36 years ago today (11/10/11)...on a lake they once called Gitche Gumee

[Swing low, sweet chariot. Comin' for to carry me home.]

an event happened which would, in turn, forever damage my ears:

[FEMA Camp Administrator]

You don't like Gordon Lighfoot?

[Swing low, sweet chariot. Comin' for to carry me home.]

You don't like Gordon Lighfoot?

Sundown is cool, but that ship wreck song...that **cking song...how many times did my brother play that song...how many?!
                      
If only Gordon had sunk to the bottom of Superior, but he wasn't on board, so he survived to be a curse upon the year 1976.  His song fell between me and childhood sleep, between me and my cartoons, between me and the chirping birds...his song was a shadow in my world of 1976, filling all things with the concept of death by horrible lyrics:

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called "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 twenty-six thousand 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 Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good 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 ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck sayin'.
"Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."
At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,
"Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya!"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.
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 rooms 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 twenty-nine 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 said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"

[Ban my account ffs!]

Such storms are called the Witch of November.  They are especially common in La Niña winters, like 1975/76 was.

[angus]

His song fell between me and childhood sleep, between me and my cartoons, between me and the chirping birds...

I've always felt that way about Barbara Streisand "The way we were."  And pretty much all her songs.  Mama had a Barbara Streisand eight-track that tormented most of my youth.  I wanted to smash it to bits.

[Queen Mum Inks.LWC]

You post this on the board moderated by a Michigander AND a meteorologist?  Death points are coming...

[Thomas D]

I like the song. But if you had to hear it over and over again I could see where you might not.

[FEMA Camp Administrator]

You post this on the board moderated by a Michigander AND a meteorologist?  Death points are coming...

Very good. He should know better.

[Linus Van Pelt]

Haha, this really made me laugh; indeed, it's quite possibly my favorite post I have ever seen on the forum. My wife and I have a running joke about how The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald is the worst song of all time.

And I'm as Great Lakes as they come - I don't care if you have arthritis from putting your hand in the shape of the lower peninsula mitten, this is the LAST thing you want stuck in your head ... which I do now, making it maybe not my favorite post after all