A Single Daisy

The other day, while wandering near our Hogum Creek cabin, I found at the spot where, two years ago, my wife broadcast a handful of domesticated flower seeds, a single daisy exploding loudly white against the lightly swaying Timothy. The single blossom was held high as a plate stiff-armed above a crowd by a waiter passing through a bustling room. I felt convinced, at the time my wife threw the seeds to the open elements, that none of the sissified flower-box exotics would survive the uncertain summers and harsh mountain winters there at the feet of the Continental Divide. I believe I told my wife something about having better luck broadcasting the seeds across the highway to Lincoln. “Try that,” I think I pronounced with appropriate finality.

“Something will grow,” she assured me with certainty as she pitched a mist of seeds.

My wife nearly always proved correct.

I said to the daisy when I found it, “Hello, Uyen,” and I stood with the flower for quite a while, allowing the shadows of clouds to drag right overtop me after watching them rove down though the open parks and forests above the narrow mountain valley. The air smelled of some sweet flower or tree I could not name and I could hear the creek murmuring along the overhang banks in the meadow beyond. The daisy blazed white against the tame green of tall grass. Standing there, I needed to admit to myself that being wrong about that flower surviving felt better than being correct about anything I could readily remember.

--Mitchell Hegman

Where the Day Ends

Another picture taken from my back yard at the calm end of a long day.

--Mitchell Hegman

Some Luck

I girl-cleaned my house early this morning. If that statement sounds derogatory in any manner to you, let me allow that my meaning is every bit the opposite. Girl-cleaning is deep cleaning. This means lifting all of the rugs before sweeping. Girl-cleaning requires mopping floors, scrubbing the toilet with cleaning agents scented like lemon or pine, putting out new towels—the works. My standard boy-cleaning is something slightly less than that. Okay, if you wish to get all word-smithy and technical, boy-cleaning is a whole lot less.

In boy-cleaning mode, I quickly wipe around everything sitting on the tables and countertop, never bothering to lift the toaster or spice rack or anything else to catch below or behind. When dusting, I tend to tap at everything with my Swiffer—almost the gentle way you expect a good-fairy to tap her magic wand—hoping the dust will vanish. I have toyed with the idea of duct-taping rags and feather-dusters to my cats so I might enlist their help, but, ultimately, I fear that this might be the one application were even duct tape might fail. Cats are tenacious and really whiney. Duct tape is no match. In boy-cleaning: I engage in sweeping only. No mopping. Boy-cleaning is quick and, well, I suppose efficient might be a stretch. The point here is the effort, not getting your house clean in any technical sense.

While cleaning our entry this morning, I found under the throw there, the three Chinese coins Uyen always left hidden underneath. The coins, three brassy-types with a square hole in the center, are all evenly spaced on a length of red ribbon that has been fished through their centers. Uyen placed them at that spot for good luck. I’m not certain if this good luck token stems from feng shui or from some other cultural sensibility found her South-Asian upbringing. I have, in similar fashion in my house, crystals and chimes dangling over doors, a mirror on the eve outside facing the road, beds facing specific directions, and strict orders to never set shoes on a table. She thought these placements and habits very important. And, dammit, if she thought them important: they are. I have not changed any of these things since her passing. But today, when I bent and lifted the ribbon, one of the coins tankled ever so lightly back down to the tile, broken into three distinct continents. I did not place the remaining two coins under the throw after cleaning, fearing that only two coins might somehow be wrong luck under there. I now have the two coins hanging from a plant stand near the front door. I am hoping my guessing at luck with two of them is better than no luck at all.

--Mitchell Hegman

Electrical Theory

Benjamin Franklin was first to described electricity, in the form of lighting strikes, as a “flow” of energy. He called lightening “electric fire,” and thought the stuff a sort of fluid, as did most people at that time. Franklin was also the first person to ascribe “positive” and “negative” to the yet unknown forces triggering small static and huge lightening discharges. Franklin tried to capture lightening in a Leiden jar, something of a crude “battery” (which is another term fist coined by Franklin), with his famous kite experiments. Fortunately, for both Ben Franklin and the jar, the experiments produced only in minor success so far as attracting a big bolt of electric fire. Franklin, in a sense, was also the first person to electrify his home. He accomplished this by means of lightning rods (another Franklin invention) that he attached to the peak of his roof, tied to some bells, and then “grounded” (his term) to the earth with a driven rod by means of a wire. After so wiring his home, Ben promptly shipped-off to diddle around with aristocrats in Europe, leaving his wife at the home alone with his new experiment. Every direct lighting stroke thereafter caused the bells to clamor mightily and sometimes caused great showers of sparks. He learned, among other things, that it is possible to make inventions which will actively annoy your wife even while you are away. We still use Franklins lightning protection systems to this day, though attaching bells is no longer advised. Annoying your wife is always a valid option.

A fair amount of mystery yet remains in the exact mechanics regarding the flow of electricity. At present, electrical theory allows for two explanations in describing the flow of electricity: conventional flow and electron flow. We must be cautious about getting all sciencey here. To begin, we need to first recognize that positive is used to describe electrons or a place where a bunch of electrons are hanging out together like gangs in seedy neighborhoods, just waiting to bust a move. Positive is a hole where an electron would nicely balance everything in the atomic sense. Positive, in this sense, is a kind of absence, like a place with no beer. Conventional theory assumes that electrical current flows from positive to negative, which is kind of weird, because that ultimately means the flow is the direction of holes travelling in the circuit. Electron theory, contrarily, presumes that current flows from negative to positive. Here we follow the electrons as they rush from a place (potential) of over-abundance and try to fill holes.

Electron flow is the one that rings my bells.

Point is—and I do have one—we really don’t fully understand everything. We use electricity. We make electricity glow, run, juggle, play the fiddle, and lift whole cars, but still we guess at some of the basic facts. As an electrician, I needed to choose a theory for my understanding, so I grabbed one. I probably think about this theory more than I should. Though I have been in the electrical industry for nearly thirty-five solid years, I remain ever fascinated by the stuff. And I have gone so far as to try and apply electron flow theory to all aspects of my life. I seek to always draw away from the negative and find the most positive place.

--Mitchell Hegman

Action Rubric (For Your Behavior Today)

At each station in the rubric below, choose only one of the three listed actions and then progress to the next station. Proceed to the end of the rubric to determine your actions for the day. Good luck with your day!

A. Grab someone:
1. You love
2. You like
3. Who reminds you of your grandmother

B. By the:
1. Hand
2. Arm
3. Something unmentionable

C. Tell them:
1. You feel great
2. You just purchased Vincent van Gogh’s (OPTION) ear or self-portrait
3. You need to be sexed-up

D. Then:
1. Kiss them
2. Kick them
3. If you made a choice of “3” at the first station, you may exit here

E. And tell them:
1. They are the best
2. You are convinced that in a previous life you were a ripe watermelon
3. You think you kicked your grandmother a moment ago

F. Once you have done this, you must:
1. Run like hell
2. Wag your tongue
3. Hang your Vincent van Gogh portrait in the kitchen above the sink

--Mitchell Hegman

Not to Forget

A friend of mine took her two grade-school-aged boys to the summer Olympics the year the games were held in Atlanta. She drove them all the way from Montana, taking the larger part of two weeks for travel and attending the events. Upon their return to Montana, the father of the boys asked the younger of the two what he though about the trip. “Dad,” the boy answered without hesitation, “I had no idea there was so much corn growing out there.”

Clearly, a few details of the trip were lacking in the description provided by the boy—the long-drawn highways over the Great Plains, the lush hills rolling into the Ozarks, the moss-hung South, and the thunderous crowds cheering athletes on at the games, to name but a few details. I realize today that I made a similar error in how sparsely I described the lakeside celebration held for Uyen on Saturday last. I have thought about the gathering a great deal these last two days. Yesterday, driving home along the green windrows a freshly swathed alfalfa, I had to wipe tears from my face as I thought about everyone there. Not tears of sadness. Tears of joy.

We are rich in friends, me and Uyen. Gathered at the lakeside, dozens upon dozens of beautiful people. Children wading into the water at the lakeshore and splashing silver against the sun. Adults gathered under the giant golden willows and spilling cheerfully onto the docks and lawn. My sisters. Our daughter chatting with our oldest and newest friends, providing continuity. Val, who drove over one-hundred miles in each direction, several times every week, to visit Uyen when she was hospitalized in Missoula. Leo, who drove Uyen to town for doctors appointments weekly so that I could continue to work as she slowly battled back from the transverse myelitis that wounded her so hard. Ginny, who would do anything for Uyen. Scott, Kevin, Vicki and Vicki, Patti and Patty, Thao, and on so many dozen times. People who helped us build our house. Children who have now had children of their own.

How could I forget the most lovely and important part of this entire walk along the bottom of the big sky—our friends and family?

To all, forever, thank you! Love.

--Mitchell Hegman

Taking Measure

I woke early this morning, pulled myself upright, and sat there in my bed against stack of pillows supported by the headboard. For a very long time I remained in pure silence, gazing at a few random stars through my half-open window, thinking about yesterday, and all of the very dear people, the sea of sweet faces, who came to celebrate the life of my wife—our oldest and newest friends together. One of the faces came to me and said, “This is for you as much as Uyen. This is a testament to you, Mitch.” Until then, I never really considered that. I cannot fully explain, but this—today—feels like a new place where I must begin again without my best friend. Something important occurred yesterday.

Eventually, the sun scaled the far side of the mountains, flushing the cloudless sky orange, then white, finally, blue. Sometime later, the drone of a single motor boat Dopplered from one end of the lake to the other without pause, as if taking measure of the entire expanse. Long after that, the family presently sharing my house began to stir in all the rooms surrounding. A footfall here. Voices there, sounding like stones rolling along the bottom of a river. Cups kissing countertops. Plate clattering against plate.

At a younger age—for many years, actually—I suffered through depression. I bumped along the floor of this life, a maudlin little man. I have since taught myself how to avoid depression by devotedly focusing of all things mundane. I wipe the sides of the kitchen sink twice each day. I line my shoes along the wall in pairs. I stop to pat the head of each cat whenever I find one sitting atop a chair or standing at my feet. I vigorously brush my teeth and try to shave the one whisker John, at work, teases me about missing. I bring work home with me so I can always remain busy. I am not depressed. I am, instead, stuck at some numb point between happy and unhappy. I feel almost as if I have been captured in a clear jar for keeping. I have only my own name and rote habits left for default operation. I am pleased to have my house coming to life around me. I am. I do appreciate all of the dear people. I love them. But if that early morning boat was taking measure, I somehow feel just outside the results.

--Mitchell Hegman