Closed Skies (Open)
Aug 29, 2010 1:02:50 GMT -5
Post by Dancin on Aug 29, 2010 1:02:50 GMT -5
Livia-
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early
My voice carries out over the morning fog. I walk along the docks, the old wood creaking underfoot. The sea is grey and restless, a storm may be nearing.
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling.
I pull my thin coat tighter around my shoulders and shove my hands in my pockets. It's summer, the weather should not be this gloomy.
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November come stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane West Wind
When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
He said fellas it's been good to know ya.
The song is old and sad, about a ship that crashed and burned, killing all on board. It's a song that my ancestors passed down through the years, singing it to their children to teach them the perils of the waters and so that one day a person like me could sing it on a day like today.
The Captain wired in he had water coming in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the ruins of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early
The last note is soft and sweet, and doesn't fade for a long time. After the songs over I turn away from the tumbling ocean and wipe away the beads of moisture on my cheeks. This song always reminds me of my father, in part because he taught it to me and also because of the day at sea that stole him from me.
"When the gales of November come early," I whisper to myself, thinking of the grey abyss I just turned my back on. I know I should get to work, but I end up just folding my moist joints in on themselves and sitting crosslegged on the dock. I hum the tune of the song under my breath and wait for something to happen.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore - 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early
My voice carries out over the morning fog. I walk along the docks, the old wood creaking underfoot. The sea is grey and restless, a storm may be nearing.
The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconson
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
With a crew and the Captain well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling.
I pull my thin coat tighter around my shoulders and shove my hands in my pockets. It's summer, the weather should not be this gloomy.
The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the witch of November come stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashing
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane West Wind
When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7PM a main hatchway caved in
He said fellas it's been good to know ya.
The song is old and sad, about a ship that crashed and burned, killing all on board. It's a song that my ancestors passed down through the years, singing it to their children to teach them the perils of the waters and so that one day a person like me could sing it on a day like today.
The Captain wired in he had water coming in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the ruins of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral
The church bell chimed, 'til it rang 29 times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early
The last note is soft and sweet, and doesn't fade for a long time. After the songs over I turn away from the tumbling ocean and wipe away the beads of moisture on my cheeks. This song always reminds me of my father, in part because he taught it to me and also because of the day at sea that stole him from me.
"When the gales of November come early," I whisper to myself, thinking of the grey abyss I just turned my back on. I know I should get to work, but I end up just folding my moist joints in on themselves and sitting crosslegged on the dock. I hum the tune of the song under my breath and wait for something to happen.
