The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

My life was going along smoothly until the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Not the ship, mind you - that was a real tragedy that touched many lives, and I don't mean to make light of it. Actually, my life was going along smoothly until the radio suddenly erupted with these words:

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.

(Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald; Music and lyrics ©1976 by Gordon Lightfoot)

I listened. For longer than it probably took for the ship to sink, Gordon's voice intoned the same melody line, over, and over, and over, and o-o-o...wait! I'm awake! Actually, I really like most of Gordon Lightfoot's music.

So did one of my cousins, and a few years before the Fitz, my mother took me to the Phelps Dodge Mercantile Store ("PD") to buy her a record for some occasion. Mom was hilariously unable to either completely remember or totally forget a proper noun, and so she boldly asked the young clerk for a "Peter Hotfoot Record."

Today, we have Peter Green's Hot Foot Powder, but back in those days there was no musical connection between the words "Peter" and "Hotfoot." Unless you happened to really know the works of Robert Johnson (Hellhound on my Trail), which the young man at PD did not.

Some years earlier in my young life I used to sing Here Comes Peter Cottontail. I frequently offered this performance while walking through the desert behind my dad and my older brother. They were hunting rabbits. I think the song spoiled it for them, although that was not my intent. I was quite comfortable with the near-polar opposites of "Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny-trail..." and "BOOM! There's dinner." Unfortunately for their sport, my companions were not as able to separate the two. Perhaps the village in my head helped me out.

I hunted with my dad and my brother for many years before being allowed to carry my own gun. I was the retriever. Once, while hunting dove at a favorite spot, we ran into a neighbor who had his dog with him. When Mr. Paul dropped a dove over a clump of mesquite, I started up after it, but he waved me back and sent the dog. I don't know if the dog couldn't locate the bird, or if he was just smart enough to not try and retrieve it, but in the end I climbed into a dense mesquite bush and brought back the trophy. It was not at all unusual for me to have to scrounge through the thorns, leaving bits of clothing, skin, and blood behind, when fetching fallen doves.

To this day, even though I haven't hunted dove in over 30 years, every time I hear the wind-whistle of a mourning dove's wings, it is followed by the phantom boom of a remembered scattergun and a solid punch against my right shoulder. These days I feed a flock of doves haunting my back yard. They are safe from the possibility of becoming my next meal.

The soft sound of their distinctive call has the power to send me back to Arizona summer mornings waking up with the knowledge of an upcoming hike into the desert. I'm sure those countless hours I spent hiking, usually alone, played a large part in shaping my personality.

Perhaps that is the explanation for why I would make such a good hermit. I have many of the qualifications already. I freely talk amongst myself. I hate haircuts, although I submit to them as a way to somewhat ameliorate my bad-hair-life for the benefit of others. And although I like people well enough as a concept, I find the reality is often a bit harder to take. Real people want you to talk to them and do stuff with them. This is not always easy for me, though many of my acquaintances might be surprised to hear it.

I hiked solo because there were only a few families near ours, and none of their children were especially interested in rocks and plants and wildlife like I was (and still am). So I got used to spending a lot of time discussing things with myself. I still struggle sometimes over discussing things with someone else.

Rabbits were a frequent sight on my journeys - cute little cottontails and great-big jackrabbits alike. I don't think I ever actually shot a rabbit. I did own a large New Zealand white rabbit for a few years, until I got tired of caring for him and gave him away. I called him Runny Babbit. Whenever he heard a dog barking, Runny Babbit would make a huffing sound as though he were trying to bark right back at them. My dad could whistle for him, and the rabbit would come and lay down at his feet. But I was more interested in exploring the desert than feeding and cleaning up after a rabbit.

My own kids grew up in suburban neighborhoods with lots of other kids around. But they couldn't walk 200 yards from the house and disappear into mostly untouched desert like I could. Still, we occasionally took trips into the desert or the forest. Sometimes we fished, sometimes we shot at targets, sometimes we sat and just played.

The last time I went target-shooting with my son was right after he completed his training in the US Navy. He had leave before reporting to his ship, and Pam and I enjoyed thoroughly his long, but not long-enough, visit. Before that stay, the last time we had seen him was the day after he graduated from boot camp at Naval Station Great Lakes, north of Chicago. We spent the day exploring Chicago a little - poked around Navy Pier, ate pizza, saw a movie, and then returned Brandon to base.

Before leaving Chicago, we took a quick trip to the beach at Lake Michigan, which is the only one of the Great Lakes entirely within the United States. However, as some believe that Lake Huron and Lake Michigan are actually one lake, hydrologically speaking, then Lake Michigan-Huron shares a border with Canada, as do the other Great Lakes.

Lake Michigan took its name from an Ojibwa word meaning "great water". The Ojibwa name for nearby (nearer as the crow flies than as the walleye swims) Lake Superior means "big water." Lake Superior, of course, is generally regarded as the largest of the Great Lakes, but if Lakes Michigan and Huron were to be considered one, that lake would out-size Lake Superior. It would also place the walleye and the crow on equal footing.

I'm not sure which the Ojibwa would consider the larger-sounding name - "great water" (mishigami) or "big water" (gichigami). Gichigami is sometimes spelled "Gitche Gumee." And Lake Superior, Gichigami, Gitche Gumee, as we are all well aware, "never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy." At least so say the Chippewa (aka Ojibwa), according to Gordon Lightfoot (not to mention Newsweek Magazine - Great Lakes: The Cruelest Month, James R. Gaines with Jon Lowell in Detroit, ©1975 Newsweek Magazine).

Yep, my life was going along smoothly until the Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald...