Desiree and I drove to Billings on Sunday so I could conduct two days of electrical training at the Phillips 66 oil refinery. The weather has been gorgeous, and Billings has experienced spring ahead of Helena as far as displaying spring colors. Many of the flowering trees are on full display, and Montana’s big sky has not disappointed. Even the oil refinery looks somewhat handsome, set against the spring tableau.
—Mitchell Hegman
While watching a video of a monkey thwapping the hell out of a snake on my smart cellular telephone, it struck me just how far we have come since I first tethered myself to a landline phone in the 1970s. Back then, we could initiate prank calls in the wee hours of the night and call a number to be told the exact time.
Good
stuff, that.
But
look at us now. With our smartphones, we can take and send photographs. We can manipulate
documents. We can access almost unlimited information. But even with all those
resources at my fingertips, I am watching videos of monkeys smacking around
snakes.
—Mitchell Hegman
Just because you’re capable of doing something doesn’t mean you should do it—stabbing someone, for example, or vacuuming the carpet.
—Mitchell Hegman
When you think about fish that kill people, you likely conjure up an image of a shark. Maybe you picture toothy jaws clamping down on some hapless person who a few moments previous set down their beer and said, just before entering the water, “I ain’t afraid of no sharks.”
But I’m
thinking of a dramatically smaller fish that kills you when you eat it rather
than the other way around. The fish, called fugu, is a pufferfish or blowfish
and is considered a delicacy in Japan. Fugu fish hold a deadly poison within their
flesh – tetrodotoxin, a potent neurotoxin that can paralyze and ultimately lead
to death if ingested in significant amounts. However, in the hands of skilled
and licensed chefs, the fish is transformed from a potential hazard into a rare
delicacy. Skilled chefs meticulously remove the toxic parts, such as the liver,
ovaries, and skin, ensuring a safe and unforgettable dining experience.
Despite
the stringent regulations and rigorous training required to prepare Fugu,
occasional incidents still occur. Statistics reveal that over the years, there
have been reported cases of deaths related to Fugu consumption. 1958 marked the deadliest single year for fugu.
That year 176 people (mostly homestyle do-it-yourself chefs) died from eating
the fish. Today, these incidents remain rare, and fugu continues to attract adventurous
foodies drawn to its exquisite flavor and the thrill of indulging in a dish
that teeters on the edge of danger.
So,
hold my beer while I take a bite of my fish.
—Mitchell Hegman
I asked Artificial Intelligence (Chat GPT) this: “ What is the most beautiful thing ever written?”
This
is how Chat GPT responded: “Some might find Shakespeare's sonnets exquisite, while others might be
moved by the simplicity and profundity of haiku poetry. The poetic imagery of
Pablo Neruda's love sonnets or the philosophical depth of works like Kahlil
Gibran's "The Prophet" also hold immense beauty for many. Ultimately,
beauty in writing is in the eye of the beholder.”
I
had previously asked myself the same question and rather quickly landed on my
own answer. My answer is precise and simple. The most beautiful thing ever
written is available to the poor as readily as the wealthy. It’s quick, recyclable,
and is written anew each and every day by someone. It goes like this: “I love
you!”
—Mitchell Hegman
After successfully getting the sprinkler system running properly down at the lake, I used a 5-gallon bucket (with water dipped from the lake) to water a few stray trees. I probably like buckets a bit more than I should. I use them for storage, for hauling things, and sometimes employ them as temporary tables and stands.
As I used the bucket to carry water down at the
lake, I thought about another bucket I had down there some fifteen or so years
ago. Upon arriving at the lakeshore one weekend, I found a couple teenage kids,
a boy and a girl, fishing off my dock. Beside them on the dock sat a bucket I
always had handy at the nearby pavilion. A couple perch flicked about in water
within the bucket as I approached the kids.
“Are you guys from one of the cabins next door?” I
asked.
“Yep,” responded the boy.
“Fish are biting a little?”
“Yep.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I don’t mind if you fish
from my dock. All I ask is that you leave my bucket here after you use it.”
After my chat with the kids, I mowed the lawn,
which was my entire reason for dropping down to the lake. As soon as I finished
mowing, I bid farewell to the kids. A few days later, on my next visit to the
lakeshore, I found myself without a bucket. The kids had failed me. I thought
about this as I watered yesterday. I must admit, I am not yet over the loss of
that bucket.
—Mitchell Hegman
Yesterday, I had a spectacularly bad day, a day filled with failures. When trying to fire up my lakeside sprinkler system for the season, I broke a plastic fitting. Wanting to finish the project right away, I dashed into town to find a replacement fitting. Following is the condensed version of how it went from there:
Today is a new day. I will happily accept any small
victory I am given.
—Mitchell Hegman
Jasper and agate are varieties of chalcedony, which is a form of microcrystalline quartz. Structurally, they share similarities due to their common composition but they differ in their appearance and formation.
Jasper typically appears as opaque, dense, and
often colored by various mineral impurities. Its structure consists of tightly
packed microcrystalline quartz grains, often intergrown with other minerals
like iron oxides, which give it its distinctive colors and patterns.
Agate, on the other hand, is often characterized by
a banded appearance. It forms in concentric layers within cavities of rocks,
such as volcanic rocks or sedimentary formations. These layers are composed of
alternating microcrystalline quartz and other minerals.
There is also a less cerebral, “backyard” way to tell
the difference between jasper and agate. If you place a light behind your specimen
and you can see light pushing through it, then it’s agate; if the specimen
blocks light, you are looking at jasper.
—Mitchell Hegman
Over the weekend, I attended the Helena Mineral Society’s annual Mineral and Fossil Show at the Civic Center – the “Rock Show,” as it's colloquially known. Over the last twenty or so years, I have missed but a handful of these shows. When I was a boy of seven or eight, my uncle Stack took me to my first such show, hooking me in for a lifetime.
As a kid, I spent 90% of my time hunting for
collectible rocks while I traipsed about. I scoured alleys, vacant fields,
along and in the creek – virtually anywhere I walked. I can fairly say my
fascination with rocks has diminished little. I still return home from my hikes
with rocks in my pockets. The same goes for the Rock Show – I always buy one or
two specimens.
This year, I found myself dazzled by polychrome jasper from Madagascar. Jasper is not particularly uncommon; it forms when silica-rich solutions flow through fractures in rocks, depositing layers of silica that incorporate impurities like iron oxides and organic material. Over time, these layers solidify under pressure and heat, resulting in the distinctive colors, patterns, and textures characteristic of jasper. While jasper is found worldwide, polychrome jasper from Madagascar stands out for its exceptional beauty and rarity.
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—Mitchell Hegman
As I poked around the house picking up a few stray items, I noticed how my right hand ached a little and was not fully cooperating with me. This is something that happens to me from time to time—a result, I suppose, of my nearing antique status relative to my age. If I were a car, I suspect I would be one of those old numbers with windows in the back that don’t roll all the way down.
—Mitchell Hegman
Emerging from the rock era of the 1960s and 1970s, I didn’t find a lot that pleased me regarding popular music in the 1980s. The disco era had wounded me deeply, and I found most of the ascending “big hair bands” without significant talent and their songs vacuous. Guns N' Roses, the Pretenders, and a handful of other bands did a lot to ease my pain and give me hope. One Australian group, The Church, produced a couple of songs that I consider the best of the entire decade. Their song "Reptile" reached deep into me from the first few bent and crying notes on the guitar. This is simple, stripped-down rock music. No slick production tricks to be found. Good stuff.
Today, I am sharing "Reptile."
When the growling in my stomach sounds like Bob Dylan singing the national anthem, I know it's time to find something to eat.
—Mitchell Hegman
Following is a list of simple things worth remembering:
—Mitchell Hegman
I have come across what I suspect is my fair share of burned cars. Weirdly enough, while traveling to various Montana towns for work, I actually came across two angrily burning cars within the same work-week. The first was churning out a column of black smoke on a street in Great Falls. The second was ablaze alongside the street in Lewistown.
The ferocity of a burning car is shocking. You
don’t expect to see cars beset by greedy flames and disgorging ugly arms of
smoke. Just as odd is finding the charred remnants of a car that somehow caught
on fire out in the middle of nowhere. Suspicious stuff, that.
While driving around the Helena Valley Regulating Reservoir the other day, Desiree and I came across a badly burned car at a parking area near picnic site alongside the lake. I am sharing a photograph of that today.
—Mitchell Hegman
Desiree and I visited the Helena Valley Regulating Reservoir yesterday afternoon. The reservoir, with 518 surface acres and some 6 miles of shoreline, also offers miles of trails that stitch along the shore and twine out onto the nearby prairie. We picked up a shoreline trail and followed that along cottonwood trees for a time before hooking back to the car on a trail across an open expanse of grass.
Desiree particularly enjoyed the way the big sky
shuffled clouds overtop us as we hiked the prairie portion of our chosen trail.
She has come to love the broad basins with mountain vistas that epitomize much
of Southwest Montana.
I enjoyed the sun, which presses against you gently
this time of year. And a light breeze carried the vital scent of damp earth.
Out on the prairie, ants and bugs scurried across the trail while early butterflies
rather tumbled by. All of this as a single western meadowlark sang out its distinctly
beautiful song.
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—Mitchell Hegman
Some folks can spend most of the day worrying about what others are doing. I’m not that lucky. I still spend enough time cleaning up my own messes that I don’t have time to worry about what someone else is doing.
—Mitchell Hegman
On a sunny day, my house is designed such that it fills with light. Yesterday was just such a day. In addition, yesterday was my birthday, and (to my surprise) a throng of Desiree’s Filipina friends filled my house with the sound of laughter for the afternoon to help me celebrate.
Thanks to everyone for the fantastic food, the
enthusiastic karaoke, the gifts, and the good cheer!
—Mitchell Hegman
Back in January, when I moved back into the Master bedroom after our remodeling efforts, I reflected on how amazing my digital bedside alarm clock was when I plugged it in and placed it on the night table beside the bed. The clock is somewhere north of twenty years old. Amazingly, aside from two or three occasions where I failed to replace the 9-volt back-up battery and lost time when power failed, the clock has operated with perfect accuracy. That all ended yesterday when the clock display permanently froze at 9:08. In addition to stalling in time, one of the illuminated segments of the zero also failed. I’m actually a little sad about the loss of the clock. We have been through a lot together. We have survived earthquakes, Arctic express storms (which deliver sub-zero temperatures), and dozens of power grid blinks. We also survived that time in 2018 when I woke and thought the clock was displaying 12:73.
—Mitchell Hegman
I made my favorite mistake (maybe a series of them) deep in a swath of heavily timbered mountains while trying to locate a parcel of land for sale. I was following a strange map given to me by a realtor. The map was more a list of cryptic instructions: 'Stay left where the road forks near a huge boulder… take the well-travelled road… Look for two dead-standing trees standing side-by-side…'
Somewhere along the way, I climbed the wrong hill
or turned at the wrong “big tree” in the most beautiful deep of the forest,
where one knows, even when lost, that something good might come of it. And
then, at once, a primitive road brought me into an expansive patch of
huckleberries. Not the parcel I was looking for, but better. Orange butterflies
and smaller no-name insects flitted through shafts of light extending down to the
understory through the tall pine and fir trees.
I stopped and waded through waist-high berry
bushes—all of them loaded with ripe berries. Though not prepared to harvest
berries, I did have a plastic bag in the truck. After fetching my bag, I picked
my way into the patch.
—Mitchell Hegman
My Mayday tree is the first to put forth leaves each spring. It does so astonishingly swiftly. Of course, the tree does not grow at a pace that allows you to stand out there and actually perceive it growing, but I have never let that stop me from trying.
—Mitchell Hegman
Yesterday, Desiree completed another of her Dezworks Projects. This project is something I think of as a “jumper sprawl.” The sprawl is the long-dead and twisted (if not tortured) trunk of a juniper. Over the many years, the trunk and branches have been worn down to nubbed arms. Once in the Dezworks (a.k.a. our kitchen), the sprawl underwent intensive cleaning and sanding. Following that, Desiree applied two coats of polyacrylic sealer.
After allowing the sprawl to dry, Desiree and I
lugged the thing back to our bathroom, and she placed it in a position to her
liking on the corner platform of the whirl tub. I must admit, I like the look
and feel of it there.
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—Mitchell Hegman
I wake to the whooshing sound of my water softening system backwashing to regenerate for another cycle. Sleep has placed me in an equivalent of airplane mode. For the first minute or so, I find myself wondering if I would still bring potato chips home if a study proved they attracted spiders.
Well… I don’t know.
Eventually, I shake myself out of airplane mode,
swing out of bed, and grab my first cup of coffee. I didn’t witness yesterday’s
solar eclipse, but I did spend a few minutes studying my Mayday tree. The tree is
putting forth tiny leaves in impressive fashion. In the larger scheme of
things, the entire world seems in conflict, and I am wishing there were some
way to backwash the entire planet and reset everything.
Mostly, I am glad potato chips don’t actually attract
spiders, at least as far as we know.
End of morning report.
—Mitchell Hegman
My precious lemon tree has come under attack. Spider mites have found their way to the tree.
Spider mites, diminutive arachnids measuring less
than 1 millimeter, pose a significant threat to houseplants as they feed by puncturing
plant cells and extracting their contents. Their short life cycle, often
completing within a week, allows for rapid population growth and widespread
infestation. As they multiply, spider mites weave fine silk webs, causing plant
damage through leaf discoloration, stunted growth, and, if left untreated,
eventual demise.
I have placed the plant in intensive care near my
front door and have been spraying it with mint and rosemary oil solutions, as
well as good old-fashioned water. Next up, I am afraid, will be more
industrial-grade solutions. Though small enough to miss seeing with the naked
eye, spider mites are formidable and nearly impossible to eradicate.
—Mitchell Hegman
Two cowboys on horseback spotted each other across a broad plain scoured by a constant sun. The riders were heading toward one another: one riding east, one west. Neither man had seen another person in many days. Naturally, they directed their mounts such that they would meet at the center of the plain. Riding on, they watched each other grow from a speck to full-sized. The two men drew to a halt when their horses were nose to nose.
The cowboy riding east tipped his hat. “Where are
you headed?” he asked the other cowboy.
“Heading west,” the other man answered. “How about
you?”
“Purty obvious I am heading east,” the cowboy
answered.
“Well,” said the west-riding cowboy, “we appear to
have made ourselves one of them impasses. Since our animals can’t ride through
each other, I 'spect we’re gonna have to turn aside.”
“Yes, sir, I accept your reasoning.”
With that stated, the west-riding cowboy turned his
horse toward the north and trotted off. The east-riding turned and cowboy
headed due south.
The distance quickly grew between them.
—Mitchell Hegman
I had the remarkably good fortune of having a father who never finished anything he started. One of the more notable things this provided for me as a kid was a big pile of dirt in our weedy yard. Originally intended as topsoil for a lawn, the pile lingered long after the dump truck that delivered it rumbled away down the street.
For a young boy, not much surpasses a pile of dirt
immediately out your front door. Consider the possibilities: it’s a mountain to
climb—king of the hill material. Easy digging meant endless opportunities for
holes, caves, and makeshift fortresses. Might there be buried treasure? Perhaps
gold just a few inches in. A hill to roll down. A rough course for toy trucks.
My pal Kevin and I spent countless hours playing on the pile of dirt in my
yard.
Good stuff, that.
Just the other day, I passed by a new house with a
fresh pile of dirt deposited for landscaping. It made me wonder if some lucky
kid with an unambitious father was living there.
—Mitchell Hegman
Following substantial rains, I saved a dozen or so earthworms yesterday by plucking them off my concrete drive and carting them off to some nearby soil. The worms emerge from the soil and head across the concrete for one or more of three reasons: the waterlogged soil may suffocate them; they can safely migrate in the wet environment; or they are seeking a bit of earthworm sex (which is not particularly sexy in my estimation). I am forced to save the worms because more often than not, they get stranded on the concrete and wind up baking to death when the sun returns.
We never had this earthworm problem when I was
growing up in East Helena, Montana, because we didn’t have earthworms. Over the
years of operation, the lead smelter on the edge of town had spewed forth a
cocktail of heavy metals and other pollutants that sifted down onto the ground
and poisoned out the earthworms. The only notable exception to this was my
Uncle Stack’s yard across the street from where I grew up. He had imported some
good soil from the nearby mountains and had a small section of that in which he
tended earthworms for use as fishing bait.
In saving the earthworms from my concrete drive, I
suppose I am following Uncle Stack’s lead in my own fashion.
—Mitchell Hegman
Some stuff is not appropriately named. Plains, Montana, for example, is smack in the mountains. Greenland is largely covered in ice, making it not very green at all. It was named by the Norse explorer Erik the Red, possibly as a marketing ploy to attract settlers. Iceland: In contrast to Greenland, Iceland has lush green landscapes in many areas.
Hitting your funny bone is not funny in any manner.
Yesterday afternoon, I spent a few minutes sitting
in my sunroom while thinking about nothing in particular. In doing so, I
determined one thing for certain: the sunroom is appropriately named.
—Mitchell Hegman
We are finally experiencing more 'traditional' spring-like weather. Songbirds are singing all across the prairie. The ice is almost entirely gone from the lake. And just yesterday, I spotted two butterflies, but in typical Montana fashion, the wind pretty much kicked their asses.
—Mitchell Hegman
Margaret Keane was an American artist renowned for her "Big Eye" paintings, characterized by their exaggerated depictions of children with large, expressive eyes. Keane's art gained widespread popularity in the 1960s, captivating audiences with its unique style and emotional depth. Despite facing challenges, including having her husband fraudulently claim credit for her work for years, Keane's talent eventually received recognition, leading to a resurgence of interest in her art. In 2014 director Tim Burton made a movie about her titled “Big Eyes.”
Interestingly, there is a condition known as Axenfeld-Rieger Syndrome that causes some people to be born with abnormally big eyes. Such people look just like the subjects painted by Margaret Keane. At the end of the blog, I have posted one of Keane’s works along with a beautiful young girl with big eyes as result of Axenfeld-Rieger Syndrome.
—Mitchell Hegman
In 1957, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) conducted what still ranks as one of the most famous April Fool’s Day gags of all time. Eight million people tuned in and watched Panorama’s three-minute feature on the “Swiss spaghetti harvest.”
The prank included a backstory claiming that an
unseasonably warm winter brought an end to a devastating “spaghetti weevil”
pest control issue. Following the weevil population decline, the region of
Ticino near the Italian border was said to have yielded an “exceptionally heavy
spaghetti crop.” The footage featured people picking strands of spaghetti off
trees and bushes.
The prank worked so effectively, viewers soon phoned
in to find out how they could purchase their own spaghetti trees, the BBC told
them to “place a sprig of spaghetti in a tin of tomato sauce and hope for the
best.”
—Mitchell Hegman
