Justified

I witnessed two murders yesterday. One near my house. The other down at the lakefront. I think both can be classified as justified. They were both the result of creatures just making an honest living.

The murder near the house involved a juvenile cat-faced spider. I happened by the spider’s web just as a hapless fly smacked into, and stuck to, a couple of strands. The spider instantly flung itself upon the fly and, with the dexterity and speed of a pastry chef, wrapped its prey into the silky spider equivalent of an apple turnover.

Later, while mowing the grass at the lakefront, a flash of motion caught my eye. When I swung my attention in that direction, I witnessed, no more than fifty feet from me, an osprey plunge into the shallow water just offshore. The bird emerged from the showy splash of water clutching a keeper-sized walleye. With the fish in its talons, the bird flapped mightily to regain its place in the air above the water before churning off just above the surface of the lake toward the far side.

I try not to anthropomorphize such things. These are not human events, even though I witnessed them. And I know most of us feel nothing in particular when buying steaks and hamburger in pretty little packets, but behind those packages is an impersonal, cold, automated slaughterhouse into which live cattle plodded before being dispatched and converted into “product.”

The spider and raptor were simply making an honest living in broad daylight.

—Mitchell Hegman

On Second Thought

Had I known I would be able to use super glue on anything I wanted (including my own skin) and buy potato chips and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups at will, I might have adulted a little earlier.

—Mitchell Hegman

What I Meant to Tell Her

"We've escaped gravity,” I told my woman.

“I don't follow,” she said.

I'd meant to tell her I loved her,

but couldn't lift all the words at once.

 

And when I said we were almost out of milk,

I'd meant to tell her I wanted to adopt a pet.

A small bird or a goldfish would do.

 

Now that we've lapsed into silence,

I'm considering saying this:

“Honey, we just need one more marigold.”

 

—Mitchell Hegman

Classy People

Though we never explicitly discuss this, Desiree and I consider ourselves every bit as classy as the next mixed-culture couple with a cabin at the base of the Great Divide in the Rocky Mountains.

Welp, it’s time to reconsider.

Over the weekend, we discovered that our campfire plasticware is mismatched. Our forks are white, while our spoons and knives are clear.

That’s a clear failure (pun intended).

Our Mismatched Plasticware

—Mitchell Hegman

What You Need to Know About Me

• If my last name were O’Keefe, my son’s name would be Keith O’Keefe.
• Let’s just say I have my own brand of logic.
• If I had my way, yellow cars would have a foul odor associated with them.
• I’m not 100% opposed to traveling the wrong direction on a one-way street.
• I sincerely believe this world would be a better place if everyone could juggle.
• I’m living proof that learning a second language is hard and potentially risky.
• I firmly believe that sometimes distance is there for a good reason.
• If given enough time, I can turn almost any conversation toward voles.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Grim Thing in the Grass

The inside of my house grew notably dark in the mid-afternoon. Obviously, something big was wrestling with the sun and winning. When I stepped out the door to investigate, I found a purple sky out there.

Not Barney purple. Zinc and rotten plum purple.

To the west, I saw a big, churning storm spilling over the Continental Divide and pouring darkness into the valley.

Opposite the storm, to the east, puffy white thunderheads had stacked up into an impressive wall of their own. A brewing wind rather urgently ushered me to the east end of the house, where I discovered the grim thing still there in the grass.

Early in the morning, Desiree discovered what can only be classified as bunny rabbit parts. In the dark hours of the previous night, something killed and ate most of a bunny there, punctuating another day of country living.

To be honest, Barney always annoyed me.

Barney

Bunny Parts

—Mitchell Hegman

The Stackers versus the Pilers

Sports never interested me as a kid, and I have never followed any professional sports. About all I understand is that when the Packers are playing the Whomevers, it’s a bitter rivalry and somebody is going to drink too much beer while watching and get a little snotty.

Oddly enough, I am entertaining something similar to what I just described right here in my garage. Not the drinking beer and getting snotty part. The rivalry. In my competition, the Stackers are pitted against the Pilers.

I’m talking, of course, about lengths of firewood I have been chopping for the upcoming winter, which can begin on any day of any month here in Montana.

Some lengths I manage to axe into sleek, uniform pieces, making them easy to fit into a cordwood stack. Hence, the Stackers.

Other chunks split into gnarly and misshapen things, with bulbous knots on one end, weird twists of grain, and so forth. These, the Pilers, I heap into a jumbled and entirely disordered pile, something that looks like a Gaudí (drunken) version of a trash mound.

Obviously, I am rooting for the Stackers here. I appreciate a tidy stack. But the knotted chunks readily fit in my woodstove and accept flame just as well as the Stackers.

I’m sharing photographs of the rivals.

The Stackers in Orderly Rows

The Pilers Heaped Together

—Mitchell Hegman