The clouds have touched the earth today. It is the kind of day where the world narrows down, lending the illusion that you stand alone on an island, like Robinson Caruso, and you aren’t exactly sure if Man Friday will ever be able to find you in this fog.
I like fog. I like the mystery, the isolation. It’s weird to drive in, though. Disconcerting. You think that you are at a certain point on the road, sure that you’ve gone far enough – too far, even – to reach your destination, and then suddenly something looms up on the side of the road and you realize you aren’t even close, you’re still miles away from home. Fog tunnels your vision, distorts your memory, confuses.
Had I thought about it, I never would have imagined that the prairie would have such fog. Growing up on an island in the sea, I knew about fog. I knew how it covers and confuses, knew how the treacherous island roads that curve and climb could become suicidal if you drive them too fast, too confidently, through the fog. I thought, self-centeredly, that the coast had the last word in fog. That nothing could compare to an ocean’s mist.
I was wrong. Here, on the flat-lands, the land of 10,000 lakes and magnificent rivers, innumerable streams and countless puddles, fog can sweep in, ruling the land with a steel-colored thumb. It enforces its dictums without care, like a tyrant, a self-imposed dictator that I did not vote for and neither did any of my friends, Red or Blue or Independent.
And yet, despite its bossiness, despite its dangers, I’ll take it. Beauty trumps convenience any day when it comes to the world I live in.