We woke this morning to a wall of mist so thick you could not see more than a few feet in front of your face. This time of year, here on the coast of Maine, it is a bit unusual to have what we call “snow eating fog” visit us. It generally slides in sometime more like mid-March as the temperatures rise above freezing during the daylight hours. But, the unseasonably warm temperatures we have been experiencing for the past week have brought it on and mostly we are loving it. After winter’s howling winds and bitter cold we can get positively giddy with delight when the fog arrives. Today it just seemed gloomy and close — a grumpy beginning to the weekend. Plus, we had offered to help a friend move and no one likes the chore of moving, much less on a cool, soggy day.
“She picked a great day to do this,” my husband growled, pulling on his coat.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m absolutely positive she checked the weather a month ago to be sure the fog would be here to make life difficult for everybody.”
“Sorry. You know I hate going out in this stuff.”
“We’re going all of five miles and she has coffee and breakfast waiting. Give it up.” I shrugged my spring jacket over my shoulders. “I don’t think you want your winter coat, it is 42 degrees out there already.”
Ignoring me, he headed out the door. I grabbed my travel mug full of coffee and followed him to the truck.
Within ten minutes we arrived at Deb’s old place — the last of the crew to arrive. The big truck was backed in, door rolled up and ready to go. Friends were standing around talking quietly. Somehow the fog subdues everything. Deb was standing at her back door looking a little lost.
“This is harder than I thought,” she said looking down at the soggy pathway. “I’ve been here twelve years now. It’s kinda bittersweet, you know?”
I nodded. “I bet it is. There are a lot of memories here for you.”
“It’s a special place for sure.” She looked up at me and I saw that her eyes were bright.
I stepped forward to give her a quick hug. “We can do this and you love your new place. You will make new memories there.”
“Yup, I will,” she gave a half-hearted smile. She suddenly clapped her hands together. “All right guys, let’s get this show on the road. Coffee is in the kitchen and breakfast is on the counter. Help yourself.”
It was surprisingly easy to get the truck loaded up and ready to go. As they say, many hands make light work. Within a couple hours we were caravanning our way to the new house in the next village, just a ways down the road. The fog was thinner now — the temperature had already risen to a balmy 53 degrees and I grinned to myself as my hubby peeled of his winter jacket and threw it into the back seat of our truck after we parked in Deb’s new driveway.
“Yeah, yeah,” he smiled back. “You get to be right, again.”
I shrugged. “It’s a nice thing to be right about–not needing our winter coats.”
As we strolled up the drive together, the sounds of melting and running water surrounded us. A small brook along the edge of the property pushed toward the sea .
“The fog is not so bad now, but I will take it anyway. Look how much snow we lost this morning. That little stream is rushing right along.”
“Yup, Snow Fog is good for that.”
For the rest of the morning, we all unloaded, lugged, and arranged furniture into the sweet little cottage across the street from the bay. The air continued to warm. The day brightened as the fog receded in slow retreat. The snow that remained was slushy and dense. Soggy, bedraggled patches of ground began to appear in the yard. Birdsong somewhere out back in a muted chorus of trills and chirrups caught my ear. I thought it sounded like a prelude to a symphony yet to come.
I was standing on the porch as Deb came outside after the last box went through the door.
She came up beside me. “Look,” she pointed across the street. “I can see the cove even through the mist.”
On cue, a tiny sliver of sunlight broke through the now lacy fog, placing a single, sparkling, golden ribbon of light on the water.
“Well, look at that would ya.” Our friend Sarah came out to stand with us her arm draped over Deb’s shoulders. The three of us stayed watching the sunlight dance on the cove.
“A first memory,” I said smiling.
Deb nodded. “I think I’m gonna like it here.”
Copyright 2017 Kathryn M. Balteff All Rights Reserved