The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald - Gordon Lightfoot

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
by Gordon Lightfoot


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

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.

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 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.T

hey 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.

© 1976 Moose Music, Inc.

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after i finished this post i went downstairs in our concourse here at the TD Towers (many many shops in which to spend your $$) and i wanted to go the bookstore to buy a gift card for my sister-in-law whose Birthday was yesterday; didn't i see a book about the Edmund Fitzgerald, a sort of children's story with pictures...what's the message? anything? nothing? i will read the story to find out

Interestingly i was looking for the Big Sur book by Jack Kerouac as suggested by John inatorpor42

(see also my post in katyab53Musings for cross reference)
February 22nd post

and sadly this great author was not there, i suppose he belongs in the literature section is why...
what separates fiction from literature? interesting to consider... in any case i shall look for him at Robarts one eve...i had made a pact with myself that i would visit the University Library at least once a week to research and write...have not made it there yet, but have started to scribble some stuff here

also, i did come across a catchy title and coverjacket....i believe it was called ShadowChild, with a fiddlebud photograph on the cover...i will check tomorrow to be sure of the title and author; the theme very much interested me, the power of nature to heal...a nice little counterbalance to the power of the sea over man in the above story....

i myself am a bit of a lone wolf and often return to nature in times to heal, so it was the above book in conjunction with this line in the Big Sur excerpt which together soothed me ....

The Church is blowing a sad windblown “Kathleen” on the bells ......//then he would secretly drive me to his cabin in the Big Sur woods where I would be alone and undisturbed for six weeks just chopping wood, drawing water, writing, sleeping, hiking, etc. etc.
Big Surby Jack Kerouac

and of course being that my name has the same root i wondered at the windblown and sad description and thought, yes, often times i feel exactly like those there bells