Fog is a great imagination enhancer. How many horror movies depict an undead monster stumbling out of the fog? How many pirate ships have you seen materialize out of the mist? When you look out upon a field blanketed in fog, you can imagine anything being out there. But when I look into the fog, I like to imagine what is NOT there.
Staring across the pale gray river under the pale gray sky, I see no separation between water and air. The horizon does not exist. There is no opposite shoreline. I can forget the gaudy casino cruise ships docked at the marina. I can eliminate the paper mill's polluting smokestacks from my memory. Roaring cigar boats cutting a murderous line through the tannin-stained water fail to exist in this damp dreary world. But there is something else about this perfect morning, something better than its visual limitations...
A foggy morning is still and silent. No one is mowing the grass because everything outside is wet. There is no wind pushing this all-enveloping white cloud away, so the river is flat and glassy, and there are no rustling leaves in the canopy. The birds are mute, seemingly afraid to shatter the silence. So, I stay silent, too, watching the particles of mist float past my eyes in billowing swells that I will be sad to see go.
As the fog burns away under the mid-morning sun, the songbirds emerge. A bass boat motors up to fish the old pilings. And my neighbor fires up that annoying leaf blower. As the white noise of human encroachment fills the space the fog left behind, I accept that I am not alone on this strip of shoreline. I go flip on the swimming pool pump, pull out the vacuum, and contemplate moving to someplace like Washington or Maine, where the coast stays drenched in fog more often than not. I think about what color the front door of my cabin will be painted, what kind of vegetables will grow in my garden, and whether or not anyone will think I am the monster in the fog.
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