Fit for neither man nor

Each morning, 8 so far, Dad launches my day by slamming the screen door on his way in the kitchen.
Do I need milk from the market, have news since we last spoke (just before bed the night before) and have I heard about the weather.

Where a stretch of road or entire island can disappear in seconds, there's always time for talk of fog and fronts.

"Fit for neither man nor beast", dad hailed.

(When dad peppers his speech with archaic declarations, his day-to-day sweetness is tempered by a gruff timelessness.)

Truism born out. We got the tattered ends of the southern fronts which, in Maine-speak means shrouded neighbor 50 meters of beach away and a fire all day.

It also means fog-aligning one's senses and turning over the day's agenda to smaller things. Squatting on the beach for sea glass, starting in reading the sprawling library of the big house and then napping amidst it, running (under cover of fog, which makes me want to run low), minutes passed at the windows looking at the fog, discussing the fog, discussing tomorrow's fog.

And it will be foggy, all signs and almanacs say so. But we're dug in for it and I have a library to get through.

C