Another Observation

While grocery shopping with my wife, I made an interesting observation. Somehow, I had outpaced her with the shopping cart. When I finally spotted her, she was walking through the intersection of several aisles. That’s when it happened: she absolutely froze mid-stride, and a wholly blank expression washed over her face.

My observation is this: no matter what corner of the world you come from—be it an island in the South Pacific, somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, or Timbuktu—you get the same silly expression on your face when three shopping items you need suddenly collide in your brain at the same instant.

I watched in amusement as she remained frozen for several seconds. Finally, a look of resolve appeared on Desiree's face. She pivoted on her feet and barreled down the aisle to her right.

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Neil deGrasse Tyson Said

 —"No one wants to die, and no one wants to die poor. These are the two fundamental truths that transcend culture, they transcend politics, they transcend economic cycles.”

—"Perhaps we've never been visited by aliens because they have looked upon Earth and decided there's no sign of intelligent life.”

—"Kids should be allowed to break stuff more often. That's a consequence of exploration. Exploration is what you do when you don't know what you're doing.”

An Exploded Diagram

Some things are simply not helpful. One example is the cheap screwdrivers some manufacturers include with their unassembled furniture. Another is the 2-inch-long tags on some shirts. This also applies to any “help” phone number that directs you to Shivansh’s garage in New Delhi, India.

I recently purchased a sliding compound miter saw. At first glance, the saw appears reasonably complicated, which prompted me to actually skim through the instruction booklet that came with it. Sadly, the instructions are skimpy on pertinent information. However, they did provide a very unhelpful exploded diagram of the saw. I am sharing the exploded view in the unlikely event that it might prove helpful to someone else.

Exploded Diagram of the Miter Saw

—Mitchell Hegman

Doctoring

If we were living in an old Western movie instead of whatever this is we’re living in right now, my immediate neighbors and friends would likely be coming to Desiree for “doctoring” whenever a malady struck them. She’s remarkably knowledgeable about matters of health and understands how all the gears, latches, levers, hydraulics, and cabling systems work inside us.

Desiree also enjoys making me squirm. On that note, she removed the stitches from my forearm last night. She teased me about yanking them out as fast as she could but actually operated with great care, first using a mild soap to disinfect the area before snipping and pulling free the sutures.

I thought about downing a quick shot of whiskey and slamming the glass down on the counter before she got started, like a cowboy bracing for a bullet removal, but instead opted to fetch my smartphone and snap a couple of pictures while grimacing a lot.

Desiree Working on My Arm

Stitches Removed

—Mitchell Hegman

In the Silence

My house is quiet this morning, save for the random ticking of my woodstove as the metal accepts the heat of the flames within the firebox. In the silence between each step I take, each sip of my coffee, and every breath, I am thinking about the passing of another dear friend—an island girl who came twirling with joy to our high north place. She has become another victim of the dreadful cancer that stalks too many of us.

Jo Cooper passed in the dark hours of Thursday night, leaving behind a young son still in grade school and a husband drowning in heartbreak.

Jo always spoke softly, laughed readily, and had a smile that defined her. This morning, she lingers here with us, woven into the silence.

—Mitchell Hegman

More Random Observations

• You are never too old to sleep under a Batman blanket.
• Relationships are, quite literally, "ships," and you cannot successfully navigate unless onboard.
• "Where is the bathroom?" is among the first phrases you should learn when picking up a new language. In Tagalog, it is: "Saan ang kubeta?"
• I think Woody Allen said it best: "It is impossible to experience one's death objectively and still carry a tune."
• Dancing as fast as you can is always a good option.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Googly Eye Crime Spree

A heinous series of crimes has been perpetrated in Bend, Oregon. Law officials are uncertain if the incidents are the work of one individual or some manner of twisted gang activity. No matter the source, the crimes entail wrongdoers attaching googly eyes to the city's beloved sculptures. To date, oversized plastic eyes have been attached to eight public art installations.

City officials are most concerned with the adhesives used to affix some of the eyes to the sculptures, as these may lead to permanent damage to the metal if left untreated. On the other side of this issue, a certain collection of citizens finds the addition of googly eyes amusing.

I must admit, I’m ambivalent about this type of crime—except in the case of the globe. I think the eyes make for some pretty good stuff there.

Googly Eyed Globe

Googly Eyed Deer

—Mitchell Hegman

Source and Photos: UPI

Electrical Work

I worked 28 years as an electrician before dropping my tool pouch and picking up a pile of books to carry on as an apprenticeship instructor. Weirdly enough, for the last five or six years, I have regularly woken from dreams in which I’m working with the tools again.

As part of a push to finish an ongoing remodel of the bathroom adjoining our bedroom, I recently repainted the ceiling and walls. “We should probably install new lights while we’re at it,” I suggested to Desiree after showing her the freshly painted ceiling.

At one time, we called lights “fixtures.” Today, however, we call them “luminaires” to align with adopted National Electrical Code language. So, as a Code guy, I (somewhat begrudgingly) call them that.

In case you’re unaware, here is a list of things electricians don’t like: change, digging a ditch, cleaning up after themselves, plumbers having preference in the mechanical room spaces, warm beer, and bathroom remodel projects. And this is not even close to a complete list.

Anyhoo, we found a luminaire we liked, and I installed the damned thing myself—just like in my dreams.

Repainting the Bathroom Ceiling

New Luminaire

—Mitchell Hegman

Weird Packing

In my way of thinking, you should never pass up an opportunity to do something weird. That’s why, for several years in my twenties, I carried a picture of a smiling monkey in my wallet near my driver’s license. Every so often, someone would see the monkey and ask, “What’s that?” This always amused me, and I would respond, with no further explanation, “It’s a monkey.”

A few days ago, I mailed a jigsaw puzzle to my sister in Las Vegas. The puzzle did not fill the parcel mailing box, leaving plenty of room for something else—a perfect opportunity for random (weird) material. In the past, I have used pine cones, rocks, small stuffed toys, and all manner of things that fit to act as packing. For this package, I included the following: a package of dried minestrone soup (from Front Street Market in Butte), two cuttings from a sprawling juniper near my house, and chunks of agate I collected near my cabin and sliced with a rock saw.

I managed to take a quick snapshot of the contents of my package before shipping. I am sharing that today.

—Mitchell Hegman

Key to Console Me

I have been battling a bout of psoriasis on my scalp. I would like to start by noting that, in my humble estimation, psoriasis has no business being spelled with a “p.” That being said, the three prescriptions I am using to tamp down the malady are entirely beyond my ability to pronounce.

The three prescriptions include a shampoo, a cream, and a lotion. The shampoo is called ketoconazole. In Mitch-speak, that’s “key-to-console-me.” The lotion is far more problematic; it goes by the name betamethasone dipropionate. I have changed this to the more manageable “bet-a-mess-on dip-rope-opinionate.” Finally, the cream, technically known as triamcinolone acetonide, is translated in Mitch-speak as “try-acid-cream.”

Mostly, I hope this stuff works quickly—long before the names do permanent harm to my brain.

 —Mitchell Hegman

A Moment Before the Rider Departs

It’s late. All around us, the fires have slowly faded against the dry expanse and the arch of stars above. We have reduced our language to whispers and long, deliberate gestures. From each of the fires, a rider must depart tonight. They will cross through the darkness with eyes shut, trusting the horse to find a path to the verdant fields, where livestock loll under cottonwood trees and our doors are always open.

Thousands upon thousands have departed on nights just like this—none to return.

A moment before the rider departs from our fire, we gather closely, some of us clasping one another. Our muted voices now sound like creek water. One by one, we embrace the rider and whisper our farewells. The horse stamps at the earth alongside.

It’s up to the horse now.

—Mitchell Hegman

For Jo

Stitches, Part 2

I don’t want to say I’m a big baby about pain, because I don’t like talking about people—especially when the “people” in question is me. So, let’s say instead that I’m slightly pain averse. Given this, I find it remarkable that now, some five days after having a patch of skin removed from my forearm and having the remaining skin stitched back together, I have experienced no pain or discomfort.

This is especially extraordinary given how angry the skin around the stitches appears. We are, fortunately, not talking about angry on the level of my neighbor that time I shattered the windshield on his Jeep with a marble I shot up into the air with my slingshot—more like angry on the level of my father when he couldn’t find a screwdriver because I had used it and not put it back where he kept it.

In another week, Desiree is going to remove the stitches. She might be a bit more excited about this than she should be, but I’m game. I am sharing a photograph of my stitches alongside a can of Cold Smoke beer, my standard scale of reference for size. I plan on having a sip of Cold Smoke on the day the stitches are removed.

Cheers!

My Stitches

—Mitchell Hegman

The Moving Van

Had someone chanced to drive by my house late yesterday afternoon, they might have been surprised to spot a U-Haul moving van in my front drive. Frankly, I was as surprised as anyone else to see a moving van out there. By the time I noticed it, the back door was rolled up, and I could see a young man—a UPS deliveryman—tumbling packages around inside.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered to myself.

A few moments later, I leaned out the front door, snapped a photo with my smartphone, and then trotted out to the back of the truck.

“You have a funny-looking UPS van,” I called out. “Is this the latest generation of UPS rigs?”

“I guess so,” the young man responded.

“Are you guys short on vans as the holiday season approaches?”

The young man nodded. “I think there are a couple of trucks like this running routes today.”

“Well, it’s unique. We can say that much.”

Eventually, the deliveryman kicked two packages free from the rest and presented them to me. I thanked him and lugged the packages inside my house. The U-Haul van soon crawled away across the prairie.

At one time, I drove to stores to buy stuff. Now, I do this.

UPS Delivery

—Mitchell Hegman

A Trash Fatality

Living out in the country, I have subscribed to a bi-weekly trash pickup service. The service is a bit weird. I’m required to drag my two bins nearly 100 yards out onto the prairie where two roads converge. I do this late on a Tuesday evening because the disposal truck arrives between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m. Wednesday morning.

The problem is, the disposal truck is a monster of sorts. For one thing, it rumbles terribly coming and going in the predawn darkness. It also has way too many lights: amber lights, glaring white lights, flashing lights.

And it beeps.

The biggest issue, however, is the robotic arm the truck extends to grab and empty my bins. The arm does not have a soft touch. Sometimes, the arm goes rogue and abuses my bins. I regularly find them lying on their sides. Every so often, the arm squeezes the bins improperly and damages them.

Yesterday morning, when I strutted out to the prairie to retrieve my empty bins, I found only half of one bin. Fatal damage on this run.

My Trash Bins Back at the House

—Mitchell Hegman

Morning Report, December 4, 2024

I woke quite early this morning, wandered into the darkened sunroom, and stood amidst the houseplants there. The snake plants seemed like dusky fingers reaching up toward the sky—a sky still spattered with stars. Almost directly above me, Orion posed in his steady, invariable stance. As a child, I always sought out Orion in the night sky and felt a certain comfort in knowing he was there.

After gazing up at the stars through the curved glass for a sufficient time, I drifted to the woodstove and touched off a fire to push the chill from the house. I watched as the flames grasped and gradually dismantled the splits and ends I had stacked in the firebox last night as the sunset painted the sky using a palette of orange and red. Appropriate, I mused, that the same palette used to color sunsets is used to color fires. I thought also about Desiree, still sleeping in her castle of pillows.

It’s interesting: one of the prominent features Desiree envisioned about life in America was the presence of a fireplace or woodstove in the house—something unnecessary in island life. This morning, she will wake to find the flames I touched off painting the fire she always imagined as quintessentially American.

This Morning’s Fire

Last Night’s Sunset

—Mitchell Hegman

Stitches

Though I've reached an age where, if I were a car, I’d have been considered an antique twenty years ago, I had never needed a single stitch on my body—until yesterday. That changed when my dermatologist removed a patch of skin exhibiting squamous cell carcinoma from my forearm and then stitched me back together.

My squamous cell carcinoma (or "squeamish cell," as I like to call it) began quietly—first as a rough patch of skin and later as a persistent sore that refused to heal. This type of cancer thrives on UV damage caused by exposure to the harsh sun. According to my doctor, nearly 40 percent of fair-skinned individuals are affected by this form of cancer at some point.

Though seemingly harmless at first, squamous cell carcinoma can grow aggressively, spread, or even metastasize. It’s nothing to trifle with.

Today, I stand with my first-ever stitches stretching three inches across my forearm. Weirdly enough, 16 hours after the procedure, I have experienced zero pain.

The Bandage Covering My Stitches

Outline of the Skin to be Removed

—Mitchell Hegman

Altered Gravity

If I could alter any of the immutable laws that presently guide this universe, the first thing I might change is the law of gravity. In my revised universe, gravity would no longer fully apply to the following: children between the ages of five and ten, anvils (except in cartoons), stones beyond their third skip across any body of water, kittens, and Christmas decorations.

—Mitchell Hegman

Choosing the Truth

I represent the Google generation. In the Google generation, you entered your query—whatever it may have been—and a search engine provided you with a list of links related to your question, some of which led to false information.

After a little study, you could choose an answer.

The next generation is being nurtured by Artificial Intelligence. With AI, a query to the mysterious blue tubes—thanks to bots, easily accessible memes, and manipulated sources—usually delivers a single, sometimes false, answer.

Those controlling the information inputs control the outputs.

New question: Are we losing the ability to choose the truth?

—Mitchell Hegman

A Firewood Day

Yesterday proved to be one of those days when I couldn’t focus on much of anything. My mind had apparently gone to the tavern without me, thrown down several shots of tequila, and passed out at the end of the bar. I didn’t feel like watching television, surfing the internet, reading, or doing anything requiring my undivided attention. Before long, I found myself out in the garage chopping wood with an axe.

I find chopping wood inordinately satisfying. I enjoy the physical aspects of it—especially driving the axe down to "whunk" apart a round. Every piece of wood offers a unique challenge, depending on the grain and the presence or absence of knots. Wood without knots tends to “twick” apart at once. Some pieces with knots require a long negotiation followed by concentrated ferocity.

I also have three species of tree: fir, spruce, and lodgepole pine. Each species behaves differently. Lodgepole pine readily flies apart because the trees lack big knots. Spruce is reluctant to split and tends to explode once you finally land a decisive blow with the axe. Straight-grained fir splits nicely, but the knots are first cousins to armored trucks—you’re not getting in easily.

I worked for a long time out in the garage, chopping rounds and large pieces into lengths of burning wood, kindling, and what I call “pick-up sticks.” Pick-up sticks are slightly bigger than kindling, and I use them crisscrossed above the kindling to catch and feed fire into the full-sized burning pieces I stuff into the woodstove. I felt better for it. My brain returned from the bar later in the afternoon, and I read a few articles about the Beatles online.

Firewood in My Garage

—Mitchell Hegman

Squanto

I spent a few minutes on the internet reading about the origin of our Thanksgiving celebration. The celebration really revolves around one Indigenous man named Squanto.

Squanto, a Patuxet Native American also known as Tisquantum, served a pivotal, albeit controversial, role in early Plymouth Colony history. Captured in 1614 and sold into slavery in Spain, he was freed by friars, spent time in England, and returned home in 1619 to find his tribe wiped out by European diseases brought by settlers across the ocean. In 1621, Squanto met the newly arrived Pilgrims. Employing his capability to speak English, he taught them survival skills like using fish as fertilizer and brokered peace between them and Wampanoag Chief Massasoit. This was crucial for the settlers' survival and led to the first Thanksgiving, a feast in which the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag celebrated together following a successful harvest season.

However, Squanto's legacy is complex. Some historians argue he manipulated tensions between settlers and tribes, seeking power over Massasoit. His alleged false claims about Massasoit plotting against the English led to his ostracism, though the Pilgrims protected him, defying Massasoit. Squanto developed a fever and died in 1622, leaving a legacy as both a Pilgrim savior and a divisive figure among his people. Here we are, 400 years later, celebrating Thanksgiving in our own ever-changing and sometimes divisive landscape.

—Mitchell Hegman

Image: Kean Collection/Archive Photos/Getty Images

Giving Thanks

Since today is Thanksgiving, I thought I would share a list of things I’m thankful for:

• Thanks to shoe manufacturers for coming up with shoes I can step into and wear without tying laces.
• I’m thankful that rain falls down more often than it falls up.
• Thanks to John Lennon for writing those lyrics in I Am the Walrus: “I am the eggman, they are the eggmen, I am the walrus, goo-goo g'joob,” so I can sing along: “I am the Hegman, they are the Hegman, I am the walrus, goo-goo g'joob.”
• Though I never saw this coming as a kid, I’m thankful for broccoli.
• Thank you, time and time again, duct tape.
• I’m thankful that my island girl has adopted Montana as her home.
• I’m thankful that my shoes don’t catch on fire from friction when I run really fast.
• Thanks to the National Electrical Code for making me install a lot of receptacles in my house—I really need them when Desiree starts in on the Christmas tree lights.
• Thanks to the Wampanoag and Pilgrims for starting this celebration in 1621.

—Mitchell Hegman

Image: lexingtonchronicle.com

Lemon Tree Update, October 2024

Our sunroom lemon tree started life in October 2022, when Desiree germinated a seed from a lemon and poked it into some rich soil in a small pot. The tree grew robustly for several months, but sometime in mid-2023, it fell under assault from spider mites. For months on end, I battled the mites with an assortment of agents that were supposed to either kill or discourage them. I managed to tamp down the mite infestation but failed to fully eradicate the little monsters.

Meanwhile, the tree continued to grow—a few mites still clinging on. Eventually, Desiree, I, and all the hotshot arborists on the interweb agreed the tree was too spindly. To address this, on September 23 of this year, Desiree grabbed a pair of snippers, marched into the sunroom, and pruned the tree wholesale. The gurus I consulted online prior to her snipping recommended cutting up to 25 percent of the “flagging” growth. Desiree likely approached 90 percent with her pruning. I will admit, I was somewhat alarmed.

Now, two months later, the lemon tree is bursting forth with vibrant new growth. Most impressively, the pruning alarmed the mites so much, they vanished entirely. I have posted three photographs of the lemon tree, including one from yesterday that features me and a Cold Smoke beer as a scale for size.

Spindly Lemon Tree Before Trimming, August 23, 2024

Desiree Trimming the Tree, September 17, 2024

Lemon Tree, November 25, 2024

—Mitchell Hegman

Alive for the First Time

Nicholas came alive on the third of October, which was strange because he was born on December fifth, twenty years earlier. His mother had often told him he was an accident, a claim that never made sense to Nicholas. Why would someone—his mother, in this case—accidentally go to the hospital and have a baby?

Nicholas did come alive accidentally. He had been trying to figure out why his toaster wasn’t working and had flayed it open while it was still energized—“plugged into the juice,” as his father would say. In Nicholas’s estimation, the disassembled toaster was not as interesting or mysterious as a fish in the same state. Then, as he thought this, his pinky finger inadvertently brushed against a shiny screw connecting a wire to a widget.

At once, the world smeared into a bright white light. The kitchen table, the cupboards, the entire house—everything sucked up inside Nicholas through the tip of his finger. He felt as if he were riding atop a shooting star.

An instant later, Nicholas found himself sprawled across the kitchen floor. Though achy and disoriented, he felt alive for the first time.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Deepest Blue

Our northern winters are long and can provide tough conditions. You will need a snow shovel, and where I live, you can expect a stretch of sub-zero temperatures at some point. But winter also has a handsome face. There is nothing that equals an entire landscape softened and whitewashed by several inches of freshly fallen snow.

As sunset approached yesterday, I walked along the lakeshore below my house. The lake lay dark and yet unfrozen, while the sky above displayed the deepest blue imaginable. All of this was highlighted by a layer of freshly fallen snow on the land and on the docks extending out into the dusky water.

Gorgeous. No other word.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Art of Forgetting

I think I broke my personal record for spaciness yesterday. I managed to space out in two rooms in a row. First, I wandered into the kitchen for something, only to realize, once I got there, that I had forgotten what I went in for. After scratching my head for an appropriate amount of time, I remembered something I needed to do in the bedroom and headed in that direction (with a side trip to the bathroom).

Upon arriving in the bedroom, I realized I had lost the thread entirely and had no idea why I was there. Leaning against the wall, I thought to myself, what did I want in the bedroom? I tapped my toes on the floor and stuck a finger in my ear, hoping for inspiration.

After several moments of mental freight train derailments and imaginary rodeo clowns getting smacked by angry bulls, I dragged myself back to the kitchen and pretended I wanted an apple.

—Mitchell Hegman

Wedding Band

A few moments ago, I panicked when I noticed my wedding band was not on my finger. I quickly scoured the house until I found it atop the bathroom vanity. I proudly wear my cheap silicone band. In my way of thinking, the value of the band lies in its symbolism, not the material from which it is made.

Back in my days of frequenting local taverns as a bachelor, I recall my friends commenting on women either wearing or not wearing wedding rings. I must confess, this was something to which I paid zero attention. At that time, I couldn’t even identify which finger should be adorned with the band.

Even today, while I feel wholly incomplete without my wedding ring, I still fail to notice whether others are wearing one. All I care about is my ring. It’s my ring that holds all the beauty and binding magic. The band is an essential part of my oneness with another.

—Mitchell Hegman

When a Turkey Meets a Hawk

For the last two weeks, a tom turkey has been hanging out around my house at various times of the day. Typically, I see the turkey strutting about, pecking at anything of interest. Yesterday, a movement amid the sagebrush below my back deck caught my eye. When I gave it my full attention, I saw the turkey standing there in full display, his tail feathers generously fanned out. I also immediately noticed the reason for the turkey’s display: only a few feet away, a hawk was perched atop the top rail of my post-and-pole fence. The tom was obviously trying to impress or intimidate the hawk.

Sadly, the tom had softened his stance by the time I managed grab my smartphone and capture a couple of photographs of the two big birds. I don’t know my hawks well enough to identify this one with certainty, but I can attest to the fact that it was pretty big—perhaps a goshawk or Cooper’s hawk.

I am posting two photographs of the encounter. They are not of great quality, but they do tell the story. Finally, the hawk flew off a minute or so after I took the pictures.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Special Place Reserved in Hell

I’ve always contended that a special place in hell should be reserved for anyone who loses a piece from a jigsaw puzzle. By “special place,” I mean a section of hell where all you have to eat is earthworms, and the sound of squealing tires is piped in for all eternity. This punishment especially applies to those who pass along a puzzle with a missing piece for someone else to assemble.

However, recent events have forced me to reconsider. It turns out I am one of those cursed individuals responsible for gifting someone a puzzle with a missing piece. The evidence? A nondescript puzzle piece I found after rearranging my dining room furniture. I can’t even identify which puzzle it belongs to, but I’m fairly certain I handed off that puzzle to someone else—I do that with almost every puzzle I complete.

This revelation has me rethinking my earlier judgment. Perhaps puzzle-piece misplacers aren’t as nefarious as I once believed. In light of this, I’m considering softening the punishment. Maybe, at the very least, the menu in that special section of hell could expand a bit.

The Missing Piece

—Mitchell Hegman

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

Learning by Making Mistakes

I am the type of person who learns by making mistakes. The biggest problem with that is, I haven’t yet figured out what kind of mistake I need to make to either balance my checkbook or convince my wife that I’m capable of dressing myself appropriately.

—Mitchell Hegman

Wicked Water

Water can be wicked. On this spectrum, you have floods on the extreme, treacherous end, and on the other end, you find gradual leaks. I would further classify gradual leaks as insidious. Some leaks may go unnoticed for years, all the while causing damage to water systems or structures.

When we were at the cabin a couple of weeks ago, Desiree noticed a discolored spot where the ceiling meets the outside wall in the loft. “The wall looks burned here,” she announced.

I immediately stepped closer for a better look. “That’s water damage,” I said grimly. “We have a leak in the roof.”

A quick investigation revealed that a rubber roof jack for a plumbing vent pipe was inverted on the roof, allowing water to pool around the vent and seep in alongside the PVC pipe. A week after discovering the leak, I opened up the wall to evaluate the extent of the damage. What I found was something my buddy Rodney terms “ungood.” Obviously, water had been leaking inside for many years. The insulation was soaked, and the framing members were rotting and infested with mold.

It’s sinister how such extensive damage can go unnoticed for so long. Without a sound and only drop by drop, the water invaded the cabin wall’s inner space. Upon reaching the fiberglass batting, the water wicked laterally, spreading deeper inside while feeding fungus and decay. I have posted a photograph of the wall after I opened it up. You’ll notice the hair dryer I duct-taped to the vacuum as a means to dry out the spaces within the wall.

The Loft Wall

—Mitchell Hegman

Unwinding the Sun

Desiree has been wanting to burn a heap of branches and dead twigs she trimmed from the pines and willows lining the drive from the main road to our cabin. Yesterday, given a calm day with ample snow on the ground, she put a match to the trimmings.

Desiree enjoys a fire. As I warmed myself by the fire of her making, I thought again about Buckminster Fuller’s quote: “Fire is the sun unwinding from the tree's log.” Years of sunshine were required to feed energy into the limbs and twigs Desiree had stacked onto the fire.

The fire grew quickly, unraveling all those years and deconstructing every limb and branch submitted to the thriving flames. It’s astonishing how quickly we can unwind the sun—and equally surprising how good it feels to stand by, watching the flames scissor higher and higher, our faces growing pink with released heat.

Desiree Feeding Her Fire

—Mitchell Hegman