Softwood

You’ve likely heard that thing about using the internet to self-diagnose an ailment from which you might be suffering. You’ll find an answer alright, but it will be the worst-case scenario. You have something unpronounceable and cured only by drinking castor oil and eating lots of liver.

Unfortunately, a similar strain of bad news awaits if you search to find what you should and shouldn’t burn in your trusty woodstove. The “interweb” is going to tell you that burning softwood is bad. As the story goes, when you drill down (maybe up in this case), softwoods produce a lot of smoke and chimney-clogging creosote. Also, log per log, softwoods produce fewer BTUs than hardwoods.

Here’s the thing. All needle-bearing conifers are softwoods. This includes the pines, firs, and cedars out West where I live. I could accurately write that this effectively includes pretty much everything available in my region of the Rocky Mountains.

We don’t have oaks and walnuts proliferating at our back door. We’ve planted ourselves amongst the pines and firs and must make do. In fact, I spent considerable time this spring and summer cutting and chopping a reserve supply of lodgepole pine and fir for my stove.

Those of us who have not known better have been successfully burning softwoods for hundreds of years. A little damper control. A finely marbled steak. A well-aged single malt Scotch. And a stack of split pine. That’s all we need to laze through winter.

My Softwood Reserve for the Coming Winter

—Mitchell Hegman

Penelope and Her Purple Toenails

Penelope didn’t like daisies or oranges or button-up shirts.

She was seven and had her reasons.

Penelope was right-handed by nature, something her mother referred to as “wrong-handed.” Imagining she might please her mother, she painted her toenails purple with her left hand. And her mother might have been pleased had she looked beyond the purple smears on the floor.

How could you figure adults, she wondered. Adults used words differently.

The same words. Different meanings.

When her mother said “I’ll think about it,” it meant “no.” “Soon” meant “now.” “A little” meant “a lot.”

And before Penelope painted her nails, her mother swore purple was her favorite color and she would be happy if everything was purple.

—Mitchell Hegman

More Reasons to be Thankful

I’m thankful wings are not standard-issued equipment on spiders.

I’m thankful that my feet still reach the ground.

I’m thankful that mosquitoes are small enough to swat.

I’m thankful that gravity generally continues to work in my favor.

I’m thankful that fish don’t have hands.

I’m thankful that apple trees don’t slap me when I’m picking apples.

I’m thankful singing karaoke is optional, not required.

I’m thankful I’ve already proven two wrongs don’t make a right.

—Mitchell Hegman

Smoked Fish

Something near three weeks ago, smoke rolled into Montana from fires in Washington and Oregon. The smoke not only persisted; it thickened with contributions from wildfires in Canada and then right here in Montana. At the same time, extremely hot temperatures settled upon us.

Early in August, my car logged a temperature of 105°F, matching our all-time record high.

Yesterday, while driving through another hot afternoon of ever-thickening smoke, I said to Desiree, “Honey, I can’t even see the mountains for all the smoke. I think if we get another week of this, we’re going to be smoked fish.”

—Mitchell Hegman

The Reasons I Don’t Cook

I am capable of warming up leftovers or pitching hotdogs in boiling water, but full-fledged prepping and cooking a meal is asking a bit much of me. To begin, throwing both adjustments to time and temperature considerations at me in a single process is optimistic at best and more likely perilous. And then when you throw cups, qt., tsp., tbsp. in my lap or suddenly flip over to mL, I’m likely to forgo eating or simply drink down a couple of raw eggs.

Cooking is hard.

I am always wanting to shake rather than stir, and I don’t want to flip anything. I also struggle with being forced to let this cool or that rise. And my idea of chopping is a bit too “western” for a lot of stuff. With hotdogs, I boil them until they split and call it good.

Nonetheless, when Desiree is preparing several dishes at once, I sometimes offer to help. “I’m fine,” she’ll sing. If I grab a knife or make a bold move in the kitchen, she’ll wince and say, “Jeez, I think I just saw something outside the window.”

“Something?”

“Yeah… a weird thing flew by. Maybe you should go out there and look around.”

“Okay, I’ll go look. That’s a good idea.”

Thankfully, Desiree is a great cook. It’s also surprising how often she spots weird stuff outside the window when she’s cooking.

Desiree Prepping

—Mitchell Hegman

Hope (On the Easy Side)

It doesn’t take much to trigger hope within me. The other day, for instance, I witnessed a spider-killing wasp hunting along the foundation of my house. That’s enough to buoy me for a spell. Adding to my hope is the fact that they prefer going after big spiders.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Neighbor Crossing Through

The game camera I have posted in the meadow just south of my cabin picked up one of my neighbors crossing through just yesterday morning. A rather chunky-looking black bear, this one.

—Mitchell Hegman