James D. Hogan

An Over Forty Victim of Fate

On September 2, 2023

IN MEMORIAM

Cheeseburgers and ice cold beer and departure signs in airports and grapefruit have an unusual allure in this stage of life.

Roughly anyone alive in the last fifty years who listened to the radio has almost certainly heard the chirpy steel drums and layered recorder intro to Jimmy Buffett’s ubiquitous “Margaritaville.” The trop-rock favorite saturates every summer, and together with the other Core 8 songs he was known for playing at every live show, the song anchored any beach trip soundtrack.

One of my strongest memories of “Margaritaville,” though, came when I was in college. I honestly didn’t care too much for Jimmy Buffett at the time–all for reasons that aren’t really worth defending anymore, but largely because in the early 2000s it felt like he was at the bottom of the value trough between his original luster and his late-career popularity*.

I was sitting in the back of Chris Hall’s Chevy Tahoe with some friends, four of us carpooling together to a high school about half an hour from our college. We were student teaching, the capstone to our education degrees that is effectively an entire semester of unpaid labor, and gas had gotten expensive, so we took turns driving every week to save money.

Rabbits

By James D. Hogan

On June 28, 2023

In writing

three rabbits huddled in pine needles — *Sylvilagus obscurus and strawberry.*

Sure, life finds a way. So do all the forces conspiring against it.

Friday morning I was leaving for work when I opened the garage door and found what appeared to be a large pinecone in the driveway. As we don’t have any conifers next to the driveway, I was curious as to how it ended up there, and I went to explore.

It had been raining all week, and there, next to a puddle, was a baby rabbit. At first glance, I assumed it was dead, but after a few seconds, I realized the poor critter was in fact alive, breathing shallowly now and then. The morning temperatures were in the 50s; it was probably hypothermic.

There really wasn’t anything to do. Most of what I know about baby rabbits revolves around a grim understanding that they die. They are comically vulnerable. Loud noises could spur them into fatal shock. I wasn’t sure how this fellow had ended up in our driveway, but I needed to get to work. I put him under a rhododendron next to the garage.

My mistake is that I told the kids what I’d done.

Misty Mountain

By James D. Hogan

On February 24, 2023

In diary

DIARY

Friday morning, and for a late February day it’s already much warmer than it ought to be. Highs today and through the weekend will climb into the 70s. The roses are budding, the bulbs are pushing shoots out of the ground, and spring is threatening. It’s too early–we’re at least a couple of weeks ahead of schedule, if not more, and a cold snap could bring a lot of heartache. March snow is a real thing in North Carolina, even if we’re all but sunbathing ten days after Valentine’s.

Kelly is in Las Vegas for a meat-up, and yesterday and today I’ve woken up early to play varsity parent. There’s a lot to do on a regular school day: breakfasts, lunches, puppies, hair, packing, drop-off. The kids are very helpful. This morning I put in Annie’s earring after I accidentally tugged it out while brushing her hair. It occurred to me I’d never once poked an earring through her ear. She was a good sport about it.

Not only am I parenting solo, but Kel’s minivan went into the shop this week to get a nose job (read: new bumper to replace the one that got a hole in it when she got into a bump-up almost a year ago in Hickory). While the minivan was in Franklin for repairs, Kel was driving my car, and I’ve been driving Woodrow the Wagoneer.