THE FOGHORN AND A RETURN TO INNOCENCE

When I was very young, somewhere between kindergarten and pre-school, I used to walk to school with my dad in the early mornings, and he used to carry my lunch pail. It was always just the beginning of daylight, in the fall, and it seemed we were the only ones awake for miles around. There were no other sounds except for rainwater and a foghorn way in the distance. My huge lunch box had a picture of a farm on it with a big red barn, hay, and a rooster. A cheerful, bright yellow sun was painted there also. You know, the kind of sun with a smile drawn by crayon and a halo of orange rays. I was so little I didn’t even know it was un-cool. That’s how long ago it was.

During those days my dad used to hold my hand when we walked and that’s where he first started to hum the foghorn for me. The foghorn sound would start slow and low, and then it would get even lower, ending in an exclamation. Hmmmmmmmmmm, hhhmmm! It seemed a very peaceful warning from a lighthouse we never-ever-saw, and it repeated itself every couple of minutes. Each time my dad hummed it, it felt like I was being tickled and I would hunch down and laugh my head off. And, each time, I would run around squealing in circles, charging and retreating from him. If I knew then what I do now, I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to grow up. When people asked my age, I was just too eager, and I would nearly always give the…