A Fence, a Lighthouse, and a Fog Bell

This letter is about a fence. It stands at the end of a short breakwater on a lake I know well, and for three summers I walked past it without a second look. The posts are grey, split along the grain, and leaning the way things lean after sixty years of doing one job. Behind them stands a small white lighthouse. Most people photograph the lighthouse. I started photographing the fence, and I have not been able to stop.

The fence keeps the shingle from walking into the channel. That is all it does. Each post was set by hand, and each one has been replaced at some point, so the line is a patchwork of different decades. Newer posts are paler, with the saw marks still sharp. Older ones are rounded off by wind and salt.

The fog bell is the other half of this letter. It sits on a short iron frame beside the lighthouse. On a clear day it hangs silent. On the morning I visited, the fog came in so fast that the first strike startled me. One low note, then nothing, then another. By the fortieth strike I had stopped counting and started listening, which I suspect is the point.

That is the letter. Next time I will be on the flats at low water. If you have a fence, a bell, or a post with a story near you, write back and tell me about it. I read every reply.

Photograph: Holly's Coastal View, via Wikimedia Commons.