Pepper Trail | Essays | The Fog of Years

THE FOG OF YEARS

Cloudy,
The sky is gray and white and cloudy
Sometimes I think it’s hanging down on me

“Cloudy” may not be the greatest song Paul Simon ever wrote, but today the words came drifting out of the fog of a winter morning to bring me face to face with someone I’d almost forgotten: my young self.

Thirty years ago, I was a 19-year old eastern college boy given to long restless rambles. My favored path took me away from the dormitories and lecture halls, across the athletic fields, and toward a pleasingly neglected collection of old orchards and gardens on the edge of campus. On a cold and foggy morning, you were unlikely to meet anyone, and that was just the way I liked it. Exhilaration and despair were my two moods, and each was best savored in solitude.

My goal was a suspension bridge over a rocky creek, and the wild woods on the other side. As I tramped along, moodily kicking leaves and idly noting birds, the songs I quietly sang to myself were likely to be by Simon and Garfunkel. My favorite was “Cloudy”: its wistful tone suited the gray sky, the dripping blackberry bushes, the sodden oak leaves, and me.

Today I am a 49-year old western family man given to short restless rambles. My favored path takes me away from the houses and the hotels, past the college campus, and toward a pleasingly neglected path and pond on the edge of Ashland. On a cold and foggy morning, you are unlikely to meet anyone, and that is just the way I like it. Contemplation is the mood I seek, and if I am lucky, I find it among the dripping blackberry bushes and the sodden oak leaves.

On this day, I am lucky. I walk slowly along, stopping to admire a frost-embroidered leaf; to watch a wren climb to the top of a clump of deerbush, scold the world, and climb down again; to wait for a submerged grebe to return to the surface of the pond. I try to focus, to ease my mind out of its well-worn track. Slowly, I work my way deeper into the moment.

After a time, I reach the bridge over Bear Creek. As I start across, something happens. The rustle of water over stone, the wine-sharp air, the trees standing apart in the fog – it all spins my head around, sends me wobbling like a falling leaf across 3000 miles and 30 years, and the figure I see at the far end of the bridge, barely visible but unmistakable, is myself.

		THE FOG OF YEARS Cloudy, The sky is gray and white and cloudy Sometimes I think it’s hanging down on me “Cloudy” may not be the greatest song Paul Simon ever wrote, but today the words came drifting out of the fog of a winter morning to bring me face to face with someone I’d almost forgotten: my young self. Thirty years ago, I was a 19-year old eastern college boy given to long restless rambles. My favored path took me away from the dormitories and lecture halls, across the athletic fields, and toward a pleasingly neglected collection of old orchards and gardens on the edge of campus. On a cold and foggy morning, you were unlikely to meet anyone, and that was just the way I liked it. Exhilaration and despair were my two moods, and each was best savored in solitude. My goal was a suspension bridge over a rocky creek, and the wild woods on the other side. As I tramped along, moodily kicking leaves and idly noting birds, the songs I quietly sang to myself were likely to be by Simon and Garfunkel. My favorite was “Cloudy”: its wistful tone suited the gray sky, the dripping blackberry bushes, the sodden oak leaves, and me. Today I am a 49-year old western family man given to short restless rambles. My favored path takes me away from the houses and the hotels, past the college campus, and toward a pleasingly neglected path and pond on the edge of Ashland. On a cold and foggy morning, you are unlikely to meet anyone, and that is just the way I like it. Contemplation is the mood I seek, and if I am lucky, I find it among the dripping blackberry bushes and the sodden oak leaves. On this day, I am lucky. I walk slowly along, stopping to admire a frost-embroidered leaf; to watch a wren climb to the top of a clump of deerbush, scold the world, and climb down again; to wait for a submerged grebe to return to the surface of the pond. I try to focus, to ease my mind out of its well-worn track. Slowly, I work my way deeper into the moment. After a time, I reach the bridge over Bear Creek. As I start across, something happens. The rustle of water over stone, the wine-sharp air, the trees standing apart in the fog – it all spins my head around, sends me wobbling like a falling leaf across 3000 miles and 30 years, and the figure I see at the far end of the bridge, barely visible but unmistakable, is myself.