This may end up being a rare deep dive into my personal psyche that doesn’t go public too often, as today marks the anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald… and oddly, that means something to me.

You probably know the name more for the haunting Gordon Lightfoot song, aptly named “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”.  This nautical tune tells the tale of a freighter crossing Lake Superior in November, a month known for its unpredictable early winter storms.

The ship, one of the largest freighters on the lake, leaves port fully loaded with a crew of 29 – including the captain who is to retire after this last voyage (sounds like I’m setting up for a movie). Half way across the lake, the storm intensified with wind gusts up to 70 knots and swells up to 30 feet. The Fitzgerald was in constant contact with other vessels weathering the same storm until it just vanished within minutes. No mayday, no radio for help.  It went that fast.  All 29 on board perished, and nobody knows exactly what happened.

I can’t say that I’m terrified of water.  I enjoy swimming, boating, and playing in ocean waves.  But I can say that I have a deep respect for water.  When I feel the tide pulling on my legs, or a strong current in the river, or watch winter storm waves on the Oregon coast, I’m acutely aware of the powerful forces present, and I have no desire to mess with them.

But for me, the true fear I have is when there is a man-made element thrown into the mix… propellers, concrete, turbines, or even just a submerged vehicle or the bottom of a pier or boat.  Don’t even get me started on submarines.  Perhaps I feel it is man’s foolish attempt at mastering control over this element, and my respect for the power that can take that control back at any time. We don’t belong there.

For this reason, shipwrecks have always fascinated and terrified me.  Mix this with an iconic nautical song by Gordon Lightfoot from my favorite era of music, and it resonates in my soul. So naturally, when the documentary appeared on tv one day, I couldn’t help but pay attention. Seeing this giant ship broken in pieces on the lake bed and the theories of how it may have broken in half before it submerged was frightening.  I felt for the crew and the terror in their last moments.  What an awful and powerful way to leave this world.

I tend to overthink things.  For those of you that know me, there was probably a bit of a “LOL” reaction there.  My brain has to work things over…and over… and over… until I have actually lived every possible outcome.  And I was in the middle of this and my thoughts on this event when my parents arrived for a visit.

I love talking these kinds of things over with my dad.  My father is a retired USAF Lt. Colonel. He was a bombing navigator for B-52s in the 70s and 80s, then was the Director of Navigation and instructor during the introduction of the B-1 Bombers at Ellsworth AFB in the late 80s. 

After his retirement, he became my Algebra and Physics instructor at Dubois High School in Wyoming where I graduated. He has a lot of insight and world knowledge and a dry sense of humor, so our conversations are rarely boring.

So I told my dad this story of the Edmund Fitzgerald, and he listened, as he does, like he had never heard it before.  This is the same way he listened when I told him, as a child, about this creepy song I found called “Hotel California” – and he had me tell him all about what I thought it was about as he sat with the smallest smirk on his face. 

After I told him this haunting tale, he got that same look that I had come to recognize over the years. He sat back and he said, “The night that ship went down, we were doing training exercises over the Great Lakes.  I received a transmission asking me to do a sweep of Lake Superior looking for a vessel, and I had to report there wasn’t anything there.”

Deadpan Look.

What?

My father… my own dad… was involved in the search for The Edmund Fitzgerald. That’s it.  This is now a part of me.

I understand this connection I have is odd, and that very few people will understand it or appreciate it.  It’s weird.  But it’s there.  And every year when this anniversary comes up, I take pause.  And when the song comes on at The Atom, I will tell the story to anyone that hasn’t heard it…or is willing to listen again.

My husband has embraced these quirky things I glom on to, and he goes the extra mile – as his love language is gifts – and mine is receiving gifts.  Last year he searched and researched and searched some more, and managed to find a print of The Edmund Fitzgerald that he bought from a Shipwreck Museum in Michigan – signed by the artist, David Conklin, and (heart skips a beat) Gordon Lightfoot. 

It is one of my prized possessions – right up there with my 10^th Anniversary ring – once owned by Elvis Presley – but that’s another story.

Today, I remember the Edmund Fitzgerald and the crew of 29 that perished on that terrible night in November of 1975… exactly nine months before the one-day owner of The Atom Bistro was born.  That realization was made not too long ago – and for obvious reasons, I don’t let myself overthink that one.

Here’s to the crew and the ship lost that fateful night, and the powerful reminder that there are natural forces in this world that will never be fully mastered.

I’ve been putting off writing this – maybe hoping I would run out of time and not have to deal with it. But then the power went off at my house tonight. I would prefer to be home vegging out in front of the tv, but the universe played a cosmic joke on me and forced me back to my office with nothing better to do but write.

This year is the five-year anniversary of Archie Creek.  I’ve spent the last five years trying to forget about one of the most traumatizing times in my life, but now I feel like I have to dive back into that pool to remember and somehow honor it.

There are so many stories. Mine doesn’t include loss of property.  My story is a simple one – similar to those who have faced death and had a second chance.  The second chance is a blessing, but the memories are a curse.

My family was evacuated for seven days. I never want to pack a car with ‘what matters’ ever again.  I never want to go through my home and decide what are ‘things’ and what are ‘memories’.  I never want to have to console my child having a panic attack while I’m doing my best to hold it together myself. 

We imposed on friends we hardly knew and gained an extended family in the process.  We found strength in each other in a strange world of isolation and fear… checking hourly updates on the fire advances, trapped indoors because of the heavy smoke laden air… just wanting to breathe – but the entire state was on fire… there was nowhere to go.

While getting my bearings, I felt a responsibility to my community because I owned a business.  Donations were flooding 138 Grill, and they were doing a tremendous job of redistributing.  I did what I could – what I could afford.  There was a community bond that I had never seen before. But there was really no other choice.

2020 will forever be one of the most traumatic years of my life. Owning a restaurant during Covid is enough to make the strongest business owner give up. Many did.  I don’t blame them.  But after months of struggling – we were kicked when we were down.  Everything we were fighting for… everything we were looking forward to getting back to after Covid… All of it.  It was burning to the ground.  Everywhere.  The whole state was on fire… and it seemed everywhere else was a higher priority than our little town.  We had to fight for ourselves.

That’s what many residents did. Neighbors and friends gathered shovels, hoses and supplies and did their best to help neighbors. But this fire was hot.  This fire was relentless. The fire prevailed, and left scars here that may never heal.  At the end of it all, we were changed.

I tend to embrace change.  As a military brat, you learn fast that you can embrace it or fight it – but it doesn’t change the outcome. Glide changed that year. The Umpqua changed. The people changed. And I mourned that for a long time. But there is a baptism by fire that can’t be done any other way.  This is what we experienced.  Glide succumbed; Glide emerged.  Glide was different, but Glide was stronger.

Sometimes getting kicked when you are down peels away the layers of vanity, self-righteousness, and ego. What you are left with is so raw and exposed you have no choice but to face it. Turn the ship into the storm and go full throttle.

We’re still working our way out of that storm, but each wave gets a little easier to handle.  The winds have calmed, and we can see the sun coming up on the horizon.  It’s too early to take our hands off the wheel, and there’s a lot of work to be done yet.  We’ve learned a lot of lessons, but it’s time to let go of the pain.

I don’t like looking back.  We are moving forward. We are letting go. Archie will be forever imprinted in who I am today, but going forward, I’m choosing to let this memory fade. If ever faced with the dilemma in the future – this is one memory I won’t be packing in my car.