I guess I should save this entry for Monday, Nov. 10, but the way my brain is working lately it’s best to blog when I think of it. Why November 10? Strike up the ghostly band, Mr. Lightfoot:
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they call Gitchegumee… Yes, thanks to this Detroit Metro Times piece, we’re reminded that the anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald is upon us.
Like the author, I take a guilty pleasure in Gordon Lightfoot’s mournful ballad, which plucks every predictable string, but still manages to do it well. Maybe you have to love the Great Lakes, but I always get a little chill over the line, “Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?” You can imagine all those men, on that huge ship, in a freezing hurricane, waves big as houses, the middle of the night, knowing they’re probably not going to make it, waiting for the end.
I have friends who live up there, and say the storm that night was beyond anything they’d seen before or since, with six-foot breakers in sheltered channels you could safely cross in a canoe on any other night. You can imagine what it was like out on the big lake. Where those 29 men still lie, 28 years later. It’s very cold down there.