Fire Watch Duty

Desiree and I have developed a new habit. Each evening, now that winter is nudging at our toes, we engage in a session of “fire watch” duty. In the traditional sense, “fire watch” refers to the responsibility of monitoring a specific area to identify and respond to potential fire hazards, ensuring safety and compliance with fire prevention protocols. In our case, we are languishing in front of our wood stove—often “oohing” and “aahing”—as we watch waiflike flames mesh together, wavering, rising, and falling.

The colors produced by the fire are most impressive, showcasing flames streaked with blue, yellow, red, and orange.

I am sharing two images I captured of the flames within our stove. At the top of each image, you will note the grid of red-hot metal. That’s the catalytic combustor at work. Its task is to ignite and burn off smoke and gases emitted by the wood. To function efficiently, the combustor should be at a temperature of 500°F. Last night, the combustor temperature sensor indicated a reading slightly above 1,000°F for just a minute or two before settling down to something above 600°F.

I am amazed by how little smoke the wood stove emits while, at the same time, producing enough heat to keep the entire house cozy.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Victim

I have posted a photograph of our latest houseplant. It’s a fuchsia—and a victim. Somehow, it didn’t enjoy living in our sunroom and rather abruptly perished. Perhaps the fuchsia didn’t enjoy cohabitating with its immediate neighbors: a begonia and a geranium that forgot to be an annual and has carried on for nearly three years now.

This is our second fuchsia, actually. The first suffered much the same fate, though it dragged on for several months—even spitting out a couple of blossoms—before “giving up the ghost.”

Fuchsia plants are known for their vibrant, drooping flowers. They are native to Central and South America, with a few species found in New Zealand and Tahiti. According to the interweb, these tropical beauties thrive indoors when placed in bright, indirect light and kept in well-draining soil. To kill a fuchsia, allow Desiree and me to tend them for a spell. We’ll get the deed done.

Our Fuchsia

—Mitchell Hegman

My Mountain Woman

My island girl has changed status—she is no longer an island girl. Desiree is now a full-on mountain woman. She has fallen in love with the mountains of Montana in general, but she has particularly attached herself to our cabin property. Surprisingly, Desiree is often more eager to spend time at the cabin than I am, which is remarkable.

Over the weekend, despite relatively cold weather and recent snow, Desiree insisted on going to the cabin so she could clear willows overhanging her favorite fishing holes near our bridge.

“I’m going to get in the creek with my snippers,” she informed me.

“It’s going to be pretty cold,” I suggested.

“I’ve been wanting to clear the brush to make fishing easier for a long time.”

“Okay.”

After starting a fire in the cabin and helping me with a couple of chores, Desiree pulled on her waders and headed for the creek with tree-trimming snippers. I must admit, she greatly impressed me. Winter or not, she waded into the chilly waters and ratcheted her way into the brush arching over the running water. She remained in the creek for over an hour, whittling away the willows that most hindered her fishing.

Good stuff, that.

Desiree Clearing Bush Along the Creek Bank

Cutting Brush at a Fishing Hole

—Mitchell Hegman

Weird Stuff

• Jimi Hendrix played his guitar upside down.
• To date, not a single airplane has gotten stuck in the sky.
• Octopuses have three hearts; two of them stop beating when they swim.
• Bananas are berries, but strawberries aren’t. A strawberry is actually a multiple fruit receptacle.
• Wombat poop is cube-shaped, which prevents it from rolling away.
• A day on Venus is longer than a year on Venus.
• Sharks existed before trees or dinosaurs.
• Humans can’t walk in a straight line without looking at something. If blindfolded, we gradually walk in a circle.
• Using a process of high pressure and high temperatures, peanut butter can be transformed into artificial diamonds.

—Mitchell Hegman

Dead Reckoning

Recall that summer so cold,

your young friend newly dead,

but still walking in your dreams,

a tainted lullaby spinning

against a backdrop of projects and grime.

In dreams, your friend’s face remained smooth,

but chill as pewter.

 

The last time you saw your friend,

she told you her body was a bag of sand.

One of the machines attending her clicked

and whirred conspicuously.

“I just want to jump again,” she said.

“Jump,” she repeated. “That’s all.”

 

When you left that day,

you drove long below a vast gray sky

toward some crooked mountains,

but failed to reach them.

 

—Mitchell Hegman

Wood in Space

Recently, an unusual box-like satellite named LignoSat hitched a ride into space aboard an unmanned SpaceX rocket launched from NASA's Kennedy Space Center in Florida. LignoSat is small, measuring a mere 4 inches across, but its most remarkable feature is that it is the first satellite constructed of wood.

After arriving at the International Space Station, the satellite will be released into outer space about a month later to test its strength and durability. Data transmitted from the satellite will allow researchers to monitor for signs of strain and determine whether the wooden structure can withstand the extreme temperature fluctuations of space.

Ultimately, LignoSat will re-enter Earth's atmosphere, and its Japanese developers expect the wooden material to burn up completely—potentially offering a way to avoid generating metal particles when retired satellites return to Earth. These particles could interfere with telecommunications and negatively impact the environment. In the future, researchers anticipate that most satellites may no longer be constructed of metal.

I find it particularly fascinating, if not outlandish, that our latest technological innovation in space science is a box made of wood.

LignoSat Satellite

—Mitchell Hegman

SOURCE: news.yahoo.com

Between Each Tick

Between each second’s tick of an antique clock resides an eternity—a quiet forever without despair, where all of our departed friends and loved ones have gathered. And let’s imagine, contrary to Sylvia Plath, that this isn’t a place where stars are “grinding, crumb by crumb, our own grist down to its bony face.” What if, instead, between each tick of the clock, the dead gather to play croquet and lavish one another with compliments?

—Mitchell Hegman