Morning Fogginess

Fog lightens the darkness early this morning.  Its thick whiteness penetrates every space out in the back yard.  I can only see above the garage rooftop outside the bathroom window.  And the top of the old, fat birch tree. In the distance, past where I know the football field is, I can see a murky, yellow light where the old McCann Street Elementary School use to be. 

I hesitate to turn on the light.  I know the outside will loose its eerie feeling. Like when I use to drive home from a long day of teaching and see the stars bright and low following me home.  I liked the feeling of the cold, fall evening hugging me when I'd finally pull in the driveway and get out and walk in the dark. The stars would hang there in the sky, staring me down. Waiting for me to stand still and absorb their power and majesty.  It was always annoying when the movement-sensitive light clicked on as I got out of the car and headed for the porch.  Maybe it's animal instinct to want to feel a part of the real physical world instead of an artificial one.

I just realized I don't hear any fog horn, though. It's not something I expected living in Gaylord but it's an artificial sound I remember as a child growing up in St. Ignace.  Not hearing it brings tears to my eyes.  Man, I'm living in the past.  When I close my eyes I can hear the low, rich sound of it calling.  What a beautiful, sad, penetrating sound.  An excellent sound to hear at the end of funeral for a sailor.  As meaningful as the chilling, wailing song of bagpipes.  It clearly would say, "Stop.  Travel is over. Listen and remember."  Peaceful.

My mind travels from fog, stars, and darkness to a funeral.  When I stop writing (thinking about what I sat down here in the kitchen to write initially) I hear a high-pitched foghorn in the distance.  Not the sound of my memory, but a foghorn.  Hmmm.  Don't like it.  Not the romantic sound I was reminiscing about.  Who makes these esthetic choices for our living environment?

I actually sat down to write about bow hunting. The cold stillness that hangs in the morning when sitting at a hunting stand waiting for the light to break.  Seeing the fog reminded me of how cold and wet I'd get many mornings sitting next to Harry bow-hunting.  He always remembered to bring the small, brown, wool blanket to put over my lap when we sat down to listen and wait for the cautious deer. 

I can see the orange leaves on the birch tree now.  The wind is picking up and moisture is dripping off the corner of the back porch. Seagulls have taken over the sound space and are squawking about nothing.  Time to pour my second cup of coffee.  U.P. life isn't so bad.  Especially when it's foggy with memories.

Leaning Birch Tree  in October

Dripping Moisture From Fog