It had been a perfect day. My beauty thirst was satiated, and I reveled in the sun that warmed my shoulders through the open roof as we drove, Michael McDonald on the radio. As we approached the coast, I could see great swaths of fog caught in the evergreens, their pointy tops tearing holes in the blanket of pearl gray. Not having much experience with fog in landlocked Ohio, I was pleased to discover that fog really does “roll”. I loved how it was constantly changing, revealing something new while covering up what had just been plain against the sky.
We drove through fog for the rest of the day, thick enough that we couldn’t see the ocean on our right hand side. It could be heard, pounding on the cliffs below, but we passed unseen through our own little world. At sunset we stopped for quiche, coffee, and gingerbread men; and we sat, staring out the cafe window, slowly feeling less irritable as we filled our tummies that had been growling since lunchtime.
The next morning, the surf was rumbling low across the dunes and the fog was still hanging low – dripping off the trees, sounding like rain against the tent roof. The air smelled freshly laundered and damp as I breathed; waking up slowly, savoring the hush of early morning.
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Squint yr eyes, raise your hand, seek the shadows. Pro-dubbed fog white cassettes with hand-brushed tape labels with hand-numbered full-color photo cover artwork, and wrapped with a hand-cut patch of plaid picnic cloth, salvaged from the day. Edition of 30.
