The Wretched Sir Edmund Fitzgerald

If Memory Swerves™, 'twas on this day in history (November 10, 1975), that devious and deranged Canadian folk warbler Gordon Lightfoot concocted a nautical tale so bloody fantastical, so seemingly true-to-life, that a legion of radio programmers and listeners on either side of the pond were hoodwinked into believing it true. According to Lightfoot, an iron ore freighter named “Edmund Fitzgerald” sank on a waterway called "The Great Gitche Gumee,” leaving all 29 aboard buried at sea. ‘Twasn't true, of course, as the head shrinkers at the nuthouse would attest, for the bow-tied, pattern-straight-jacketed Lightfoot had been howling about the imagined ship at all hours of the night, awakening other patients, for years. Originally an aeroplane dubbed the “Charles Lindbergh” — until Lightfoot had trouble with the rhyme scheme and moved seaward — he envisioned the “Edmund Fitzgerald" to be the pride of the American side, comin’ back from some bloody mill in Wisconsin. As big freighters go, 'twas bigger than most, with a crew and good captain well-seasoned, and a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more than the ship weighed empty. Lightfoot painted a vivid picture, indeed. Waves breaking over the bloody railing, the main hatchway caving in at 7 pm, the witches of November huddling in their ice-water mansions. Compelling stuff, factual inconsistencies be damned — Cleveland doesn't front any ocean that I’m familiar with, Whitefish Bay is a bloody suburb of Minnesota and the “Maritime Sailor’s Cathedral” is a popular restaurant/concert hall in Ontario known for their Friday Fish Fry. Unfortunately, back in 1975, citizens had limited access to Twitternet™ fact-checking rooms, as Al Gore had not yet consented to share his grand invention with those outside his circle of Tumblr® topless photograph sharers, so rather than do the necessary library research, people took the tale at face and sang along, while Lightfoot became something of a hero in the insane asylum, successfully bedding nurse practitioners and visiting wives of other patients who didn’t have a chart-topping song to brag about. Lightfoot later moved on to another fictional subject — telepathy — but when he started prattling on about “what a tale his thoughts could tell, just like an old time movie ‘bout ghosts on a wishing well” doctors had heard enough of his bull moose malarkey and sent him packing, out to the street corners with his open guitar case collecting loose change for meals and lodging. Today, Lightfoot (pictured above with his trademark 4-string guitar) still ventures down to waterfronts and sings his tall tale for seafaring enthusiasts drunk enough to believe him.