My Sunday started with a quiet drive to Butte to visit with relations in from Illinois. Deadened from a week of travel and training in such things as trust fund fiduciary obligations, standards for apprenticeship, and disciplinary discharge from training programs, I simply did not feel like talking. While in Butte, we toured the World Museum of Mining, located on the site of what was once the Orphan Girl Mine—named such because the mine and her headframe (for dropping men and mules and equipment directly underground) sat so far apart from the cluster of other mines in the area. Though known mostly for copper production, the Orphan Girl expelled some 7,500,000 ounces of silver from her day of opening in 1875 until closure in 1956.
I enjoyed the museum for all the old equipment, with wheels as big as houses and gearboxes that might fill a living room. I liked walking through the old mining town, reconstructed on site, and the huge blue sky above us filled with roving clouds. Still, I remained pensive. Honestly, I felt a little empty and unable to focus on much of anything.
When I arrived home again, late in the afternoon, I gathered up the week’s worth of newspapers I missed and began to read through articles that captured my attention. Upon opening one of the papers, I saw a picture of some dear friends, Chuck and Esther, accompanied by some quotes from them. I read only a few lines, pleased to find my good friends there, talking about flowers and gardens, and then, in my excitement, I turned to my wife’s chair to share this with her.
Not there. Only an empty chair. For a brief snippet of time, for the length of time required to skip a shooting star across our atmosphere, I had my wife back with me. And I’ll be damned if that didn’t bring one of the only smiles I managed for the entire day.
--Mitchell Hegman
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