Fit for neither man nor beast

Each morning so far (now a routine of 8 mornings), Dad starts my day by checking in. Which means slamming the kicthen screen door on his way in and asking if I need milk from the market, have news since we last spoke (just before bed the night before) or have heard about the weather. Maine treasures its tempermental weather - where a stretch of road or entire island can disappear in seconds - so there's always time for talk of fog and fronts. This morning's news was emphatically grim.

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

I like it when dad peppers his speech with archaic declarations. It gives his day-to-day sweetness an edge of timelessness.

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

It also means aligning senses and the day's agenda to pure pleasures. Investigating (I squat, scan, the crab over to another squat) the rocks on the beach, walking soft across the mossed floor of the forest path in hopes of catching the red fox un-awairs (we've either seen one roaming fellow or two brothers), reading the sprawling library of the big house (list to follow), a run, lots of minutes 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

From DownEast Magazine: A section on fog entitled "In a Fog" - expert opinion:
July is the foggiest month, "Fog forms where warmer air hits cold water - the colder the water the more the fog."
Asked for predictions for the summer ahead:
"It's a good bet that the picture includes fog."