Black Widows (Crawlspaces)

Black widow spiders adore a crawlspace.  One of my worst experiences as an electrician involved a crawlspace infested with full-grown black widows.  As I entered the space, I saw their signature (messy) webs festooned everywhere under the floor joists.  I counted nearly a dozen spiders as I scuttled across the bare earth below the floor.  I held a cord-attached trouble light before me as I dragged myself across the space, clearing webs.  Halfway into the space…tink…my incandescent lightbulb instantly burned out.

I froze there in the darkness.  Black widows all around.

Fortunately, my coworker was on the floor above me.  “Rodney!” I bellowed.  “I’m in trouble here!  My light burned out and I can’t move.  I’m surrounded by black widows.”

Rodney soon appeared in the wan light at the crawl opening from which I originated.  “I need a new light bulb,” I told him.  “I can’t move without one.”

Rodney, using electrician’s tape, strapped a new bulb to the extension cord.  I pulled the cord and bulb to me and replaced the bulb in my light.

We finished our work (me dodging black widows for the better part of a half-hour) and then drove back to the shop.  I immediately found my boss and told him he was welcome to fire me because I would never enter that crawlspace again.

My boss laughed.  “You don’t have to go there again.”

My work as an electrician taught me to wire-in a series of lights throughout the crawlspace below the floor of my house when I constructed it.  I have entered the space many dozens of times for one reason or another and have thanked myself for the light.

I entered my crawlspace for a plumbing gig just the other day.   As soon as I entered the space, I switched on the lights.  The instant I peered down into the wash of light where I intended to go, I saw an enormous black widow suspended in the air below my floor joists.  Above the spider, I saw the gnarly web she constructed under a heat register near my back door.

As a rule, my policy is live and let live.

I took an exception there in my own well-lighted crawlspace.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Few Thoughts

• Unfortunate is crashing your automobile into a delivery truck hauling your favorite Scotch to the liquor store.
• In the end, your name is either a feather or a hammer.  The choice is yours.
• In a battle of robots, if given a choice between a full-body-spinner or flipper-bot, I am flipper-bot all day long.
• In spite of being a full-on rodent, chipmunks are pretty darned cute.
• If you can’t fix something with duct tape, WD-40, or a paper clip, it’s not worth fixing.
• Given how easily distracted I am, I think building pyramids from cut stone is out for me.
• Almost anything can be overcome by hard work.

—Mitchell Hegman

My Version of a Spring Storm

I didn’t receive any much-needed rain or snow, but the wind did knock over the trash bin I dragged out alongside the road for bi-weekly pick up.

—Mitchell Hegman

Another Throw Rug Bites the Dust

I vividly recall the first time I purchased a throw rug.  I was a twenty-something bachelor at the time, and I felt something near horror that I needed to spend my hard-earned money on a rug.

Thanks to a vacuuming “incident,” I find myself back in the market for a rug. While man-cleaning the master bathroom (that’s cleaning in a big hurry), I pretty much ripped the guts out of the rug in front of my shower.

The agitator on my vacuum is the mechanical first cousin to a tornado.  Somewhere in a pass over the rug, a strand from the weave caught up in the agitator.  The machine almost instantly twisted a dozen or so feet of the strand up inside itself. 

The rug clenched up like a fist and the vacuum screamed to a stop.

End of rug.

I am still not crazy about buying rugs, but I have been adulting long enough to appreciate the necessity.  

I have posted a photograph of part of what I removed from my vacuum after the incident.

Rug Entrails

—Mitchell Hegman

A 30-Million-Year-Old Kevin

I have written about rocks extensively.  I have also shared stories about my neighbor, Kevin.  Recently, I mentioned using a Kevin to hold a section of trim in place.  The term “Kevin,” in this application, is derived from the fact Kevin’s father often enlisted Kevin to hold something firm while he measured or fastened it in place.

Now, let’s merge all of this together.

Yesterday, I used a 30-million-year-old Kevin to hold in place a small piece of metal while gluing it down onto a section of trim in my sunroom.

The Kevin, in this case, was a chunk of petrified wood.  I am guessing at the exact age of the rock.  Petrified wood, depending on where it is found, ranges from 20 million to over 200 million years in age.  30 million seems a fair estimate for my rock.

Putting one of my rocks to work is surprisingly satisfying.

A Kevin at Work

—Mitchell Hegman

Something P. J. O’Rourke Said

We lost Patrick Jake (P. J.) O'Rourke in February of this year.   I found Mr. O’Rourke exceptionally funny.   That’s actually a pretty good trick considering I normally find political satirists (his main gig) pretty dull.  Moreover, he never lost his edge and he never became nasty to those with differing views.

Here are four P. J. O’Rourke quotes:

—The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it.

—Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely.

—Everybody knows how to raise children, except the people who have them.

—The proper behavior all through the holiday season is to be drunk. This drunkenness culminates on New Year's Eve, when you get so drunk you kiss the person you're married to.

—Mitchell Hegman

Blah

The Blah Story, written by Nigel Tomm and released in 23 volumes, is the world’s longest novel.  The Blah Story weighs in at 11,338,105 words and 17,868 pages.

The writing is, shall we say, experimental.

The idea of the writing is to allow the reader to fill spaces with words and images of their own device.  Following is an example of the writing lifted from Volume 23 of The Blah Story:

“Upon blah up with the blah, blah perceived that it was in the blah of a blah blah of the blah of the blah, but far blah in blah the blah of these blah. Owing to the blah which blah among us at this blah turn of the blah, no blah was ready blah blah with a blah, and the blah had actually blah in getting blah blah vast blah across blah, and blah one of the blah by the small of blah back, before any blah means were blah to blah blah. In this blah nothing but the blah and blah of blah saved blah from blah. The blah soon recovered blah, and a blah being blah, blah secured the blah before blah the blah. Blah then blah in blah to the blah, blah our blah behind blah. This blah, upon blah, blah to be full blah in blah blah. Blah blah was perfectly blah, and very blah, blah tightly.”

I must admit, I struggle with this form of writing.  I am not quite ready for this kind of latitude in my reading.  I am going to require the author to take my hand and lead me a bit more.

I need more “See Spot Run” and less “Blah.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Source: Wordpress.com

Revulsion

While shopping at a local grocery store, I strode past another man going the opposite direction in the aisle.  He was clean-cut and neatly dressed.  I don’t recall having ever seen the man before.  As we whisked by each other, I glanced at him but he did not acknowledge me in in any manner.

Here is the strange: The instant my eyes fell upon the man, I experienced revulsion.  Within another second, I felt what I can only be describe as loathing for the man. 

Why did I feel that?  The man did nothing more than walk past me.

I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what triggered my instant repulsion.  Was there something vile and detectable at play within the man?  Did I intuitively perceive evil?

Or is there something twisted in me?

—Mitchell Hegman

The Remarkable Benefits of Smoking Elephant Dung

I have learned a great deal about survival and collaborating with nature by watching the Naked and Afraid Series on the Discovery Channel.  The very first (and often repeated) lesson I learned is that men are serious crybabies and quitters.  Women, on the other hand, are tough as shoe leather.

On a recent episode, I learned about the remarkable benefits gained by inhaling the smoke from elephant dung.  Apparently, the smoke will cure a headache, ease the pain of a toothache, eliminate hunger pangs, and can stop nose bleeds and unblock sinuses.

That’s a lot of good from a pile of poop.

The medicinal properties of elephant poo are a result of the wide variety of medicinal plants ingested by elephants as they forage for food.

Would I try smoking poo?

That’s going to take a pretty big headache.

—Mitchell Hegman

Serious Business

I have posted a photograph of what I recently found in a bathroom stall.  With four toilet paper dispensers, this stall is for serious business.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Weatherman

I like the weatherman I am watching on TV.  Something in his plain delivery and his slumped stature gives him a kind “regular-guy” edge.  He could burp in a crowd of executives and billionaires gathered to discuss completely revamping the tax codes, and none of them would be shocked.

I see myself out golfing with him.  On the third hole he duffs a shot into the water hazard.  Enraged by the bad shot, he wraps his club around the base of the nearest spruce tree with a full-on baseball swing.

“Nice shot,” I tell him.

“Bite me,” he retorts.  He flips the bent club out into the rough.  Next, he waddles over to the cart, retrieves a new ball and a five iron, and starts toward the edge of the water so he can drop the penalty shot.  “If this pattern holds,” he says, pointing behind him, “we can expect quite a bit of moisture in the South.”

I like him, but maybe weathermen don’t make good golf partners.

—Mitchell Hegman

Permission

• You are allowed to refer to your age in halves (for example, 6½ years old) until you reach the age of 10.  From then on, whole numbers are required until the age of 59½.  You can use 59½ because at that weird age the 10% early withdrawal penalty on IRA distributions ends.
• It’s okay to love either bats or snakes, but spiders are a no-go.
• Calling someone a butthole is acceptable if they take up two car spaces when parking or they tell you they wish winters were longer.
• As long as you don’t break it, roughing-up a vending machine is fine.
• Naming half-ton cow “Dainty” is acceptable in either Montana or Wyoming.
• It you are smart (like every electrician I worked with) you don’t need to read instructions before assembly.

—Mitchell Hegman

Staring at Ice

The ice that develops on the outside of my curved sunroom windows on cold and wet days has become far more entertaining than I ever imagined.  Whenever favorable “icing” conditions arise, I find myself trotting out into the sunroom to check out the latest formations.  Sometimes, I plop down into one of the folding chairs I have out there and stare at the ice and running water.

I am guessing people who have known me for any length of time could have predicted this behavior from me.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Healing Cut

When I was a boy, my father regularly accused me of having rocks in my head.

In a sense, I did.

Anywhere I went, I scoured my surrounds for pretty or unusual rocks.  I recall several grouse and deer hunting excursions when I overfilled my small lunch backpack with rocks and then convinced my father to carry a few in his backpack as well.

“We are not hunting rocks,” he would remind me.

“I am,” I would say.

I needed rocks then and I need them now.

This has not been my best week.  Putting down my 20 pounds of housecat hurt like hell.  So, yesterday, I called on my rocks for some form of respite.  I grabbed a rock from several specimens I gathered not far from my cabin and headed for the rock saw.  There are times—and this qualifies as one—when cutting a rock to see what’s inside is the most satisfying act available to me.

The rock cut easily and, once cut, revealed lovely patterns of purple amid fields of yellow pastels.

A good cut.  A healing cut.

Outside

Inside

—Mitchell Hegman

Dog Dollars

Nero, a stray dog adopted by the staff at the Diversified Technical Education Institute of Monterrey Casanare in Colombia, noticed something about the students.  First, he noticed that by befriending the students, he could get them to buy him cookies at the local store.

He also noticed the students were purchasing the treats by handing over money to clerks at the store.

After watching enough of this, Nero decided to try an exchange for himself.  He picked up a leaf that had fallen from a tree, trotted it to the store and offered it to a clerk while wagging his tail.  The clerk immediately recognized Neo’s intentions.  She gave him a cookie.

Nero soon returned with another leaf.  And another.

He could buy his own cookies.

Nero now “purchases” cookies every day.  He happily pays with leaves.  Given his endless supply of leaves, the store’s staff allow Nero to buy treats only a couple times a day.

 NERO (Photo: A Peña J David)

—Mitchell Hegman

Springtime in Montana

 It’s called snow.

—Mitchell Hegman

Sunroom Door

Thanks to help from a carpenter friend, I installed the door into my sunroom.  So ends a thirty-one-year-long process.

I originally framed the door opening in June of 1991.  I could not afford the sunroom at the time of my home’s construction and finished over the opening, leaving a kind of “ghost door” opening inside the wall.

Last year, on June 20 (almost exactly thirty years to the day of framing it), I peeled open the wall and daylighted the opening.

And now a door finally fills the ghost space.

The door I chose is mostly glass, so I can bring in light from the sunroom when I want.  But for those times when I don’t want the light, the door also features blinds built into glazing.

Sunroom Door Framing (June, 1991)

Sunroom Opening (June 20, 2021)

Sunroom Door with Blinds Up

Sunroom Door with Blinds Down

—Mitchell Hegman

Uyen’s Choice (Splash)

Uyen and I adopted two cats from the Humane Society in 2006.  Before adopting the cats, we discussed our strategy for finding the right cat.  Uyen put it this way: “The cats need to pick us.”

At the time, a dozen or so cats were living in the Humane Society’s “cat room.”  After Uyen and I entered the room, she sat in a chair and I sat on a bench near a couple napping cats.

All around us, cats for adoption were either napping, playing with toys, or exploring the various features in the space.

After less than a minute, a petite gray and black cat padded over and rubbed her face against me.  As soon as I gave her a pat, she climbed onto my lap and curled up, purring like crazy.  She remained there as I fluffed at her coat.

Uyen, had been using a walking cane for ten years by 2006.  As she sat there, she held the cane alongside her.  At almost the same time the little gray cat befriended me, a big ragdoll cat with splashes of color approached Uyen and started playing with her cane.

From here, the math is pretty easy.  Uyen fell for the big ragdoll.  I wanted to give the petite gray cat a home.

A day later, we took the two cats home.  Uyen named the little girl “Roxie.”   I named the big boy “Splash.”

Today, Uyen is gone, the cane is gone, Roxie is gone, and Splash is gone.

I am posting a photograph Uyen captured of me with the two cats at our cabin.

Me, Splash and Roxie (2008)

—Mitchell Hegman

So Long, Buddy

Yesterday afternoon, a veterinarian came to my house to help my cat, Splash, exit this place of light and windblown grass.

He didn’t appreciate the wind anyway.

But we had a good run, me and my boy.  I helped him catch a mouse now and then.  I opened his cans of food in a satisfactory manner.  And I was pretty quick at the back door.

Splash provided me with purring and company when I needed it.

We had sixteen good years together.  Not bad for a couple knotheads.

So long, Splash.

So long, Buddy.

Love ya.

Splash

—Mitchell Hegman

A Septarian Nodule

Mud is usually not super cool, but exceptions do exist.

If you have spent much time in Montana—particularly east of the Rockies—you are familiar with Bentonite.  Mixed with water, Bentonite becomes pure mud.  Some refer to it as “gumbo.”  If heavy with moisture, Bentonite is as slippery as sheer ice.  As it dries out it reaches a point where it becomes sticky and will cake onto shoes or tires.  When dry, it ranges from hardpack to chalky.

Bentonite is used as a natural sealant for ponds and reservoirs.

Bentonite also has an artsy side.  On this side, you find something called septarian nodules.  The nodules formed where ancient sea shells or other organic matter became incased in Bentonite.  Over time, the Bentonite, mixed with mineral precipitates, turned to concrete.  And the void where the organic matter resided, transformed into crystalline calcite and aragonite (in non-technical terms: pretty stuff).

Septarian nodules are found in Utah, Madagascar, and at the Helena Mineral Society’s annual rock show.

On Sunday, I found a specimen at the rock show.

Cut Septarian Nodule (The Scary Face Inside is a Bonus)

Nodule On the Outside

—Mitchell Hegman

A Cat Raised by Dogs

We need a day off from war, intemperate weather, and rising prices.  To that end, I am sharing a video about a kitten convinced it is a dog.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1YuodFxRWE  

My Working Rock

The Helena Mineral Society is holding its annual Gem, Mineral, and Fossil Show this weekend at the Civic Center.  I will definitely stop in and poke around a little.

I attended my first rock show at the Civic Center just shy of sixty years ago.  When I was seven or eight, my uncle Stack took me to the show.

The show dazzled me.  I saw heaps of polished stones, cut agates and geodes, gold, fossilized fish, crystals, precious gems, and more.

My uncle bought me a collection of various minerals at that first show.  In the years since, I have attended at least twenty of the rock shows. 

Today, if you came to visit me, you would discover rocks on display throughout my house.  I have two large display cases filled with specimens in my den.  I have rocks in my kitchen, living room, bedrooms, and master bath.  And you will find one disk-shaped rock on the ledge of my utility room sink.  I call that specimen my “working rock.”

I use the working rock whenever I grill salmon.  I like to grill my salmon on a cedar plank.  Before doing so, I use the rock to hold the plank under the water while I soak it the sink for an hour or two before grilling.

    

The Working Rock

—Mitchell Hegman

Contrails and Stemless Daisies

We experienced a strange sky yesterday.  For several hours at midday, the contrails from jets crisscrossing our valley remained fixed in place.  The vapor trails did not expand and dissipate.  And they did not shred apart in the high atmospheric winds as they normally do.

My neighbor, Kevin, and I stood outside my house staring up at the grid-like trails.

“Something is not right about that,” Kevin suggested.

“It’s weird,” I said.  “But a lot of weird stuff is going on these days.”

After Kevin drove on down the road, spooling out dust from behind his SUV, I strode off for a walk.  I am happy I did.  A mile into my walk I came across the second sure sign of spring (bluebirds being the first).

I am talking about finding my first stemless daisy (Hooker’s Townsendia).  They are the first flowers to emerge in the spring.  The plant is diminutive, but tough as a river rock.  Stemless daisies prefer exposed ground and full sun.  Only a few days of warm sun is required to bring forth the first flowers, which are roughly the size of a nickel.

As in years past, I am sharing a photograph of the first stemless daisy in bloom.

The Stemless Daisy

—Mitchell Hegman

Mostly Green, Under Review

Late yesterday evening, Wednesday, April 6, 2022, I sat thinking about Miss Desiree.   At the same time, half a world away, our Miss Desiree sat for an interview before a representative of these Untied States of America at the U.S. embassy in Manila.  For her, the day was Thursday, April 7, 2022.  And morning had just found Manila.

We have been waiting for nearly 2½ years for this day.  The interview is the final step in securing a U.S. visa for Desiree:

How did you meet your fiancée?  What does he do for Work?  What does he do for fun?

 After a five-minute interview, Desiree handed over several documents.  The consulate representative extended documents to Desiree.

Not quite a green light.  Government does not operate that way.   The case is “under review.”  Mostly green.  We must abide by formalities.  Normal.

Within a few days the case (and Desiree) will undergo a “status change,” and a visa will be issued.

Green light!

—Mitchell Hegman

Matinicus Island to the Rescue

As I write this, a wave of book banning is sweeping through libraries around the United States.  We are not talking about works of pornography.  We are talking about classics.  Following is a list of just a few targeted books (all of which I have read): 

• The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
• The Catcher in the Rye, by JD Salinger.
• The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.
• To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.
• The Color Purple, by Alice Walker.
• The Lord of the Flies, by William Golding.

Thankfully, there exists a literal island of sanity in all of this.  A tiny library on Matinicus Island, several miles off the Maine coast, is filling its shelves with books that have been expunged elsewhere.

This is a pretty big undertaking for a small island with a population of only 100 year-round residents.  In fact, the Matinicus Library doesn’t even have a librarian.  Patrons borrow books using the honor system. Books are checked out by writing the book’s name in a notebook.

According to AP News: “For years, islanders just traded books among themselves, but they decided to create a grassroots library in 2016 in a donated storage shed. It expanded in 2020 to add a second shed for a children’s library with help from a grant from the Stephen and Tabitha King Foundation.”

The islanders, by nature of remote living, are free thinkers. Actually, I see them as downright heroic.  I find nothing more hideous than banning books—especially classics that have defined us.

—Mitchell Hegman

Source: apnews.com, ala.org

Beauty in Sparsity

As David Hume said: “Beauty in things exists in the mind which contemplates them.”

In find a certain beauty in sparsity.  From this vantage point, the pair of wind-propelled tumbleweeds I witnessed crossing a long expanse of blonde grass was beautiful.  So, too, the flock of white seagulls tumbling along behind a red tractor tilling a field—the gulls constantly rotating in overtop one another to feast on grubs and whatnots freshly exposed in the overturned earth.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Job Isn’t Finished Until the Butterflies Are Fixed in Place

Thanks to a helping hand from my brother-in-law, Terry, I finally replaced the last of my home’s original windows.  I completed quite a bit of preparation before Terry arrived.  As soon as he appeared, I finished sawing free the last corner of the old window and we removed it.

Within an hour or so, we completed fastening the new window in place.

We followed that with a celebratory beer (Terry’s of the non-alcohol variety).

At my house, a window project isn’t finished until stickers have been affixed to the glass to discourage birds from crashing into the reflections of sky.  Odd as this may be, I make a habit of always keeping a modest stock of stickers for my windows on hand. 

After Terry and I finished our beers, I fixed a few stickers on the window.  For this window: butterflies.

Old Window Gone

New Window in Place

Butterfly Stickers From the Inside

Single Butterfly

—Mitchell Hegman

Soft Hail

Desiree, along with never having seen snow in person, has never experienced a hail storm.  Yesterday, just when she called to video chat with me, a storm of “soft hail” swept across the lake and fell across my house.

Some people call this sort of snow graupel, snow pellets, or corn snow.  By whatever name you prefer, the collective sound of the pellets striking the exterior of my house translated into a hiss on the inside.

“I need to take you outside so you can see this,” I told Desiree.  “Little snowballs are falling from the sky.”   I scampered out onto the back deck while holding the phone before me so Desiree could witness what I saw.

“Is that hail?” she asked.

“Kinda.  A soft version of it.”

“Cool!”

No matter what you call the soft hail, it’s unusual, and I enjoyed watching the little balls popcorn against the hot tub cover and deck.

The storm dazzled Desiree.

The Storm’s Arrival

Desiree Watching Storm

Pellets Collected on My Hot Tub

—Mitchell Hegman

A Good Day

I got to thinking about a sunny and warm Sunday afternoon in April some years ago.  On a whim, Uyen and I drove into Helena for brunch at the Mediterranean Grill.

We found ourselves sitting next to some friends.  Our friends had been joined by another couple with a five-year-old girl.  The little girl smiled the whole time we were there.   And she poked at her own flowery dress because she knew the dress made her look pretty.

As you might imagine, watching the little girl made Uyen smile, too.  For the whole time we sat in the sun-washed restaurant, I basked in sunlight and the smiles of two pretty girls. 

“That’s a good kind of day,” I thought to myself as I reflected on that afternoon.

I could use more of those. 

—Mitchell Hegman

Small World

You know that old cliché “it’s a small world?”  Well, I have a story.

After my oldest sister passed away a couple years ago, my bother-in-law, Tony, a fancier of warm weather, traveled to the Cebu in the Philippines.  Cebu impressed him when he had taken military leave there many years before.

Eventually, Tony ended up in a small town called Bayawan on the island of Negros.  As fate would have it, he found himself stranded in Bayawan at the beginning of the pandemic.  He ended up having to stay much longer than expected.

But Tony really liked Bayawan and he met a girl.

Partway through the pandemic, he made his way back to Montana and suffered through our weather.  While back in Montana, Tony made arrangements to return to Bayawan for the long term.  He even managed a long-distance marriage to Erica, the island girl he met.

A couple weeks ago, I rode to Great Falls with Tony to ship some boxes of his belongings to the Philippines.  Later that same week, Tony flew finally back to Bayawan.

Let’s do some math here.

First, Bayawan is 7,300 miles from Butte, where Tony originated.  Secondly, we are talking about one island amid more than 7,000 comprising the South Pacific nation. 

This is how small the world is: Bayawan is the very little town where my girl Desiree grew up.   More astonishingly, Tony now lives within two miles of Desiree’s father, a brother, and two bazillion other relatives.

Two days ago, the gap between all of us closed.   Desiree, back on her home island to visit family, stopped to meet Tony and Erica.  Desiree video-called me while there and we all chatted.

—Mitchell Hegman