I was not happy to see fog this morning, I’m not going to lie.  Before I got up I could hear the cars sushing by on Polo, and groaned a little into the pillow.  The dripping maple outside my window accompanied teeth-brushing, and I resigned myself to dampness as I pulled on a fleece.

I’m a fog snob.  I like it in the mountains, when it has peaks and valleys to play with, and where it keeps you from seeing the top of a climb, where it forces you to live in the moment of each step up the hill.  But I’ve yet to love Winston-Salem fog.  This city does not wear it with much grace.  The buildings seem concerned about their hair.  My fellow students don rainjackets reluctantly.  It’s the third day of wet in a row, so even the pretty patterned rain boots are looking bedraggled.

And the people with curls are layering on the anti-frizz cream, and the fields are turning to minor marshlands while Canadian geese encamp on the intramural soccer pitch, and Shag on the Mag, Wake Forest’s sundresses-and-seersucker spring dance, looks like it will once again be Shag in the Mud.  And if it’s like last year, it will take them a solid six months to regrow the grass on the magnolia quad afterward.

But for all my grumping, fog and rain do a good job of bringing the world back down to earth.  They dirty things up to make them cleaner.  Colors blend together and harmonize beneath the fog.  People talk less, but the ground talks more, squelching a squooshing and soaking up life.  And every now and then you pass by a girl who embraces the whole scene with her hood down, and her hair happily poofy and laced with tiny droplets, and when the sun glances out for a moment and the angle’s just right, you find a crystal diadem sparkling and alive above her face.  And you smile, and she usually smiles back, and the sun fades out and the fog settles back, muffling the wet tread of your feet.