Peace And Quiet
Stand In The Silence Of The Mist And Just Be
I’ve heard people say that fog is eerie, scary even. I get that. I grew up in California’s Central San Joaquin Valley, where the tule fog would slam the sky to the ground, and on highway 198, pileups of 100+ cars were not at all uncommon during the fall and winter.
And it STUNK. Herbicides, pesticides, wet rotting stuff, dirt — you could even taste it, it was so nasty.
Here, the fog is more like an elderly friend, coming over for a quiet visit. He, or she, just wants to sit a spell, listen to the spring birds calling to each other, breathe in the crystal, icy mist that has no taste, yet seems sweet, clean, fresh even. It doesn’t always make it up to our elevation, but it has been known to shrink our pastures to the point that it appears we live on an island.
It always gives our mountains back, eventually. Sometimes, it does it slowly, drawing down towards the Willamette Valley, carefully withdrawing from the trees and hills to our east.
I like our fog. It’s a good way to start the day, a day you know already is going to be hectic and full of busy stuff.
Better to start with a peaceful interlude of fog.
