Another Random Thought

Technically speaking, it’s perfectly appropriate to say of a donkey breeder, 'She has a nice ass' if you are referring to one of her donkeys.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Beautiful Fire

If you want a beautiful fire, you need beautiful wood.

I absolutely have that—in the form of Western Juniper. I’ve been thinning out a few dead junipers on my property and, in the process, converting some of the larger trunks and branches into lengths of firewood to feed my woodstove next winter. When split, the lengths are both colorful and decidedly aromatic

Western Juniper is equally beautiful in survival. It thrives in the arid regions of the western United States. Some trees are over a thousand years old, their trunks twisted and gnarled by centuries of wind and weather. The wood of juniper is rot-resistant and fragrant, making it valuable for fence posts, furniture, and even incense. For me, it will make a beautiful, warming fire.

Split Lengths of Juniper

Grain Detail

A Western Juniper at the Back of My House

—Mitchell Hegman

Ghost Keys

I’ve posted a photograph of a key ring and its scattered collection of keys. They are interesting keys. By interesting, I mean that—save one—I no longer remember what any of them are for. I keep them in the glovebox of my truck, as I have in each truck I’ve owned since the mid-1980s. The one key I still use belongs to a 40-year-old padlock that secures a shed at the lakefront.

The others are ghost keys—keys to toolboxes that no longer exist, doors long out of reach, and padlocks that have long since rusted into memory.

Until yesterday, it never occurred to me that I should peel the ghost keys away. Doing so proved surprisingly poignant. It felt as if I were shrinking my life in some quiet, tangible way—letting go of places and things that once mattered deeply to me.

Ghost Keys

—Mitchell Hegman

My Good Fortune

It’s been well over fifty years since I last fell out of a tree. I just want everyone to know that my good fortune continues—another day has passed, and I didn’t fall out of a tree.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Multipurpose Appliance

Desiree is otherworldly good at cooking. That said, she is at least 15% messier in the process, and she often uses unconventional methods. For example, she uses small bottles to roll swatches of dough for rolls and wraps. She sometimes uses a drinking glass to mash potatoes. And there is the somewhat standard island technique of folding morsels of food in banana leaves to make neat packages for cooking.

In the most recent presentation of Desiree practicing unusual cooking methods, I found a hair dryer alongside her as she was preparing something to bake.

“Are you using the hair dryer for cooking?” I asked.

“Yes,” Desiree answered.

“I gotta know… what are you using it for, exactly?”

“Melting butter.”

“Gotcha.”

As an electrician, this made perfect sense to me. I fetched a beer from the refrigerator and carried on.

The Hair Dryer at Our Kitchen Sink

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Blue Oven

We purchased a new electric kitchen range, and yesterday I modified the kitchen countertop so we could slide it into place. The most remarkable feature of the range is the cobalt blue oven interior.

In recent years, manufacturers have offered blue enamel for oven interiors not just for style, but for function—its smooth, reflective surface enhances heat distribution and helps food cook more evenly. Just as importantly, the rich blue provides excellent contrast, making it easier to see your culinary creations when bathed in light.

Our new range also came with a critical operation warning: “Never attempt to dry a pet in the oven.”

That’s good information.

I guess you’ll need to use the cooktop if you want to dry Fluffy.

Our Blue Oven

—Mitchell Hegman

Small Triumphs

Here in Montana, we sometimes endure something called “false spring,” when winter does a head fake and offers a few days of improbable warmth in the depths of cold. Sunlight warms the ground. Snow recedes, and the air carries the scent of thaw. Then, just as everyone gathers their shorts and sunscreen, winter snaps back, freezing everything in place.

Thing is, real spring isn’t much better around here. Warming weeks are often bookended by freezing nights and snow squalls. This fickle weather is hard on plants. But one, in particular, thrives in the come-and-go spring: the bitterroot. This plant, with its three sets of double letters, is our state flower—and a stubborn one.

This time of year, bitterroot rosettes emerge at the feet of snowbanks. Compact and clinging to the freshly unthawed earth, they thrive in days of spare sun and unsettled air. It’s easy to miss these little jewels in a half-winter world.

Yesterday, walking our country road, I spotted dozens of healthy bitterroot. I’m sharing a photograph of a pair those, along with a photograph of a bank of snow that still lingers at the front of my house.

Bitterroot

The Drift Along the House

—Mitchell Hegman

The Ground Thing

Working as an electrician has ruined me in a very specific and weird way. I can’t watch a movie, video, or even look at photographs of a building’s interior without trying to see the orientation of the receptacle outlets. Have they been installed with the ground up or the ground down?

This is a pretty big deal for an electrician.

I’m telling you, if a video of Salma Hayek appeared in front of me in which she was strutting through a building in a skimpy bikini, I’m going to be distracted by every receptacle she wafts past.

Me? I’m ground down all day long. There are arguments both for and against this orientation. I’ll spare you details on that and just say that I was trained as an apprentice to mount receptacles with the ground down, and I continue to run with that.

Interestingly enough, the National Electrical Code is silent on this. Furthermore, neither receptacle manufacturers nor the National Electrical Manufacturers Association make any recommendation in either direction.

So, to all of you receptacles out there, I just want you to know—Salma Hayek or not—I’ve got my eye on you.

Ground Up

Ground Down

—Mitchell Hegman

Easily Manipulated

I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m easily manipulated. The other day, for example, a fake profile of my dear wife, Desiree, surfaced on Facebook. Even though I knew the profile was bogus, I was tempted to catfish myself and send her a friend request—just because she looked so striking in the profile photograph.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Aging Process

I have never firmly established who they are, but they say that cheap wine doesn’t age well. That’s largely true, but when it comes to aging poorly, I think snowmen might be the worst. As a case in point, I give you Filipa, the snow-woman Desiree made the day before yesterday. By yesterday afternoon, the sun had reduced Filipa to a mound of snow.

I’ve posted some images of Filipa. I’m going to miss her standing on the back deck, but the grass below will be happy.

Filipa, Day Two (Morning)

Filipa, Day Two (Afternoon)

Filipa, Yesterday

—Mitchell Hegman

Filipa The Snow-Woman

Yesterday, while some folks in the country were scampering about in swimsuits—and possibly less—here in my corner of Montana, we were wading through nearly a foot of fresh, heavy snow. I woke in the morning to find pine trees transformed into snow ghosts. This particular snow proved perfect for making a snowman—more accurately, a snow-woman.

Technically, Desiree undertook the project of making the snow-woman. I mostly sat inside, drinking coffee, occasionally pressing my nose against the glass at my back door to check on her progress. I did help by hoisting the midsection snowball.

I’m pleased that Desiree has embraced our winter world. You’re not going to escape winter if you live in Montana for any length of time.

Desiree named the snow-woman Filipa.

Early Morning Ghost Trees

Desiree Rolling the Biggest Snowball

Desiree Holding Filipa’s Head

Desiree and Filipa

Filipa’s Face

An Apology

While soaking in my hot tub, it occurred to me that a bit over a year from now I will be embracing the age of seventy. Wow. That’s somewhat mind-boggling. Back when I was in my teens, I thought I would be old when I reached thirty. Now that I’ve reached this point, I think my teens owes my thirty an apology.

—Mitchell Hegman

Descriptors

The following are a few descriptors about me that may be helpful:

• Willing to beg for potato chips.
• Vertically challenged.
• May have fiddled while Rome was burning.
• Considers proper spelling a soft option.
• Has a stuck button.
• Easily distracted.
• Pretty good at dishwashing.
• Saves bent nails.

—Mitchell Hegman

Calculations

I have been scratching out a series of electrical service demand calculations based on provisions found in Article 220 of the 2023 National Electrical Code. As a public service, I will spare you the details and instead offer some solid advice.

Here’s the advice: If, for some inexplicable reason, the urge to take on a service calculation strikes you—just don’t.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Lightning Strike

I would not recommend trotting outside during a severe lightning storm in hopes of getting struck by lightning as a way to change your eye color, but apparently, the opportunity exists.

Take the case of aptly named Carly Electric, a stand-up comedian from Queensland, Australia. One moment, she was outside, filming a brawling lightning storm. The next, she was on the ground, her body seemingly paralyzed, her limbs taking on a peculiar discoloration. Her breathing came in gasps, her nerves ringing like a struck bell. A stroke of lightning had delivered her this way.

Lightning does not tap lightly. Really, it’s an instant touch of hell. And Carly found herself recovering in a hospital—suffering from temporary paralysis, discolored limbs, and breathing difficulties. She remained immobile for nine hours before regaining movement. And then, in the aftermath of survival, she noticed something remarkable—her green eyes were now dark brown.

Doctors believe the change in Carly Electric’s eye color from green to dark brown after being struck by lightning is likely due to damage to the melanin-producing cells in her iris. Carly has made a full recovery and has, thankfully, learned to enjoy the new color of her eyes.

Carly in the Hospital Following the Lighting Strike

Carly with Brown Eyes

—Mitchell Hegman

Descending Words and Thoughts

We have made our mistakes, and replicated them.

 Minuscule is too big a word for something small. Screech should never align with call.

  Up can elevate but not deviate, while frank is better a man than a category of conversation.

   Blasphemy has gangly legs and fruitful should never describe a meeting of morticians.

    Flippant would be better for naming a fish. Phobic is folly while pheasant is fine.

     And, finally, flowers:

      Trillium: yes.

       Chrysanthemum: no.

        Roses: all day long.

—Mitchell Hegman

Prescribed Burn

We live in a broad, semi-arid landscape where wildfires are a natural part of the equation. Our hot, dry summers are often transformed into brawling “fire seasons.” Unchecked wildfires can easily rage through hundreds of thousands of acres, clawing down everything within reach. They can blot out the sun and send choking smoke to distant states. They can scorch entire communities.

Prescribed burns, also known as controlled burns, are intentionally set and managed fires used to reduce hazardous fuel buildup, promote ecosystem health, and prevent larger, uncontrolled wildfires. Conducted under strict weather and safety conditions, these burns mimic natural fire cycles, clearing out dead vegetation, controlling invasive species, and encouraging new plant growth. They are an essential land management tool used by forestry and conservation agencies to maintain healthy landscapes and reduce the risk of catastrophic wildfires.

Our cool and relatively moist spring days are ideal for staging prescribed burns. Yesterday, roiling arms of smoke reached up into the sky about a dozen miles north of my house—the signature of a prescribed burn near the tiny community of York. It’s sobering to stand on my deck and watch an intentional fire brawling through a knot of mountains so near to me.

A Prescribed Burn Near My House

—Mitchell Hegman

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

Strange Urges

I’ve been warding off some strange urges for my entire life. I am regularly forced, for example, to quell the urge to angle-park in perpendicular parking spots. And I always want to pull fire alarm stations just to see what happens. But I have never had an urge to stuff a turtle down my pants and try to clear a TSA checkpoint.

Unfortunately, not everyone enjoys my level of self-control.

Last week, a Pennsylvania man wrapped a five-inch-long turtle in a small blue towel and stuffed it down the front of his pants before trying to gain admittance to Newark Liberty International Airport in Newark, New Jersey. A body scanner alerted TSA agents, and eventually, the man—whose name was not revealed for good reason—was forced to fish the turtle from his groin.

The stoic TSA agents, who are trained to root out knives, firearms, and suspicious packages, were quite perplexed. The man admitted it was a red-eared slider turtle but failed to offer a compelling reason for stuffing the turtle in his pants. There appears to be no statute specifically disallowing a person from stuffing a domestic species of turtle down the front of their pants, but confused Port Authority police escorted the man from the security checkpoint just for good measure.

The turtle was unharmed.

—Mitchell Hegman

Source: AP

The Better Part of Coffee

The better part of coffee, not surprisingly, is coffee. Granted, I also appreciate wrapping my hands around the warm cup, savoring the distinct flavor of fresh coffee, and, finally, feeling the internal pulse of warmth with each sip. I can even attest to enjoying the ritual of making coffee. Setting up the machine and ingredients, then brewing a generous carafe filled with hot coffee, provides me with a measure of something that snuggles nicely between comfort and satisfaction.

I am still “old school” in my coffee making. I like brewing a whole pot with coffee I grind myself. I even appreciate the guttural sounds of superheated water surging through the machine and anticipate the final gasps it emits before silence calls me into the kitchen to pour a fresh cup.

Yesterday, after several minutes of listening to my coffee maker hissing, gasping, stamping its feet, cursing in Hebrew, wheezing, and even whistling a little, it finally fell silent, signaling completion. At that moment, I launched from my sofa and rushed into the kitchen—only to discover a freshly brewed pot of hot, clear water.

I had neglected a key ingredient: coffee.

For my curse word, I employed English.

Clear Coffee (Hot Water)

—Mitchell Hegman

The Place Where Winter Goes in Early Spring

Here in Montana, winter never fully exits the state—instead, it simply retreats to a remote place and lingers there. Yesterday, lulled into thinking we were approaching spring down here in the valley—our snowdrifts melting away and bluebirds appearing regularly—Desiree and I headed over the mountains to reach the cabin for the first time this year.

We slammed into winter at the base of Flesher Pass. By the time we summited the mountains, the road was what people in other regions might consider impassable. Pressing on, we eventually reached our cabin in a full-on winter notch off the Upper Blackfoot Valley. For now, this is where winter resides.

At the cabin, we found several inches of fresh, wet snow layered over almost two feet of thickly crusted snow. In fact, to reach the cabin, Desiree and I were able to walk the last hundred or so yards on winter’s hardened surface rather than slogging through it.

Even so, the scenery proved beautiful. More impressively, the buds on the highest tips of some creekside pussy willows were starting to open. I am sharing two photographs from the day.

Snow On Flesher Pass

Desiree on Our Bridge

—Mitchell Hegman

Dolly

Given all I have to think about—the plight of Ukraine, the aches that have supplanted connective tissue in my body, the price of eggs—you would not think my mind would somehow get stuck on wondering about Dolly. But there she is.

Dolly was a small, frizzled blonde girl who occasionally drifted into my buddy’s yard when we were hanging out there during my early teens. My buddy always gave her a cookie, and she barked “thanks” in an impossibly deep and gravelly voice—one that sounded like a chain slumping down onto a metal deck.

Dolly often had a dirt-smeared face, and she mispronounced the word rabbit. “Raddits,” she called them. Naturally, we urged her to say “raddit” as often as possible.

“Where does she come from?” I asked my buddy one day.

My buddy shrugged and pointed up the alley. “Somewhere in that direction.”

So, that’s the crux of it. Here at the waning end of my life, with all that I have to consider, I am again wondering where Dolly came from.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Best Joke in the World

Once again, ignoring the voice of better judgment in my head, I asked AI (ChatGPT, in particular) to tell me the best joke in the world. Here is the result:

The "best joke in the world" is subjective, but one joke that has been scientifically tested as one of the funniest is this one:

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn’t seem to be breathing, and his eyes are glazed over. The other guy whips out his phone and calls emergency services.

He gasps, “My friend is dead! What should I do?”

The operator replies, “Calm down. I can help. First, let’s make sure he’s dead.”

There’s a silence, then a loud gunshot.

Back on the phone, the guy says, “Okay, now what?”

—Mitchell Hegman

Experimental Thinking

Outside, the wind is a puppy nosing under the edge of the trap covering my grill and romping through last year’s upright strands of blonde bunchgrass.

I step outside.

“Here, boy!”

The wind jumps at me—ruffling my shirt tail, sidling at my legs.

I throw a stick against the wind.

“Fetch!”   

The puppy tromps off in the wrong direction.

—Mitchell Hegman

Morning Report, March 13, 2025

I woke from a dream in which I found myself stuck in heavy snow with strangers: two young men and a young woman—all with tall mohawks. As I write this, my coffee maker is muttering something in coffeespeak. As soon as it falls into silence, I will wrap myself around a fresh cup.

I’ve never had a mohawk, but I have bad hair more often than not. And here’s something interesting: I recently wrote about being unable to find a coping saw when I needed one. While deep cleaning my garage, I discovered that I had three of them hidden in boxes and bins.

I need only one coping saw.

In interplanetary news, the Moon is waxing and will be full tomorrow. Most notably, tonight the Blood Worm Moon will appear in the Western Hemisphere, casting a reddish glow as Earth's shadow engulfs it in a total lunar eclipse. This eerie color transformation happens as sunlight bends through the atmosphere, scattering blue wavelengths and leaving only deep red hues to reach the Moon's surface. Named for the thawing earth and emerging worms of early spring, this celestial event marks both a seasonal shift and a fleeting, otherworldly spectacle.

—Mitchell Hegman

Self-Collect Mode

By default, garages become a catch-all for all manner of things: camping gear, Christmas decorations, tools, recyclables, building materials, and on into seeming infinity. If your garage is anywhere near deciduous trees, as mine is, the space will also be subject to what I call “self-collect mode.”

Yesterday afternoon, I put the provisions of this mode into practice when I opened the overhead doors. Self-collect mode dictates that any leaves shed by the trees last fall will swirl outside and sweep themselves into the garage at any opportunity. Sometimes—read yesterday here—bits of white packing foam may also appear from nowhere, only to scuttle under things and out of sight.

I’m guessing there are preventive measures to limit the impact of self-collect mode in my garage—raking my leaves in the fall, for example. Still, I prefer to let the garage and the wind sort things out between them.

Leaves Strewn Across the Garage Floor

—Mitchell Hegman

Inside Me

Inside me, you’ll not find muscle and bone.

Inside me, there is a narrow road.

Inside me, there are neither nerves nor veins.

Inside me, I am following a narrow road.

Inside, I have no soft organs, no connective tissue.

Inside me, a narrow road stretches toward the light.

Inside, my thoughts often shatter but gather together again.

Inside me, a narrow road stretches toward the light—

And you, my dear, are waiting there.

—Mitchell Hegman

Maggie and Elvis

Maggie (Magnolia) Smith, a young Black woman from Memphis, Tennessee, shared a unique friendship with Elvis Presley near the end of his life. They met by chance in 1974 when Elvis learned she was a struggling college student in need of a job and transportation. He immediately took her plight to heart and offered her both—paying her tuition, providing a car, and ensuring she had a quiet place to study in the kitchen of his Graceland estate. Though her official title was "Executive Assistant," Elvis insisted that her most important role was focusing on her education.

Beyond work, their bond deepened through shared laughter, conversations, and heartfelt moments. Having lost her father, Maggie saw Elvis as a guiding presence, and he closely followed her academic progress—sometimes calling to check on her studies while on the road performing. She helped with Lisa Marie and assisted around Graceland, becoming a trusted part of his inner circle.

More than just an employer, Elvis was a compassionate friend. Maggie and Elvis shared precious moments of quiet reflection—reading, praying, and even crying together. While he provided Maggie with education and stability, she grounded Elvis in a quiet and meaningful way—something rare for someone so famous.

Maggie Smith

—Mitchell Hegman

First Bluebird

Late yesterday afternoon, I saw my first bluebird of the year. I spotted a pair slicing through the air along a fence line with sharp wingbeats before they veered out across the long swell of a stubble field—two blue sparks unable to be held in place by the expanse of a cloudy sky.

So begins our far-north spring.

PHOTO: Wikipedia

—Mitchell Hegman

My Pet Peeve

I have a particular pet peeve that likely would not register with most people. That said, I have adopted this thing wholesale. And here it is: I cannot tolerate seeing manufacturer’s stickers on plastic storage bins once they have been purchased and put to use. To me, leaving the sticker on is equivalent to moving your mobile home to a permanent location and leaving the wheels under it without skirting to cover them.

It's surprising how off-putting the sight of the manufacturer’s sticker is to me. If I spot one while a guest at someone’s house, I must tamp down a strong urge to slip away and tear it off.

By the way, there is also such a thing as fear of stickers. The term for this is pittakionophobia, which refers to an intense fear of stickers, adhesive labels, or sticky materials. People with this phobia may feel discomfort, anxiety, or even panic when encountering stickers—whether it's the texture, the adhesive residue, or the act of peeling them off.

Me? I’m all about peeling stickers off storage bins. In fact, I purchased two bins yesterday. Today, I’m sharing a photograph of a sticker I captured just before I peeled it off.

A Sticker Just Before Removal

—Mitchell Hegman

Recent Lessons I’ve Learned

• It’s possible for a piece of kindling you just split with an axe to fling directly up into your face.
• No matter your age, your right foot doesn’t fit in the left shoe.
• The smaller the piece you cut with a miter saw, the more likely it is to get snagged by the blade and chunked across the garage.
• Following my first taste test in thirty or so years, I’ve decided I can live without eating Shiitake mushrooms.
• Reading instructions before assembling something may actually provide a few advantages.
• A cup of coffee will always be a little too hot or a little too cold—never just right.
• If you drop a screw, it will roll to the least accessible spot in the room.

—Mitchell Hegman

What’s for Dinner?

Desiree is a remarkable cook. She not only invents and prepares otherworldly delicious food—she also creates attractive presentations. I’m convinced she could, if given the latitude, make a tasty dish from a throw rug.

The other day, I stepped into the kitchen and found something not far removed from that. It looked as though Desiree was cooking a towel in one of our pots.

“Are we having towel for dinner?” I asked when Desiree appeared a minute or so later.

“I’m steaming something,” she answered.

“Yes, a towel.”

I didn’t press for more details. Cooking is her thing, and I have learned to trust her judgment. We didn’t have a towel for dinner that night, but if, at some point, a slice of towel appears on my dinner plate, I’ll give it an honest try.

Cooking a Towel

—Mitchell Hegman

Early Morning Advice

As I have mentioned in a previous blog or two, giving unsolicited advice is not a practice I often undertake. Today, however, I feel the need to do so as a public service.

This is pretty straightforward advice: Don’t attempt to change the battery in your car’s key fob at 5:00 in the morning. I did just that yesterday morning, with rather alarming results—literally.

My fob, like many, snaps together. This sounds pretty simple but is, in practice, something akin to trying to open a child-proof pill bottle while wearing mittens. First off, you need to pry apart the outer shell and then pry apart the electronics board inside to access and replace a pair of batteries. Once that is accomplished, the pieces must be snapped together again—the equivalent of assembling furniture with one hand.

After finally managing to get the fob mostly snapped together, I grabbed a pair of channel-lock pliers and leveraged them to clamp down on the edge of the fob.

Big mistake.

The fob did snap together but also initiated the honk alarm on my car in the garage. When I tried to press the button to stop the horn, the fob was totally unresponsive, and the horn continued to blare at regular intervals. In a panic, I swept into my den to retrieve the spare fob, which had to be fished from inside a glass vase that holds a multitude of keys and fobs. Eventually, I found the fob and stopped the racket.

Did I mention Desiree was sleeping at the time? Well, after two minutes of horn honking, I had cured that.

Fobs

—Mitchell Hegman