Setting a Goal

I learned long ago that setting some kind of goal for every day helped me achieve a more fulfilling life.  My goal for today is to use the word ‘tintinnabulation’ in a sentence.

I hope my 20 pounds of housecat is listening.

—Mitchell Hegman

My Biography Begins

I watched a biographical movie last night.  The movie opened with a sweeping camera shot of a city as seen from the ocean.  After a few seconds of steady view, the camera (obviously mounted to a helicopter) flew in at the city, which rapidly expanded across the screen.

Impressive, really. 

My biography would not begin like that.

My story begins with a horribly out-of-focus camera shot.  After a lot of obvious focus adjustments, the camera finally finds focus on an untied shoe.  Eventually, two hands reach down to grasp the laces.  The hands miss-tie the laces twice.  On the third attempt, one of the laces breaks.

The camera falls back out-of-focus.

—Mitchell Hegman

Dark Shadows

If only our dark shadows were birds…

If they were, we could charge at them, screaming, and chase them the hell away.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Foundation of Rock and Roll

Rock and roll music, so the legend goes, emerged from a Faustian bargain.  In this telling, a black travelling bluesman named Robert Johnson, at the turn of the twentieth century, sold his soul to the devil so he might achieve fame playing the Delta blues. 

Robert Johnson is said to have taken his guitar to the crossroads at midnight.  There, he met a tall shadowy man.  The tall man (the devil) took up Johnson’s guitar, carefully tuned it, and handed it back.  From that point on, Johnson displayed incredible guitar skills.  He is even said to have turned his back to the audience while playing so other musicians could not see his playing technique.  

Robert Johnson died in 1938 near Greenwood, Mississippi, at the young age of 27.  He is first to die and enter into what is now known as the “27 Club.”  The club is a list of famous musicians, actors, and artists who died at the age of 27.  Also included in the club is Jim Morrison, Jimmy Hendrix, Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, and Kurt Cobain.

Johnson is suspected to have been sickened by a poisoned bottle of whiskey.

Fortunately, Robert Johnson recorded some of his music before his untimely death.  Current legends of rock and roll such as Eric Clapton, Keith Richard, and Jimmy Page credit Johnson for creating the guitar playing style upon which rock and roll is founded.  Johnson was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in the first induction ceremony of 1986.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yd60nI4sa9A 

Something Kurt Vonnegut Said

—True terror is to wake up one morning and discover that your high school class is running the country.

—Science is magic that works.

—To whom it may concern: It is springtime. It is late afternoon.

Two Signs

Successful Sign:

Short on Time?

Try Our One-Hour Weight Room

Unsuccessful Sign: 

Short on Time?

Try Our One-Hour Wait Room

—Mitchell Hegman

Here

Looking back on my life, it occurs that the first half of my life was spent managing gains.  Gains in cognitive skills, physical abilities, personal relations, a circle of loved ones, and financial standing.  Sitting here in the second half of my life, it seems I am managing losses.

—Mitchell Hegman

Hole in the Ground

Early this morning, as I soaked in my hot tub with chill air around me and the array of stars above, it occurred to me that living in a hole in the ground might have its advantages…but living in the hole in the ground would not be one of them.

—Mitchell Hegman

First Bluebird

Yesterday morning, I saw my first bluebird of the year.

Came dancing vividly across the cotton white expanse of snow, that bird.  Upon reaching my fence, the bluebird flared into a mid-air curtsy and dropped firmly onto the top rail for a quick appraisal of the place.

Later in the day, I spotted a half dozen more bluebirds stitching quick flights near snowbound Lake Helena.

Spring is here officially.

—Mitchell Hegman

Words Are Not Enough

Words are not always enough for me.  Sometimes I need a crooked trek through a forest of skyward trees.  Or a cat nosing at my extended hand.  Or a single songbird resting on a post along a quarter-mile run of pasture fence.

—Mitchell Hegman

Three Simple Rules

1. Given that the universe is expanding, expand with it.

2. Leave no stone unturned in your quest for happiness.

3. Remember, your job for today is to build a door through which you might enter the future tomorrow.

—Mitchell Hegman

Higher, Deeper, Better

Both the drill rig operator and the rig owner walked my property witching for water with a length of copper wire extended in front of them.  They did so independently (on separate days) but still stopped at virtually the same spot very near my house.

“Here,” each of them said.

Yesterday morning, in thick fog, a drill rig set up on the spot called “here” and began stinging down into the earth.

At 167 feet, after drilling down through the overburden and then alternating layers of shale and sandstone, the drilling rig struck the first groundwater.

The drillers can read what they are drilling through by both the “behavior” of the drilling rig and by sampling the grinds forced up to the surface as the rig stings deeper into the ground.  Upon first striking water, the driller measured only 2 gallons per minute, but water yield increased incrementally as the rig continued penetrating the earth with its bit.

The drill operator stopped drilling and knocked on my door once he reached 200 feet, as we had agreed upon before they set against the landscape.  I opened the door to find a mud-spattered man staring back at me.  “Wow,” I said to him, “I don’t mean to be rude, but you are a mess!”

The driller smiled.  “Just part of the job,” he said.  “We are down two-hundred feet and are getting ten gallons per minute.  And we just hit granite.”

“Ten gallons.  That’s good.  Does granite make a difference?”

“Yes.  Granite tends to make a solid layer.  Water tends to ride on top of it.”

“So what do you think about going another fifty feet.  Would that do any good?”

He shrugged.  “Pretty hard to predict. You might go a hundred feet and get nothing more.  You might break though and get more water before fifty feet.”

“I need to think,” I suggested.  “This is a tough decision.”

“I have a few things I can do out there for a few minutes.”

“Okay.  Let me nut through this.  I’ll come out in a couple minutes and tell you to either stop or go a bit deeper.”

I closed the door on the driller and rather paced my house for a bit.

For the purpose of securing a new home loan, most mortgage companies require a minimum yield of 5 gallons per minute.  10 gallons per minute is thought to be ideal for a bustling household of four people.  My present well is producing something less than 5 gallons per minute.

Really, my drilling gamble had already paid off.

I strode outside and found the driller wrestling with a length of PVC pipe near the rig.  I extended my hand to him.  He removed a muddy glove and we shook hands.

“You’re the man,” I told him.  “We can stand at 200 feet.  I’m happy.  Thank you so much.”

I walked away feeling much better about virtually everything in this life.

Water, after all, is everything.

The rig arriving in fog

Set for drilling

—Mitchell Hegman

Higher and Deeper

The earthquake, occurring in the first hour of July 26, 2017, registered a magnitude 5.8.  The epicenter for the earthquake was less than 10 miles from my cabin near Lincoln and some 40 miles or so my house.

At my cabin, the tremors split in two a 4-inch plumbing pipe and cracked some of my exterior siding.

Here at the house, the shivering and rumbling earth shook me fully away and jostled the blinds in the windows like water in a briskly shaken drink tumbler.  At daylight, I found cracks splayed across the concrete apron in front of the garage and cracks in my exterior brick veneer.

Deeper underground, something shifted in the aquifer.

Water has always been fickle out here.  One neighbor punched 400 feet into the ground and tapped into a mere 2 gallons per minute.  My well reached down 220 feet and produced only 5 gallons per minute.  No more than 50 yards away, a neighboring well produces 20 gallons per minute at a depth of 120 feet.

And there is bad water not far from my well.

Thing is, my starting point of 5 gallons per minute was not enough water for me to run sprinklers outside for any length of time.  I could actually pump my well dry.  Over the years, I got a feel for how much water I could use without drawing down too far.  A houseful of people linking together showers along with running the clothes washer might be a problem.  I had to give the well a pause after filling my hot tub.

After the quake, the well produced less water.

My well is some 800 feet from my house (a long story, that) and 75 feet lower on the hill upon which I am located.  I debated a fix involving a storage cistern and a strict control system for my pump, but that still leaves me stranded with a limited water supply.

Today, a well driller will arrive sometime after sunrise to set up his rig and punch a new well higher on the hill and much closer to my house.  I am quite certain we will be going much deeper, too.  I am willing to reach down 300 feet, but I may stop there if we are still dry at that depth.

A dry well at that depth will cost me over $4,500.00

I am not much for gambling.  I have not risked a dime on any of my last three visits to Las Vegas.

Today, I gamble.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Good Feeling

I have a good feeling about today.  Something fortuitous is going to happen.  Maybe I will spot my first bluebird of the year pirouetting electric blue above our late melting snow.  Perhaps my shoelaces will remain firmly tied with only a single knot.  Or it could be I will take a nap today and dream everyone I have lost alive and with me again.

—Mitchell Hegman

Tudder

Speaking of matchmaking apps, we are not alone.

We frail humans have Tinder.  Tinder, for those unfamiliar, is a mobile dating/hook-up app.

First launched in 2012, Tinder is a smartphone platform where users can share and view photos, a limited bio, and location criteria. While browsing profiles, a user swipes right if they like a profile.  A left swipe means they are not interested.  The app employs a “double opt-in” strategy, where users are notified only when they have received a right swipe from a user they have also selected (indicating a possible match).

Some estimates presently tally 57 million Tinder users worldwide.

Now, enter cattle stage left (or right if that’s the direction you choose to swipe).

According to an article I found at Reuters.com, a livestock version of the dating app has been launched for cattle.  The app is called “Tudder.”  Tudder is a merging of “tinder” and “udder.”

Obviously, farmers are ultimately making the matches here. 

In this case, a right swipe sends users to the SellMyLivestock website where matches between farmers and cattle are made.

I will admit, this is pretty clever.  But I am becoming increasingly nervous about the next matchmaking app that might be launched.

—Mitchell Hegman

Gold Mining

I don’t know much about gold mining, but after watching a few episodes of Gold Rush on the Discovery Channel I think I have it figured out.  The general idea is to yell a lot and then throw a hardhat off screen every so often.

—Mitchell Hegman

Waiting for Bluebirds

In a normal year, I have by this date seen my first bluebird returned for spring.

Not so this year.

This year, instead of bluebirds, I have the most snow I have ever seen at my house.

Out my back door

Out my front door

At the bay windows

—Mitchell Hegman

Early Risers

I ran across an interesting article about sleep habits.  The article featured a study conducted by OnePoll which compared early risers to night owls, based on interviews with 2000 Americans.

I am thinking my tendency to wake between 4:00 AM and 5:00 AM qualifies me as an early riser, if not full-on annoying.

Here are a few early bird traits:

—    Energetic

—    Believe in love at first sight

—    More active sex life

—    Likely to engage in hobbies

—    Tend to recall their dreams

—    More likely to squirm, snore, and talk in their sleep

Much of that rings true with me.

I do believe in love at first sight.

I often recall screaming hordes of dreams.

And I don’t merely squirm in my sleep—I ride an exercise bike.

My big take-away for night owls is that they tend to believe in ghosts and are sarcastic.

Finally: Love you, night owls.

—Mitchell Hegman

Basics

I am old enough to know better.  I am also old enough to have hair growing out of my ears.  Life is cruel in that way.

—Mitchell Hegman

Conversation with a Trapper

A day’s ride from the Rocky Mountains, Nicolas May came upon two pack mules hitched to a snag in a wide cottonwood bottom.  He rode beyond the mules and watered his horse in a shallow creek threading though tall grass.

The mules could not be alone.

Nicolas stationed his horse in the dappled shade alongside the creek and instinctively strode upstream following close to the sparkling water.  Shortly, he found an old man, garbed mostly in tattered leather, wading in the creek.

The old man smiled broadly through a thick, gray beard.  He nodded at Nicolas.

“No fish in this water,” Nicolas called out.  “Not that I seen.”

“Ain’t lookin’ fer fish.”  The old man smiled again.  “Guess this is one-a them compromisin’ positons.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m lookin’ fer purty rocks.”

“Gold?”

“No, sir.  Jest purty rocks.  Jest like them little boys do.”

Nicolas shrugged.  “I ain’t one to judge, ya.”  He watched the old man wade to the bank.  Arriving beside Nicolas, the old man stomped off as much water as he could.  Nicolas took the opportunity to introduce himself.  “Name is Nick May,” he said.

The old man offered a sideways glance.  “Jimmy Hornbach,” he said.   “Pleased to be meetin’ ya.”

“I know that name.  You’re the trapper.  You been in this country for a long while.  Longer’n just about anybody.”

“Been a spell,” admitted the old man.  “Got me some pemmican on a mule if youz intru-stud in some.”

Nicolas and the old trapper shared a meal.  They spoke.  After eating, they washed up in the creek.  Watching the sun pour red and orange layers into the clouds overtop the mountains, Nicolas suggested he stay at the campsite for the night.

“Seems right,” agreed Jimmy.

Jimmy struck a fire.  The two men settled around the swaying flames as darkness seeped into all the rugged features around them.

“I ain’t a trapper no more,” Jimmy told Nicolas at some uncertain point.  “Trappin’ is all about killin’ animals.  I sorta lost my lust fer that.  Fer the last few months, I jest been pokin’ ‘round.”

“What do mean by pokin’ around?”

“I guess I’m becomin’ a ferret in my thinkin’.  Ferrets is always busy doin’ nothin’ in pertic-a-lure.  They run around and poke at stuff.”  Jimmy tugged at his beard, smiled.

“Not much profit in that,” remarked Nicolas.

“No, there ain’t,” Jimmy said somewhat wistfully.  “Truth is…my time here under the stars is almost done.  And they is one last thing I’m lookin’ fer.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m lookin’ fer a trap.  A pertic-a-lure sort a trap.  In fair turnabout fer all my trapin’, I figure God hisself has a trap set for ol’ Jimmy.”  Jimmy paused for a moment, tugged at his bear again. “Got me a feelin’ the trap is purty close.  Ain’t nuss-i-sarily 'fraid of it neither.”

Nicolas May struggled to process what Jimmy had told had said.  Strangely, he did not doubt what the old man had said.  In the morning, if Jimmy headed south, Nick would ride north.    

—Mitchell Hegman

Harrison Ford Tells a Joke

A bit jarring…but funny.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRHWvVBxWCw&t=2s

Snowscapes

Posted today are a few photographs I captured with my smarter-than-me-phone on a drive back from Bozeman after a day of teaching.

Miles of nothing but snow

Out the passenger window

Approaching my house

—Mitchell Hegman

Cringe Worthy

I watched a couple of actual plastic surgery procedures being performed while viewing a documentary last night.

That’s not a mistake I will repeat again anytime soon.

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Paula Poundstone Said

—The problem with cats is that they get the exact same look on their face whether they see a moth or an axe-murderer.

—The wages of sin are death, but by the time taxes are taken out, it's just sort of a tired feeling.

—Adults are always asking kids what they want to be when they grow up because they are looking for ideas.

Named Montana

Journal entry: August 5, 2006

By the time my taxi appeared on the street outside University Center in Knoxville, Tennessee, rain fell so ferociously about me, I saw little more than a dark blur.  I had been waiting under a red canvas event canopy for about ten minutes.  Only two minutes before the van arrived, a thick stream of runoff appeared on the nearby sidewalk and forced me to retreat deeper under the canopy.  I sat on a wobbly table trying to remain dry. 

The rainwater stream now occupied the entire sidewalk and half of the street.   Leaves, gum wrappers, and darker whatnots flowed overtop my shoes and around my ankles as I waded out to catch my cab.  I could not even make out mortar lines on the brick building immediately across the street for the heavy rain.  The tempest immediately drenched me.

“Does it do this often?” I asked the woman driving the van.  She was sturdily constructed, if not round in shape, and not long out of her twenties.

“Nawt ever,” she answered.  “Aye never seen this bee-for.”

“Me either.”

We crept away from the center and entered a dark green canopy of trees and rain.  Thick curtains of water fell against the windshield.  Heavier volleys blocked our vision as effectively as baskets of blue jeans dumped against the glass.

Naturally, my windshield wiper did a better job of clearing the rain than did the driver’s side.    

“I ain’t gunna take Cumberland,” the cabbie announced.  “It’s purty well flooded out where I come frum.”

“I’m okay with that,” I said, dripping all over her cab.

“This here storm,” she added, “this is frum the devil.  I’m a God-fearin’ woman, and he would never do this to us.”  As she spoke, rain hissed against all sided of the van.

We climbed a hill and dropped down into a heavily flooding section of street.  The taxi’s communication radio cracked out a nonsensical series of dispatch messages.  Those ended with a message that power was out citywide and streets were closing.  And, finally, so and so cab died after attempting to plow through flooding on a freeway off-ramp.

For many blocks, we slithered along at no more than fifteen miles per hour.  We pushed through standing water the whole way.   A blinding, jagged sword of lightning slashed into some nearby buildings.  The radio cracked sharply in response.

A half-block later, the driver asked, “Did you see that?  That stupid girl that wuz drivin’ by wuz talkin’ on her cellphone.  That’s stupid.  I watched me a show on tee-vee where if lightning wuz to strike the cell tower and you wuz on yer cellphone—that lightning would go right in yer ear.”

“Really!”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is pretty wild,” I remarked as we splashed through a mini lake across the roadway before climbing a ramp onto divided freeway.

A male voice scratched across the radio: “I ain’t never seen it go black like this!”

Remarkably, the rain thinned as we sped through Tennessee’s leafy trees and invasive walls of kudzu.  And then, at once, we exited the rain—as if jumping though a parting curtain—and entered a perfectly dry day.

“How about that!” I blurted.  I could see the highway extending into the trees far ahead of me.  Not a single drop of water before us.

“Yes, sir.”

“This is amazing.”

“Whar are you frum?” the cabbie asked.

“Montana.”

“Montana!”  She grinned broadly.  “That’s my little girl’s name.”

“No kidding.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did you come up with the name Montana?”

“Joe Montana,” she answered without hesitation.  “He threw that sixty-seven yard pass to win the Super Bowl.   He’s got those pretty eyes, too.”

“I see.”

“My momma wuz nun too happy when I told her that I wanted to name my child Montana if it wuz a girl.  I told her she’d better pray to the Lord for a boy, ‘cause that’s jest whut I intended to do.”

“Montana is a nice name,” I assured the cabbie.  “I like it a lot.  Don’t hear that name a lot.”

“I thought so, too.  But when I sent my daughter to school, there wuz a whole bunch of them.  Both boys and girls named Montana.  My girl wuz not happy ‘bout that.  And you know whut—her best friend is named Montana.”

“Who could have guessed that?” I remarked.

When we arrived at the airport, I stepped out onto dry concrete.  A dark, wet spot quickly developed at my feet.  Passersby stared at me.   I looked as though I’d just stepped out from underneath a showerhead.  “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

“Twenty-three dollars.”

I fished two twenties from my pocket and handed them to the cabbie.  “Keep all of it,” I told her.

“I can make change.”

“No.  Keep it.”  I laughed.  “We had a heck-of-a ride.  Now we have a story.”

“I’m never gunna for-git this fare.  The man who swam to get into my cab.”

“Trust me.  I won’t be forgetting this either.”

—Mitchell Hegman