The Hanging Tree

There is a hanging tree not far down the road from my house.  I am not talking about the kind of hanging tree where Bad Bart the outlaw is strung-up.  This hanging tree is the kind used for hanging my hat and, sometimes, a shirt.

I am going to say the tree (a long dead juniper) is three-tenths of a mile from my house.  The tree is just far enough that when I reach it on walks from my house, I will be sufficiently warm enough on a cool day, that I can peel off one layer of clothing, hang the articles of dress on the tree, and continue on.    

Yesterday, not long after sunrise, I opted for a brisk walk.  The morning proved cool enough for me to toss on a t-shirt and long sleeve button-up before leaving the house.  By the time I reached the hanging tree, I was warm enough that I needed to remove both my hat and the t-shirt.   

I did so.

The hanging tree is strange convenience, but it is a convenience.

The Hanging Tree

—Mitchell Hegman

Tar Wars

Tar has always been my enemy.  Roofing tar.  Tar for sealing concrete.  Any kind of tar.  Back in my days on construction sites, if I walked within ten feet of fresh tar, it somehow got all over me.  By the end of the day, both my clothes and my face would be displaying smears of tar.

The rate of smearing on my person greatly increased if I needed to apply tar myself.  I began to referring to any such task as “tar wars.”  And I always lost the battles.

Yesterday, for the very first time in my entire life, I applied some tar on something and walked away unmarked. 

The project was small, but the principles I expressed previously always held—no matter how small the task.  Frankly, I am a little worried that by winning my first battle in the tar wars, I have violated some sacred law of physics. 

Somewhere, somehow…I will pay the price later.

Posted is a photograph of tar I applied to a concrete ledge I wanted to protect from water shed from my soon-to-be sunroom.

—Mitchell Hegman

Bottles Bathed in UV Light

If you like the color purple, manganese dioxide is your friend.  More specifically, if you like pretty lavender and amethyst-colored antique bottles, manganese dioxide is your friend.

It’s manganese dioxide in the glass that, when exposed to ultraviolet (UV) light, slowly turns the clear glass purple.  And this is particularly interesting because the manganese dioxide was originally used in glass to decolorize or clear the glass, which by nature will take on an array of colors depending on impurities.

If you want one of these purple bottles, you need to find bottles manufactured from the somewhere between the mid-1880s and the 1920s.  By the 1920s the glass-making process drifted away from the use of manganese dioxide.  And you will need plenty of UV light to produce more profound colors.

I have some bottles with just a hint of violet.  But I want deep purple.  And I want it now.  I could well turn purple long before the bottle if I waited for the sun to do the work.   For that reason, I ordered an ultraviolet-C (UVC) lamp for a more intense source of ultraviolet rays.

Yesterday I converted one of my trash bins into a light chamber.  I placed three bottles on an overturned five-gallon bucket inside the bin, dangled the UVC light overtop, and closed the lid on the chamber.

So, you ask, why a chamber?

Ultraviolet-C radiation is a recognized disinfectant for air, water, and nonporous surfaces.  Some research suggests UVC light may be carcinogenic.  And UV light is responsible (ironically in this instance) for causing colors of our stuff to fade.

For those reasons, a chamber.

My UV Chamber

Inside the UV Chamber

—Mitchell Hegman

4:19 AM in the Morning

Here we are.  My back door is flung open so I can “feel” the early morning rain and lighting.  I have Led Zeppelin’s “the Battle of Evermore” cranked loud and I am sipping at my first cup of coffee.  I also have the television on, but muted.  Just for fun, I am trying to read the lips of some talking heads on the screen.   And I get to thinking…how do you end a day that begins in this way?

—Mitchell Hegman

My Most Attentive Student

I try my best to limit the use of Power Point presentations in my classes.  The presentations are a fine tool, but an entire day of Power Point has the net effect of turning course attendees into zombies.

That said, yesterday I had a student in my class who was transfixed by my Power Point.  Daisy the dog could not get enough.  Throughout the day, whenever I clicked through a few slides, Daisy would run to the front of the classroom to be close to the screen upon which the slides appeared.

It feels good knowing I reached at least one trainee.  It’s the reason we instructors do what we do.

—Mitchell Hegman

A Skylight and Moose Drool Beer

Starting this morning, I am teaching for two days in Bozeman.  Rather than staying in Bozeman, I opted to get a room in Three Forks at the Lewis and Clark Motel.  According to the Guest services Directory (found in my room), the Lewis and Clark is bicycle and dog friendly.  The ice machine uses filtered water and the pillows covers are 100% Egyptian cotton.

I must assume all of this means something to someone other than me.

Me?  I am keen on my own private deck with a skylight just outside a sliding door.  And I was given a free Moose Drool beer when I checked in.

Good stuff. 

My Private Deck

Me Video Chatting with Desiree on the Deck

—Mitchell Hegman

Driving Out into the Milky Way

I’m driving my automobile out into the Milky Way Galaxy.  The time is somewhere beyond midnight and stars are dangled all around me.  The driver’s window is rolled down and my elbow is flung out.

I’m a little worried about space junk striking my elbow—especially when you consider a piece of debris very recently struck the robotic arm on the International Space Station.

I have no map, only a sense of the proper direction.  Radio waves are chasing me like friendly neighborhood dogs.  And, yes, I intend to obey the law of gravity and not exceed the speed of light.

My plan is to drive on into the spiral of dust and stars, whistling my own song, because that’s what voyagers do.

—Mitchell Hegman