I just used
up the last of some old stamps I found when I cleaned out my desk, and in doing
so, I started to think of home.
I grew up on Long Island Sound in
Stratford, Connecticut on a street called Lighthouse Avenue. No, there wasn't a
lighthouse on the street. (When people hear the name of the street, they always
ask.) But, there was a lighthouse less than a mile away, and it was one
of the many reasons growing up in the beach community I did was so much fun and
such a pure joy.
Those were the days when Coast Guard
sent men on the solitary duty as lighthouse keepers. In rotating shifts, they
manned the small station around the clock. While our little lighthouse had a
civilian keeper, a Navy veteran who lived there with his family, the
Coast Guard always seemed to be present.
Once in a while my friends and I
would stop by to visit and we would always be amazed at the wonderful gadgets
and gizmos the lighthouse keeper (LK as we came to call him and the Coast Guard) had to play
with. LK was friendly and enthusiastically welcomed the company of the
"beach brats", (as he good-naturedly came to call
us.)
When the Blues and
Bass were running, the LK would be out on the rocky shore casting into
the surf for the night's supper. Sometimes, when the weather was nice and things
kind of slow at the lighthouse, he would be out running along the beach or
around town taking care of some errands.
But, when the weather was bad or the
fog was rolling in, you always knew that LK was in with the lavish
paraphernalia keeping watch.
Fog had an eerie sense to it. Not
only did it obstruct your vision, but, it also muffled the sound of the waves
breaking on the shore and quieted the call of the sea gulls, sounds you only
seem to notice when they're not there. They were the sounds a young boy needed
to hear subconsciously in the background in order to fall
asleep.
My bed was next to the window and on
foggy nights I could see the fuzzy glow from the streetlight on the corner as
the fog shaded its light. The slow rhythmic call of the foghorn disturbed the
nighttime quiet as it called out its warning in a lethargic and rich baritone,
while the lighthouse's beacon panned the night sky like a protective arm, waving
off the evil spirits and keeping the bogeyman at bay.
When you are little it is easy for
your imagination to run away with you and for you to become scared. It is
comforting to know that on a dark, dank, and foggy night, the kind that can make
your flesh crawl and cause goblins to dance in your head keeping you awake,
there is someone out there keeping guard watching over
you.
Lighthouses today are an endangered
species. Many are closing down and the ones that survive are people-less and
automated. Their beacons pan the sky in rapid strobe light fashion, so unlike
the slow deliberate motion of their ancestors. The rich baritone of the foghorn
has been replaced by an electronically produced tenor beep. It's not quite the
same.
The last of my old stamps featured a
picture of a lighthouse. It's sad. Just as the last of my lighthouse stamps has
been used, so too will the beacon be extinguished for the last time by the last
lighthouse keeper. And with that, a part of our coastal heritage will also go
dim.
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