One Finger Striking Out on Its Own

I don’t think being an idiot is my biggest problem, though it does slow me down at times. I think my biggest problem is my fingers. More precisely, my problem is suffering from Raynaud's phenomenon, which is not a good phenomenon in the vein of, say, the Northern Lights.

I’ve posted a photograph I captured of my hand the other day. The dead-looking finger is the work of Raynaud’s. The finger is cold, entirely numb, and without blood circulation. My hands contacting cold water triggered it. Commonly, all of my fingers will do this when an episode is triggered. In my case, I have two triggers for a Raynaud’s event: contact with something cold or gripping something for an extended time.

Raynaud's is essentially my body overreacting, throwing up its hands and running away screaming, pun intended, as if the world were harsher than it is. A sudden chill or passing stress, and the small arteries in the fingers constrict, limiting blood flow and draining the skin of color as though drawing the shades against an imagined storm. It is less a clear-cut disease than an overcautious reflex, the nervous system pressing the brakes too hard.

Sometimes I must dip my hands in warm water for several minutes to get blood flowing again.

—Mitchell Hegman

Solutions

Problem: I keep compiling my various mistakes in my head and then constantly wade through them.

Solution #1: Stop making mistakes.

Solution #2: Drop a tab of LSD and alter reality.

Problem: I’m small on the outside.

Solution: Be big on the inside.

Problem: I take myself too seriously.

Solution: Remember I am, in fact, a temporary arrangement of opinions.

Problem: I often fail at properly pronouncing “rotisserie.”

Solution: Beer.

—Mitchell Hegman

Dee-Dee, Doo-Doo (A Conversation)

While soaking in our outdoor hot tub, Desiree looked out toward the pine trees on the hillside below. Steam lifted around us in slowly spiraling ribbons.

“What kind of bird is that?”

“What bird?” I asked, scanning the trees and finding nothing but branches and shadow.

“The one singing.”

“I don’t hear a bird.”

“You don’t hear the bird?”

“Nope. I’ve lost a lot of the high-pitched stuff from my range of hearing.”

“I know you don’t hear crickets.”

“Not unless I’m right on top of them. What does the bird sound like?”

“It’s just a simple song. Kinda like a chickadee.”

“We should get one of those smartphone apps that identifies birds by their songs. I actually had one for a while. There’s a bird I used to hear all the time that’s been missing for the last few years. I figured it had vanished from here. I downloaded the app and whistled the song, just to see what kind of bird it was. The app immediately responded: ‘That sounds like a human.’”

Desiree and I laughed.

“It’s a simple song, too,” I said, and then I whistled it for her: dee-dee, doo-doo.

Desiree brightened. “That’s it! That’s what I’m hearing!”

I whistled it again.

“That’s it,” she said.

“So they didn’t vanish. I just stopped hearing them. I used to hear them constantly in the trees below, years ago.”

I whistled again: dee-dee, doo-doo.

The sound floated out over the hillside, human from beginning to end, answering a bird I could no longer hear.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood

The making of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood Scotch is less a straight line and more a long, patient waltz between wood and time. It begins at The Balvenie Distillery in the Dufftown area of Speyside, Scotland, where the rhythm is set early and never rushed.

The process begins with malted barley, mashed, fermented, and distilled in copper stills into a bright, eager spirit. That spirit is then laid to rest for many years in traditional oak casks, where it gathers honeyed warmth, soft vanilla, and a gentle structure. In time, the signature turn arrives: the whisky is transferred, or “finished,” in casks that once held rich ruby port from Portugal, drawing in notes of dried fruit, spice, and a quiet, wine-dark sweetness. After 21 years of this slow exchange between spirit and seasoned wood, the result is a Scotch that feels composed, balanced, and just a touch indulgent.

The taste of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood is smooth and layered, with honey and oak giving way to a soft, earthy sweetness that lingers without overstaying its welcome.

Many would describe this Scotch in a much simpler, unsubtle manner: expensive! For my birthday, a group of Desiree’s Filipina friends, whom I affectionately call my “sister wives,” chipped in and purchased me a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year PortWood.

Let me assure you, this is a big deal. Thank you, girls!

—Mitchell Hegman

The Sapphire Bucket

One look inside my garage will tell you I’m a fan of 5-gallon buckets. On my last count, I had 17 of them in some form of use. Still, none of them quite compare to the “sapphire bucket” I received as a birthday gift.

This one-of-a-kind, customized bucket was fashioned by fellow rockhound Tad St. Clair. It serves as a complete kit for gleaning sapphires from pay gravel gathered from deposits along the Missouri River near my house, a simple idea turned elegant.

The kit includes a clear glass plate that rests on the rim of the bucket, a battery-powered LED light glowing up from within, and a small plastic container with tweezers and compartments for the safekeeping of any promising finds. Gravel is spread across the glass, and with a little patience and a careful eye, the light reveals what the river has chosen to keep hidden.

Tad also included a small bag of pay gravel from a trip we made to the local gem and mineral society dig near Lakeside. I am posting photographs of the bucket and of Desiree making a run with a handful of pay. No sapphires surfaced this time, but that feels beside the point. We will gather more gravel soon and let the light try again.

The Sapphire Bucket Complete

The Kit on Display

Desiree Looking for Sapphires

—Mitchell Hegman

You Can’t Please Everyone

I figured out a long time ago that the aphorism about not being able to please everyone is an absolute truth. But I’ve since determined that you can annoy everyone with remarkable efficiency, either by making weird noises constantly or by singing Bob Dylan songs even worse than he sings them.

—Mitchell Hegman

NOTE: I’m a huge Dylan fan.

Something Fran Lebowitz Said

—    “Children are the most desirable opponents at scrabble as they are both easy to beat and fun to cheat.”

—    “Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.”

—    “Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and small people talk about wine.”