Early Morning Fog

Years ago when the Great Lakes were heavy with freighters the sound of a foghorn breaking the morning stillness was a familiar one. The Soo Locks would be thick with ships heading upbound for Lake Superior and Duluth or downbound towards Lake Michigan and Indiana Harbor. When the horn sounded, we could hear it for miles.

When I was young, I never thought about the people onboard. The noise of the horn meant weather conditions were making sailing potentially treacherous for the captain and crew, but I never thought about them. I only thought about the nice dream I was having until the horn awakened me. The blast announced fog was enfolding the ships and care had to be taken to avoid danger.

During the summer I could go back to sleep, but once school started that foghorn was not my friend, especially if it blew hours before I had to get up and get going. If it wasn’t the horn blasting a signal, it was the Canadian loons keeping me awake. The call of loons used to be as familiar as foghorns, but like the freighters, loons are also disappearing. I moved back to this area many years ago and have yet to hear the wail of an early morning loon.

It’s not just the passing of aged loved ones that denotes the passage of years, it’s also the loss of familiar sights and sounds. There was a time when birds were wing-to-wing on electric lines, every pasture was home to milk cows and beef cattle, and summer fields were dotted with round or square bales of hay. In our modern world, milk cows rarely see a green field or daylight, Herefords have all but disappeared, and the harvesting of hay is done by a bale spear, not men with pitchforks and a hay wagon.

Well anyway, now when I hear a foghorn I think of the sailors onboard the freighter. My friend, Flash, sails on the Joseph L. Block. He doesn’t talk much about life on the ship because he says there’s not much to tell. And maybe that’s the way life is. There isn’t much to say unless something goes wrong.

Our daily routines are fairly mundane and predictable, and I guess that’s a good thing. I was fortunate as a youngster in the 1950s because life was uncomplicated. Whether awakened by a foghorn or Mom calling from the foot of the stairs, I knew I was in safe harbor. Nothing interfered with my childhood. Days melted into each other with all the ease of a raindrop drifting down a windowpane.

As freighters cautiously venture into the fog and hope for clear skies, I hope any mist surrounding you today lifts and gives you a day full of promise.