I came upon a diary of Godfrey’s wholey devoted to stories of fog. He did love a thick fog, fogged up bus windows were for random poetry, ground mist in a lowland pumpkin patch, foggy mornings in the city he would drag me out walking…
We sought “things in the fog”, the thrum of a wakening uptown, pie scented steam from the bakeshop mingling in air as the baker steps out in the alley, shift workers peering into the gloom for emerging buses, I once found a twenty dollar note in a rose bush, Godfrey swore roses smelled better in fog.
Inspired thus, I asked Beatrice, Hawken and Alice to share their stories of fog. Adelaide, Benny, and Alice’s partner “Nudge” Giggleswick also chimed in. I included a fog story of my own- welcome the fog…
Fog- from Beatrice- Godfrey and I were six when we met over beets on a tray. Mingled with coal smoke the fog in Wales where we lived oft hung low the whole all day. Godfrey believed there dwelt things in the fog, we walked to school and home together, that swish in the grass became to Godfrey- “A dragons tail roadside in the heather lurking, distant ring of a hammer in fog, trolls in a mine were working.
Fairies we knew, drank only from bluebells of foggy dew,and that signpost end of the street in fog, was a spooky old man in a hat, waiting to jump out and scare you. We knew in summer when fog burned away, came promise of a good, warm day, we roamed the beach from end to end- till evening mist filled bay and hills again.
We’d hurry our ponies home at a jog, for Godfrey believed there were things in the fog….
Benny and Adelaide wish to share-In fog we have hidden from police and justice, seeking sausage thieves, they have blundered past us. We love the fog for many a reason, and welcome it in any season.
George Street Fiddler- from Hawken- I once met a fair maiden down east, she was a George Street fiddler. Summer cool and foggy in the old harbor city, I wished time to get to know her.
I told her my story, down George Street we sat, I with knapsack, she fiddle and bow…told me her first love was bittersweet, not all that long ago. “Was a hockey player, had the scar on his chin, folks back in that prairie town knew he would skate to glory, and he did till a bad game, left him in deep pain, told at twenty four, “son you will not play ever again”.
She was a George Street fiddler in old St John- I a mere vagabond. But you asked of fog?, and Cape Spear the furthest point east I could go. Watched it roll in from The Grand Banks, to the lighthouse where I camped below.
Autumn back on George Street the haunting airs of the fiddle made it no chore to find her. Over coffee I asked, “What became of your bold hockey player”?. She said over a long year healing, he took up the fiddle encouraged by me. He went home, to the farm and town on the prairie, and plays the fiddle, plays it well, at dances in town and festival. Rivers meet in Winnipeg’s city square, seek The Forks, oft he fiddles down there.
Settled I am now in Comox Valley, my horses snorted and stamped this morning, I being up late- they were hungry. Breath formed fog, and I noticed the coats of mare and colt getting shaggy. Warm coats the sign of impending winter, a reminder to write that George Street Fiddler, invite her if she pleases journey way cross the country, to the fiddle festival happening next summer.
I hope she will reply with fiddle tune, we shall hope for fog, and full harvest moon, dance cross the fog neath harvest moon.
The Fog- From Alice- A life in Praise of Myself-
The “Fog” it was a manky old club bar we played in the days of “The Uncle Lou Band”. Near London, there was always a drunk got threw out the door, onto the Tillbury Docks when they got out of hand. Between songs I’d take a break most nights, while barkeeps cleaned up after the fights. I’d gulp fresh air and watch the lights of the Fish and Chip Shop across the street. Watch folks hurry home with paper wrapped dinner with perhaps battered sausage and mushy peas. The fish shop would be closed when we left “The Fog”- but the nasty old pub lives on, lives on in my curmudgeon memories.
Suspicious Moles- from Nudge Giggleswick- When fog coated our Welsh village in gray, oozed Slibber Sauce like, cold colored CullenSkink, moist as Walrus fur, I recall a warning from Dr Uren, “Beware of suspicious moles”, he warned our mother.
At night when I lay abed, dozing to the clink of whiskey glass, muttering of aunties, uncles guffaw…”Dr Uren told me,” watch for suspicious moles”, over all the other racket shrilled our Ma.
When we played in the forest, I avoided stream bank, fallen log, sandy soil where a mole may burrow. Not trusting the mole I may meet in dim light of fog. “Beware of suspicious moles, I told my teacher. “Oh Miss, I suspect a mole has run under the coal hod.” All I earned was a slap on the head, and a note home- Please see Dr Uren about Nudge, Mrs Giggleswick, he is odd”.
When fog obscures the outhouse, such a long, cold walk down the track. Drips when finally you get to sit, drips down your back. Things may there well be in the fog, ghosties and trolls, but I take advice from wise Dr Uren- “Beware Of Suspicious Moles”.
Hitchhiking in fog with our Mother- From Worzel – I’ve kept this one inside me. (Vital to keep a story of your own- wrote Godfrey) But it is time for sharing, so after years I will, recalling my mother, legendary “Three Mile Lil”.
It was before brother Cudberth was born. We set out Ma, Inkerman, Fillipendula and I. Large rumbling trucks passed us close in the fog, so thick we could not see the east bound freight train pass to, just the whistle moan, I held tight to my brother’s hand, in the warm coat Fillipendula had outgrown.
But my feet were chilled in gumboots, with newspaper stuffed deep down, I was five years old, on the Al-Sask border in soup thick fog we hitchhiked to town. For me it seemed forever between lifts and stops, till we finally reached the warmth of the bright, noisy shops.
Out of the mist, like wayward ships, to the hotel cafe’s safe harbor, Lil treated us all to hot gravy on chips. She sat with coffee and smoke as we ate, sneaking a bit now and then off my plate, a rancher two booths down paid our bill, well known character in those parts, I learned years later was my mother- “Three Mile Lil”.