“By the shores of Gitchee-gumee, by the shining Big Sea Water…” so begins Longfellow’s lyrical tale of Native Americans on the Great Lakes.

There is an indescribable wonder that wraps around those who behold these great pools of fresh water.
Gray mist.
Rough waves.
Jagged rock.
Biting wind.
Lake Erie.
History and beauty rolling in with those crashing breakers.

My parents and youngest brother came for a visit. We spent a misty day at Lake Erie — ferry rides, historical museum, souvenir shops, lighthouse, and a bit of rain. The sun didn’t shine. There was an ethereal quality in the air. The hardy few (around 400, the park ranger told me) who weather the island year-round embrace the lake and it’s capricious moods. The sweeping winds are forever at work, changing the weather forecast, keeping the residents guessing. There’s a reason for the term “lake effect.” We discovered that this week. It was a day for sea-going men — you could almost imagine them waving a calloused hand in farewell as the shore grew distant and the mist swallowed them up. I don’t long for the sea as they, but I think I understand it’s mystical hold on them.

Me and my girls on the shore of Lake Erie.