“Some people go for those sultry evenings, sipping cocktails in the blue, red and grey.” –The Who
For as long as I can remember, the fog has always spoken to me. It began when I was just a little girl, spending summers on the Connecticut shore.
Scrawny, tan, and dirty blonde hair full of salt and lemon juice and long summer days, I longed for the foggy mornings of August. Wrapped tight under summer sheets and quilts just warm enough, the cool mist filtered through the open windows and grazed my cheeks with chill and salt.
The low muffled sounds of foghorns on sailboats making their way through the thick air awakened me with a calm like no other. The smell of blueberry pancakes cooking on the griddle triggered my senses.
Cozying up in a sweatshirt worn to perfection, I made my way downstairs. Staring out at the uncertain looking ocean, I found my happy place. Lost in dreams and wonder, I slowly worked my way through a heaping plate of pancakes – the syrup warmed to just the right temperature. Mom. A taste of Mom.
Later, I made my way to the beach. Bundled up against the cool air, I shivered for a moment. After days of heat and sand and endless sun, it was a welcome break. Digging my feet into the cool sand, I sat and watched the fog begin to recede.
Calm. The fog always brought calm to my little introverted soul.
We all have a time of day, it seems, when calm descends upon us. For me, a foggy mid-summer morning always brought the most peace.
For my father, it was a summer sunset.