Thanks for the Beer!

Jimmy Carter’s passing filled much of the news cycle yesterday. While his presidency was often troubled and complicated, his selfless work following his term in office was exemplary.

He was a great citizen.

As I watched the evening news, I raised a can of Cold Smoke beer in Carter’s honor. One of his best acts as president involved beer—specifically, craft beer.

In 1978, President Jimmy Carter quietly revolutionized American beer culture by legalizing homebrewing for personal use, lifting a Prohibition-era ban. This pivotal move unlocked a wave of creativity as hobbyists turned garages into beer labs, experimenting with styles and flavors that had been missing from the bland, mass-produced options of the time. Some of these homebrewers—like the founders of Sierra Nevada and Boston Beer Company—went on to establish iconic craft breweries, sparking a nationwide movement that celebrates quality, innovation, and community.

Thank you, Sir, for the decency, the craft beer, and all the homes you built for people on the edge.

My Toast to Jimmy Carter

—Mitchell Hegman

The Scrap Pile

Yesterday, I custom-cut and nailed in place some 60 feet of crown trim for the bathroom off our bedroom. In all, I pieced together 28 angle cuts for inside and outside corners—most at a true 45 degrees, but some slightly over or under that. I stationed my miter saw outside under the portico at the back door. Every angle and board required several trips back and forth between the bathroom and the miter saw.

By the end of the day, I felt utterly depleted. I had also created a substantial pile of trim ends and miscut pieces, which I tossed near the woodstove as I trekked back and forth between the saw and the bathroom. Finally, at something near 5:30 in the evening, I finished the job, fed some of the scraps into a fire, and sat down for a wee dram of Scotch.

My Scrap Pile

Crown Trim Details

An Outside Corner

—Mitchell Hegman

Something New

I have trouble sleeping through the entire night. I tend to wake up multiple times, and on some nights, it seems I awaken on the hour. The other night, a reality television program featured several couples struggling to stay together. As part of a plan to help them reconnect, the couples attended a group session with a sex therapist. At one point, the therapist asked, “Is there something new you would like to try in bed?”

I immediately answered, “Yes, I would like to try sleeping.”

—Mitchell Hegman

Seeking Precious Stones, Part II

Welp, I guess it’s back to the proverbial poorhouse for me and Desiree. We spent another shift in the sunroom winnowing through the last of the sapphire pay. We found only a few baby gems, some of which might even qualify in the “spec” category.

No big, showy stone for us.

I’m mildly disappointed, but I always feel a specific satisfaction in finding sapphires of any size. We’re talking sapphires in dirt—how bad can that be?

I’ve posted a photograph of the last batch of gems we picked from the gravel, along with another photo of the entire collection alongside a Cold Smoke beer for a more accurate size reference.

The Final Batch of Sapphires

Sapphires and Cold Smoke

—Mitchell Hegman

Seeking Precious Stones

Yesterday evening, we set up shop in the sunroom and began processing the sapphire pay I gave Desiree for Christmas. We are seeking a sapphire of sufficient size and clarity to have it cut for a ring. We would love one in either blue or pink but would be delighted with any color, provided the stone is big enough to facet.

Both Desiree and I enjoy “hunting” for sapphires in the comfort of our own home, a glass of wine by our sides. Last night, we winnowed through about half the material. We found many small specimens and one large one. The large sapphire was, unfortunately, deeply flawed and of no value to us. We will likely take another run at the gravel tonight.

One day, maybe tonight, our sapphire is going to find us.

Our Finds from the First Night

Desiree Looking Through the Gravel

—Mitchell Hegman

A Sack of Dirt

Finding the ideal gift for your spouse at Christmas can be challenging. This year, however, I think I outdid myself in this endeavor.

I gave Desiree a sack of dirt.

The perfect gift.

Of course, this wasn’t just ordinary dirt. The stuff I gave her was paydirt—gravel, really—from one of our local sapphire mines. I keep telling Desiree that one day we’re going to find our own big, flawless sapphire and have it custom-faceted and set in a worthy piece of jewelry. We’ve sifted through several other such sacks in the past but haven’t found exactly what we’re looking for.

Maybe this is the one.

Desiree’s Sack of Sapphire Gravel

—Mitchell Hegman

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas! Today, we celebrate the birth of someone special born on this day. You know I’m referring to Kevin St. Clair. Wish him a happy birthday and give him a beer if you get the chance to see him.

Last night, Desiree and I attended a Christmas Eve gathering at a dear friend’s house. While there, Desiree joined in a chaotic gift exchange game. For the first round, you shake passing pairs of dice and are allowed to take a wrapped gift from the heap stretched across the table each time you toss two of a kind. Once all the gifts are gone, each person opens their gifts and places them back on the table. In a second round that lasts for five minutes, the players are allowed to steal a gift from someone else each time they roll two of a kind.

In the end, the table is filled with socks, hats, bottles of this and that, and all manner of trinkets. This sort of game is very much in line with typical Filipino party activities, and Desiree had a marvelous time, as did I simply watching.

Once more, Merry Christmas!

Everyone at the Gift Table

Desiree Playing the Game

Desiree Holding her Gifts

—Mitchell Hegman

Vanity Press

We are not courageous knights, those of us immortalized in Volume III, Number 3-4, Fall/Winter 1984. We paid good money to be there—many of us unedited. As I recall, I was downing beers in a bar the day I decided I would plant a flag in the literary world. A poem, I reasoned, is a terrible thing to waste—even a bad one like mine.

A certain number of us (looking at you, Mitchell Hegman) paid extra fees to have our photographs included in the volume. A photograph seemed important at the time, even though I cleverly hid behind a facemask in mine.

Funny how I can never recall the page number where I’m featured. Instead, I always resort to using the index. But there I am in 1984—unmarried, drinking too much, scratching out morose bits and pieces on scraps of paper, and hiding behind a facemask.

You’d think I might have paid good money to publish a good poem instead of, well, this.

—Mitchell Hegman

Celebrating Christmas, the Hard Way

Since we’re so close to Christmas, I found a music station on television playing nothing but Christmas music. I figured we might start our celebrations a bit early, so I cranked up the volume as we tackled a few domestic chores. At first, we danced around, enjoying all the old classics.

On my to-do list, I had noted that I needed to clean the output filter on my septic system. Just before noon, I wandered outside, and with Jingle Bells stuck in my head, I opened the septic tank lid and pulled out the filter. This is an indescribably awful job—worse than just about anything else, really. So, I’ll spare you the gooey details.

Simply trust me when I say this: cleaning a septic filter is the hard way to celebrate Christmas.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Highest and Lowest Points in Montana

It is widely known that Western Montana is home to the mountains, while Eastern Montana is given to the Northern Great Plains. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, the highest point in Montana is found in the east, and the lowest in the far northwest corner of the state. Granite Peak, towering at 12,799 feet in the Beartooth Range, is Montana’s highest point, its jagged silhouette a testament to the tectonic forces that forged the region millions of years ago. Meanwhile, the Kootenai River, flowing out of the state near the Canadian border in the mountainous west, drops to an elevation of just 1,820 feet.

Between these two elevation markers lies a state that rarely settles for a single elevation for very long. There is always a fold, a drop-off, or a mountain confronting you as you travel from point to point. And, if that were not enough to garner your attention, we also have that “big sky” thing.

Granite Peak (Photo: USFS)

—Mitchell Hegman

From the Heart

Today, on the shortest day of the year, I am posting a video that sometimes moves me to tears. It features a song written and performed by James Blunt, which is deeply personal. The song serves as a tribute to his father, Charles, who was battling stage-four kidney cancer and in need of a transplant at the time it was written.

I’ve read that the song was recorded in a single take and that the tears in the singer’s eyes are genuine.

—Mitchell Hegman

Video Link:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DTFbGcnl0po

Signs of Adulthood

You can officially register as an adult if one or more of the following applies to you:

• You can find a flashlight at your house that actually works (other than your smartphone) within two minutes.
• You occasionally check to see if your spare tire(s) are fully inflated.
• You have purchased spices, a throw rug, or a new plumbing fixture within the last six months.
• You feel bad when watching a figure skater fall during a performance.
• You have a bird feeder.
• You need to dig through things to locate a beer in your refrigerator.
• You have a drawer or cabinet where you keep all the warranty papers and instructions for every appliance and tool you purchase.
• You regularly receive mailers for hearing aids.
• You have a favorite brand of trash bags.

—Mitchell Hegman

The Three-Hour Board

When building our house in 1991, we opted for a wallpaper border around the top of the walls in the bathroom off our bedroom. For the past two weeks, Desiree and I have been working to install trim boards over the wallpaper border. The boards are locally sourced, rough-sawn, ten-inch-wide fir siding planks. We had to sand the planks down and stain them before cutting them and nailing them in place.

Every board has been a struggle, given the wild nature of the wood. Few of them lie flat. Most are slightly cupped, and sections with knots tend to be warped out of shape. From the outset, I assumed the longest board—a thirteen-foot-long beast—would be the most difficult. I could not have been more wrong. The biggest battle turned out to be the smallest board, one a mere five inches long. Between the two imperfect adjoining boards, the irregularities in the drywall finish, and making the “live” sides meet at the bottom of the trim, I needed to make four custom angle cuts and heavily sand the live edge.

It took me three attempts and three hours to finally get the five-inch board to fit properly.

I’ve posted photographs of my work. You can see the smallest board finally nailed in place at the upper-right outside corner in the last image I posted.

The Smallest Board

The Boards Put Together

—Mitchell Hegman

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