An Intimate Fire

When I was a boy, nothing pleased me more than an opportunity to feed and poke at a campfire. I quickly learned that each and every fire has its own look and—for lack of a better term—personality. The stacks of wood varied in shape, size, and combustibility, and ambient conditions shifted each time. The flames danced across a wide color spectrum, beginning with yellow and edging into powder blue. I learned to appreciate unique aspects of each fire, and since tending my first, I have developed a sort of oneness with each fire I tend.

For the last couple of days, the overnight temperatures have dipped low enough to prompt me to start fires in our new wood stove. The stove features a glass door, allowing me to watch the fire. I can witness the first flames wavering, tentatively exploring the thin-split kindling. To begin, I pull open the door to let a rush of air urge the flames deeper and higher into the cross-stacked logs. Soon, orange flames waver up, scissoring into the wood. Before long, the entire stack is engulfed in flames fringed with crawlers of blue, and the first ghosts of heat issue forth.

This is my fire, and with modulations of the damper and the occasional addition of a split from a round, I train the fire to consume the wood at a rate that pleases me. I watch as the logs gradually crumble and collapse into a deep red bed of pulsating embers. Heat presses against me if I stand nearby, and at some point, both I and the fire become intimate and ageless.

A New Fire

A Mature Fire Tinged with Blue

—Mitchell Hegman

Influencers

I read a story about a pair of “influencers” who drowned not long after refusing to wear lifejackets while taking a small launch boat to shore following a party on a yacht off the Brazilian coast.

First, we need to figure out what an “influencer” is. According to ChatGPT: “A social media influencer is a person who has built a following on social media platforms (like Instagram, YouTube, TikTok, or Twitter) and can influence the opinions, behaviors, and purchasing decisions of their audience. These individuals are typically known for their expertise, personality, or unique content in a specific area, such as fashion, fitness, travel, gaming, or beauty.”

The two influencers in question, Aline Tamara Moreira de Amorim, 37, and Beatriz Tavares da Silva Faria, 27, were found dead after their launch was swamped and sank off a stretch of Brazil's coast known as the Devil's Throat. Both women were health and fitness influencers and had refused to wear life preservers because they were taking selfies and were concerned the safety wear would interfere with their tanning.

“Well, I guess they died with nice tan lines,” Desiree remarked when I related the story to her.

Aline Tamara Moreira de Amorim

—Mitchell Hegman

Spuds

A lot of people in my hometown called potatoes “spuds.” As near as I can tell, potatoes are called "spuds" because of a tool once used in their cultivation. The term "spud" originally referred to a type of small digging tool used to remove weeds or prepare soil for planting, and it eventually became associated with digging up potatoes. In 19th-century English slang, "spud" came to mean the potato itself, likely because of this connection with digging up tubers.

My apologies to all the potatoes out there, but they are not terribly romantic. Potatoes are rather thick and bulky—not sexy like string beans or curvy like peppers. And, remember, they once caused a famine in Ireland. Yet, given the proper treatment, they can carry the weight of a good meal. Yesterday, Desiree and I worked together to produce a brace of perfectly beautiful baked potatoes. This required bacon, of course, and a three-part cooking regimen involving the microwave, oven, and an active finish on the grill outside.

I am sharing a picture of Desiree with our lovely spuds.

Perfection!

—Mitchell Hegman

A Conversation with Desiree

ME: “Why is there an eggshell with seeds in it in our laundry room?”

DESIREE: “I’m going to start some plants.”

ME: “In an eggshell?”

DESIREE: “Yes.”

ME: “But why in an eggshell?”

DESIREE: “They say that’s the best way to germinate seeds.”

ME: “Who are they?”

DESIREE: “Your best friend.”

ME: “Okay, remind me, who is my best friend?”

DESIREE: “Your best friend, Google.”

ME: “Got it. I can run with that.”

Following is a quick explanation my friend Google provided:

“Eggshells are almost entirely calcium carbonate, which is one of the most essential nutrients for thriving plants. As they break down, the eggshells enrich the soil with calcium and nitrogen, which the plant's roots will absorb and put to use as it grows.”

Desiree's Seeds in an Eggshell  

—Mitchell Hegman

A Rock on a Post

Some things make sense on the surface—they are instinctive, and you don’t need to dive deeply to know it’s the right thing to do. A perfect example of this is opening the door for someone who is carrying something. It’s an automatic human response.

Another action that falls into this category is placing a rock on top of a post when you come across one in the middle of nowhere. It just makes sense to find a rock and place it on top of the post—no need for explanation.

Yesterday, I passed by a lone fence post that had been recently pounded into the ground at the edge of what we call Big Tire Gulch. I immediately noticed that someone had placed a smooth, roundish rock on top. This pleased me so much that I stopped and captured a photograph. Had someone else not done so, I would have felt compelled to find a rock for the post myself.

A Rock on a Post

—Mitchell Hegman

All You Need

It seems like it has taken me forever to figure this out, but the Beatles were correct: all you need is love.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Galvanized Problem

If someone wanted to squeeze valuable information out of me (assuming I had any), they wouldn’t need to shove me inside a torture chamber and twiddle with me. All they would need to do is hand me a pipe wrench and force me to either do some plumbing or spill the beans. I would spill everything I knew—and then some—to avoid plumbing. And the only thing I like less than plumbing is plumbing with galvanized steel piping, especially for water.

Here’s the thing: at some point, galvanized pipe will deteriorate (in the form of rust) and then leak.

When I constructed my house thirty-three years ago, I did my best to use copper, brass, and plastic fittings throughout the plumbing system. Unfortunately, I ended up with galvanized fittings in two locations. The first location was the main shutoff valve, where the water emerges in my crawlspace. That section sprung a leak and flooded my crawlspace in November 2020.

Yesterday, when I pulled out my space-age-looking cluster of reverse osmosis water filters to change them, I discovered a leak in the ½-inch galvanized cap used where my filtration system is tied in.

Here’s the thing: it’s plumbing. It’s in a bad spot to reach. And I know a guy—who is not me—who can fix it. Below, I am sharing pictures of my plumbing issues.

Filter System

The Galvanized Mess Under My Sink

Valve Leak from 2020

—Mitchell Hegman

A Five-Minute Vacation

Our sunroom has become one of my favorite places. I go in there regularly for what I think of as five-minute vacations. To begin, I have always liked houseplants. I started tending my own houseplants in my early twenties and have been doing so ever since. Our sunroom is something of an eclectic jungle comprised of incongruent species. A fair swath of the room is dominated by a hoya, a plant originating from a cutting taken from one my grandmother first grew in the 1940s. Nearby, you will find five orchids that thrive on the cubes of ice given to them on a weekly basis. And, of course, you will find our lemon tree, chives, two newly started tomato plants, an ivy, a begonia, snake plants, a geranium, lemongrass, some kind of weird potato thing Desiree just started, and much more.

This time of year, sunlight gently shoulders against me while I stand under the sunroom’s curved glass in the late afternoon. A light scent of good earth fills the entire space after watering the plants. I enjoy floating about the room, taking in the verdant green colors even as, just outside the windows, the Montana landscape locks down all growth in preparation for winter. Soon, this will be a green oasis amid the snowscape outside.

I am sharing two photographs from the sunroom. Please note, as a proper reference for size, the can of Cold Smoke beer I placed on the floor in the full sunroom image.

The Sunroom

The Hoya

—Mitchell Hegman

Hug Quickly Before You Go

Dunedin, New Zealand, a modest town of some 135,000 inhabitants, is not anti-hugging, but some folks there—specifically airport officials—want people to hug quicker. Travelers leaving Dunedin’s airport now have a three-minute limit on goodbye hugs in the drop-off area. The idea is to prevent traffic jams. To that end, signs were posted in September warning of the "max hug time."

Airport CEO Dan De Bono said three minutes is enough time to say goodbye and avoid awkwardly long embraces, adding, “We do not have hug police.” However, lingering hugs can continue in the parking lot, where 15 minutes are free. Implementing the limited hugging time stirred plenty of debate in Dunedin, but for me, reading this from afar, I think visiting a place where a noteworthy problem is hugging too long might be exciting.

—Mitchell Hegman

Source: AP 

The Roe River

Desiree and I are presently in Great Falls because I have a teaching engagement here today. Yesterday, not long after arriving in Great Falls, we visited Giant Springs State Park, which is home to the Roe River. According to Wikipedia: “The Roe River runs from Giant Springs to the Missouri River near Great Falls, Montana, United States. The Roe River is only 201 feet (61 m) long at its longest constant point and had been named the World's Shortest River by the Guinness Book of World Records before Guinness eliminated the category in 2006.”

Desiree and I both enjoyed visiting the park. We wandered around by the Roe River for a while and then visited a public fish pool at the adjacent fish hatchery. The pool teemed with large trout, which you can feed by purchasing a handful of fish food from one of the coin-operated dispensers.

Below are photos from our visit to the park. Unfortunately, I was unable to hold a can of Cold Smoke beer next to the fish for a size reference, but many of them exceeded 24 inches in length and are quite chubby from being fed by tourists.

The Roe River

Desiree and the Roe

The Trout Pool

—Mitchell Hegman

Easier Shopping with a Cart

Desiree and I followed an older man into Home Depot while making our shopping rounds in town. The man displayed a decidedly crooked gait and obviously struggled a little to walk. Upon reaching the first row of shopping carts, he pulled one free and pushed it in my direction. “Here you go. Have a cart.”

Weirdly enough, as we were walking across the parking lot to reach the store’s entrance, I had said to Desiree, “I’m not going to grab a cart. We’re only getting a couple of items.” With that in mind, I said, “No, thanks,” to the man.

“Take it,” the man insisted. “It’s easier shopping with a cart.”

I paused for a second and thought, How can I refuse a random act of generosity? “Okay. I’ll take the cart. Thank you.”

As we worked our way deeper into the store, our “couple” of items multiplied into a half-dozen things at the bottom of our cart. “You know,” I said to Desiree as we headed to purchase everything, “that was a pretty smart guy we met on our way in. It is easier shopping with a cart, and you can buy more.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Leaving the Leaves

My Mayday tree, the autumn wind having stripped away most of its leaves, now stands stiff and without grace. The ground below the tree is purpled with fallen leaves. Another man might rake up the fallen leaves and bag them, but I like to watch as the wind breathes life back into them, urging them to skitter and swirl across my drive. I am reminded of what my friend Bill told me about snow in the winter when he was a young boy. He noticed that their house was the only one on the block without snow cleared from the sidewalks.

“Dad,” he asked his father, “how come we don’t shovel our sidewalks like everyone else?”

His father readily answered, “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Boy Cleaning (An Epic Failure)

While sitting on the sofa, I glanced over toward the dining room and found myself confronted with an epic failure in my house-cleaning efforts.

Allow me to explain.

My typical method for cleaning the house is something I refer to as “boy cleaning.” You might also refer to this as “half-assed,” and you’d hit the mark. I call it boy cleaning because it’s what you might get if you forced a boy between the ages of ten and eighteen into a session of house cleaning. The kid is going to be a little sulky and will hurry to finish. If sweeping the floor, rugs and tables will be swept around, not swept under. Instead of picking up clutter, it will be stacked into a somewhat more presentable pile. Dust atop tables and other surfaces may or may not get sleeved off with the nearest shirt that has not yet migrated to the laundry room.

You get the idea.

So, the last time I cleaned the dining room, I boy cleaned. Posted below is a picture I captured with my smartphone. If you look at the floor along the front of the hutch there, you’ll see a sizeable patch of dust I missed in my hurried efforts. Also, if you visit me at my house, please avoid looking under the tables.

—Mitchell Hegman

When a Harmonica is Everything You Ever Wanted

I have been living with a serious error in my thinking for my entire life. Until just yesterday, I thought the harmonica was merely an inconsequential instrument, used simply to spice up a song now and then. I could not have been more wrong.

Yesterday, for the first time, I heard Indiara Sfair playing a harmonica.

Indiara Sfair is a Brazilian harmonica virtuoso known for her soulful playing, blending blues, jazz, and Brazilian influences. She began playing the harmonica at a young age and gained international attention through her online performances. Her expressive phrasing and technical skill on the instrument are transformative. She gives the harmonica the range of a piano, the depth of a saxophone, and bends notes like a blues guitarist. After listening to the first of her songs, I quickly found a half dozen more.

Take the time to watch the two-minute video I’m sharing today. Maybe a harmonica will provide you, as it did for me, with everything you ever wanted in a song.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4VWgT7VSl-I&list=RDEM5gvS4v3_cmaP31ld5coysg&index=2

Morning Report, October 17, 2024

Morning Report for October 17, 2024:

The candidates for various offices are clamoring as the election approaches. Though such a thing is not possible, it seems as though 11 out of every 10 television advertisements are negative political offerings. Daily, my mailbox fills with political fliers, which I promptly discard. The chipmunks, normally scampering about the back deck, have made themselves scarce as they finalize setting up their burrows for overwintering. In just the last week, the linden tree outside my bay windows has blushed yellow, and more island-girl Christmas decorations have blossomed within our house. Finally, in broader news, courts in Switzerland have ruled that a dial manufacturer (in their much-vaunted watchmaking industry) was justified in forcing workers to clock out and take bathroom breaks on their own time.

End of morning report.

Linden Tree

Christmas Decorations

—Mitchell Hegman

Creation (A Girl Named Tamira)

In a time long before mechanical contrivances washed clothes and milled wheat, a young girl named Tamira was sent to wash clothes beneath the streamside cottonwood trees. Though her name meant “magic,” Tamira was also mischievous. She quickly grew bored with dipping clothes in the chill water and began wandering along the edge of the stream. Finding a puff of dandelion parasols, she fashioned them into small winged insects, broadcast them to the wind, and watched them fly away. Discovering small twigs and stones, she shaped them into hard-shell insects and shellfish, and by releasing them into the water, they became the crawlies you find today. Finally, Tamira plucked leaves from the cottonwood and folded them into the shape of fish. When she tossed the folded leaves into the eddies of the water, they transformed into trout.

Tamira was a naughty girl. For this reason, some of the winged insects became biting things, some of the crawlies pinch, and the trout became shy.

—Mitchell Hegman

Howling in the Night

When I first moved out here to the country thirty-some years ago, the coyotes living in the pine and juniper wilds around my home yowled nightly. They also had a strange habit: if a small plane flew low over the ranchlands at night, they would ignite into a crying fit just after the plane cleared the gulley, hill, or island of prairie where they happened to be. The howling frightened my wife, but I found myself fascinated by how the wild chorus swelled and ebbed all around us. However, as more houses began to appear in the landscape around me, the sound of the chorus began to fade. By the early 2000s, the nights fell into silence, and the coyotes were gone. This year, for whatever reason, the coyotes have returned to the swaths of darkness surrounding my house. I can’t say this is comforting, exactly, but a part of me appreciates the crying in the night.

—Mitchell Hegman

A High Mountain Drive

We followed a meandering road, ascending high into the mountains. By now, at all elevations, the forests have adopted their autumn colors. The road we chose soon delivered us to a place where lofty tamaracks had marched into the fir and pine stands of timber. Here and there along the way, cottonwood and aspen trees appeared in tight collections, presenting a bright yellow, sometimes leaning toward orange. Where the sun reached into the understory, it often highlighted brush in bright red hues.

Posted are four photographs captured during our drive into the mountains.

Yellow

Desiree on the Road

Mountains to the North

A Splash of Red

—Mitchell Hegman

Something Yogi Berra Said

—"It was impossible to get a conversation going, everybody was talking too much."

—"If you don't know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else."

—"You better cut the pizza in four pieces because I'm not hungry enough to eat six."

Descriptors of Me

What if there existed a requirement that each of us were required to hang a sign on our person that used a single descriptor to describe us? How would you describe yourself in a single concise phrase? I got to thinking about this and quickly realized that a lot of phrases would apply. Following are a few descriptors that apply to me:

• Often Looking in the Wrong Direction
• Still a Work in Progress
• Will Accept Donations and Some Advice
• Trying Not to Whine
• Not Afraid of Snakes
• Mostly Well-Trained

—Mitchell Hegman

Bliss

Last night, in our evening wear, Desiree and I walked out to stand on the deck as the sky slowly pulsed with rainbow colors. It was a soft display of northern lights—not dramatic, simply beautiful. Today, I am sharing an image of Desiree and me under the colorful sky.

Bliss (The Two of Us Amid Northern Lights)

—Mitchell Hegman

Digging a Hole

Weirdly enough, I don’t mind digging a hole in the ground. For one thing, the results of your work are immediate and obvious. Additionally, performing any manner of manual labor allows me to clear everything else from my mind—it’s a holiday for my brain.

Last winter, Helena and the broad area surrounding it experienced a die-off of certain non-native decorative juniper bushes. We lost a juniper that had been growing alongside the driveway for thirty years.

After experiencing her first autumn season some six months after arriving here, Desiree has become enamored with bushes and trees that display red and orange when they turn. With this as our guide, we agreed we needed to dig out the root ball and replace the juniper with something that will exhibit red in the fall. On a recent visit to a local nursery, we purchased an autumn splendor buckeye tree.

Yesterday, I excavated around the juniper root ball, pried it from the ground, and dug a hole that would accommodate the buckeye tree. A great order of work, that. And yet, I enjoyed the time spent digging.

I am posting a photograph of the hole I dug and the juniper root ball I removed to make way for planting the buckeye tree. I placed a can of Cold Smoke Beer alongside the hole to provide a reference for size.

The Buckeye Tree Hole

—Mitchell Hegman

A Group of Old Folks

While poking around inside a store the other day, I spotted four elderly folks clustered together, chatting near the intersection of two aisles. I immediately surmised that they were friends—two couples who had chanced upon each other while shopping.

I thought to myself, Old people are kinda cute.

As I walked past them, I recognized one of the individuals as someone several years younger than me. That nearly convinced me I am getting old.

—Mitchell Hegman

Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis)

Last night, a most beautiful display of light fell upon us from the north. From end to end of the starry expanse, the aurora borealis pulsed and shimmered above us—all the work of the sun showering charged particles upon the magnetic shield enveloping our planet.

When you experience the northern lights, as we did last night, you quickly set aside all thoughts of the science behind them and simply stand below in wonderment. This is how the sky became my garden.

I am sharing three photographs I captured at the peak of the light display.

Desiree in a Wash of Colors

Northern Lights Above the Lake

Desiree on the Back Deck

—Mitchell Hegman

An American Fire

Before arriving in America, Desiree harbored a certain image of life here. Interestingly, this image wasn’t that life resembled the scenes on our exported sitcoms or that life in America revolved around a California beach. Instead, Desiree imagined all good Americans sitting beside a warm fire during far-north winter days.

Not long after Desiree came here, I suggested getting a wood stove, and she readily supported the idea. Her version of America could be realized. I wanted a wood-burning stove for more practical reasons. Mainly, I worried about losing power (read: heat) in sub-zero temperatures. A wood stove immediately solves that problem. Additionally, we have 20 acres of forest from which we can gather plenty of free fuel.

We had a Lopi Endeavor Hybrid stove installed in August. This stove is incredibly efficient and clean-burning—so efficient that it qualifies for a biomass-fueled heater tax credit. Yesterday, given the cool morning, we started the first-ever fire in the stove to “cure” the finish on both the stove and the venting while flinging the windows of the house open.

Thankfully, only a faint oil scent and a tinge of smoke were released inside the house as the wood stove reached full heat. Most incredibly, only an occasional whiff of smoke issued from the rain cap on the roof once the fire warmed enough for optimal burning.

All of this in our sufficiently American life.

Desiree Starting our First Fire

Flames

—Mitchell Hegman

Our Fall Mindset

The songbirds have departed, and chill winds flick leaves from the chokecherry. Our summer shoes are now stashed near the door. You would think, with winter bullying its way toward us from some unremarkable place in the Arctic, a kind of sadness might infect our thinking.

But no.

We celebrate instead, in the good light of early morning. There is no other sky that can compare to this. The blue is without flaw, and the mountains have adopted pink as their own, even if only for a moment.

Later, we can walk to where our shadows never try to escape from underneath us. The air will be cool then, but not cold. Maybe the chickadees will find us out there. They have been gone since early summer, and I miss them.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Smiley Face

I’m not blessed. I didn’t find the image of Mother Mary burned onto my grilled cheese sandwich. Perhaps you recall that story from the early 2000s: a woman from Florida auctioned a 10-year-old grilled cheese sandwich on eBay, claiming the toasted bread bore the image of the Virgin Mary. The sandwich sold for $28,000.

I’m unable to account for the madness of spending thousands on a decade-old sandwich, but I can explain finding the Virgin Mary on a grilled cheese sandwich or the likeness of Elvis in a muddy footprint. This is something called “face pareidolia,” and it’s really just our minds perceiving something familiar in lucky, random patterns.

As mentioned earlier, I’m not fortunate enough to find an eBay-worthy Virgin Mary, but I did find a smiley face at the bottom of a jar of hand lotion. I figure that’s about right for a kid from East Helena, Montana. I’ll take it.

A Smiley Face

—Mitchell Hegman

Seaweed

I’m not sure exactly when my food preferences got knocked off track. It may have been during that stretch in my early twenties when I found myself unemployed and surviving on nothing but potatoes and ramen noodles. Perhaps it’s the same genetic flaw that causes me to forget someone’s name two minutes after meeting them.

Whatever the cause, I’ve drifted away from craving sweets and developed a firm passion for savory foods, especially when snacking. Recently, I’ve ventured into new (possibly alarming) territory: I’m eating roasted seaweed.

Seaweed!

I can’t explain how this happened. Frankly, seaweed doesn’t taste great—it’s something like a marriage between mud and, well, pick any vegetable you barely tolerate. The texture is weird too. Roasted seaweed is paper-thin and brittle. Still, despite all this, I like it. I find myself munching on seaweed all the time. Yep, I’ve embraced it. My new motto: sex, seaweed, and rock and roll.

Seaweed

—Mitchell Hegman

The Plea

Hurry. Bring love.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Scattered Dead

Yesterday, on a late afternoon drive into town, I came upon an ugly scene in the ranchlands. I found more than a dozen dead red-winged blackbirds strewn across the road in a wide swath. The birds were in an area where huge numbers have been flocking together, as they do before migrating south. Recently, I have witnessed hundreds upon hundreds of the birds swinging back and forth through the air in mesmerizing murmuration flights.

I’m of the mind that one of two things explains what happened: either the birds were mowed down by a vehicle before they could lift from the roadway where they had gathered, or they crashed to the ground en masse while in one of their murmuration flights. I have seen a video of red-winged blackbirds in a murmuration crashing into the ground, resulting in the death of many.

The scene of carnage rather haunted me as I drove into town. On the return trip home, I stopped so Desiree and I could remove the scattered dead from the road and place them in the barrow ditch.

A Bird in the Barrow Ditch

A Bird in the Road

Birds Scattered on the Road

—Mitchell Hegman

Perfect Timing

I will admit to being somewhat fuzzy about when specific Christmas decorations should be displayed along the Filipino timeline, where the Christmas celebration begins in September and extends through December. However, today is October 1st, and I think Desiree got it just right by dressing our bed in pumpkin-colored sheets.

Pumpkin-Colored Bedding

—Mitchell Hegman