt.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Deflected Thinking

Standing at the window on a blustery day, watching the wind elbow pine trees aside and kick at the decorative juniper we planted last fall, I got to thinking about how Steve Wozniak, spurred by Steve Jobs, improved the arcade game Breakout for Atari before the two Steves drifted off to found Apple Computer Company. It’s fair to say this partnership altered the trajectory of computer technology.

Sometimes, it takes two Steves to get things done.

After giving the two Steves appropriate thought, I reflected on the idiomatic expression, “There is no ‘I’ in ‘team.’” A clever play on words, that. But a few years ago, it suddenly occurred to me that there are two “I”s in the word titties. This realization has derailed me ever since.

—Mitchell Hegman

Down the Rabbit Hole

A song has pulled me down the rabbit hole. I’ve become obsessed. Multiple times a day, I find myself searching for Hi Ren by the Welsh artist Ren, pressing play as if it holds some answer I can’t quite grasp.

But calling Hi Ren a song feels wrong. It’s a storm—raw, deep, unfiltered—an earth-moving event.

Filmed in a single live performance, it defies easy description. Musically, it’s everything. Emotionally, it reduces me to a puddle. My first encounter left me intrigued, even baffled. But with each subsequent viewing, it consumed me. Obsessed me. Wrecked me.

I’ve posted Hi Ren here for you. It’s nine minutes long. It demands your attention, start to finish. If you have the time today, tomorrow, or next week—watch.

Be ready.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_nc1IVoMxc

Amid the Leaves

Something remarkable happened yesterday, but before we explore that, we need to take a trip back in time.

One day last summer, after a day of splitting firewood and puttering about in the yard, I realized I had lost my wedding band. This is nothing unusual for me. I have lost enough bands that I started wearing inexpensive silicone rings, each of which sells for less than a can of beer.

Yesterday, without really thinking about it, I scooped up a handful of leaves from the strip of flowers between the two aprons at the garage. Peripherally, I wanted to assess the level of moisture and decay in the leaves. After looking at them, I glanced back down at the spot where I had lifted them and saw, amid the remaining leaves, the wedding band I lost last year.

Remarkable.

If you look closely at the first photograph I posted, you will see the ring slightly left of center.

The Wedding Band Amid Leaves

The Wedding Band

—Mitchell Hegman

To This End

In the thinnest design of things, rabbits exist as the hunted rather than the hunters. Nibblers of grasses and leaves, they are at times blissfully unaware and at other times all too aware that sharp eyes seek them.

Here in my continental north setting, rabbits appear on the menu for mountain lions, coyotes, foxes, domestic dogs and cats, and a come-and-go variety of birds of prey. To thrive, they rely on (hopefully) quick escapes and reproducing at a highly accelerated rate.

For rabbits, the end can be grim. Yesterday, while walking near the yet-frozen lakeshore, I found a spot on the sunny side of our pavilion where a predator of some kind had savaged a rabbit. For those of us purchasing our protein in squared, shrink-wrapped packages and perfectly sealed cans, the sight of tufts of downy fur and an implied violent end is sobering at a minimum.

I removed a glove and flung it down alongside the scattered fur before taking the photograph I am sharing here today.

The End of the Line

—Mitchell Hegman