Getting down with Gordy on a March Morning

It's a snowy March morning as I'm listening to Gordon Lightfoot sing about this land before the white man stepped foot on it--the primordial wilds of North America before being choked by the thousands of smokestack attacks of big industry, before the highways rolled over the skeleton of ancient America. Did the Indians have a name for it, this land that we now toil on? Do people wonder what happened on that tread of land that they travel to and from their jobs on 200 or 500 or 1,000 years back? Or do they never dig beneath the suburban surface? Does the land itself have a memory and utter silent prayers to all the people who passed away on its surface? What dreams will fill it a thousand years hence, or will the consciousness Earth be long departed 'neath the nuclear haze?

Anyway, Gordon Lightfoot is on in the background, as I've previously mentioned, filling me with the strange, soothing comfort of childhood records crackling over the parents' hi-fi; that cozy blanket'd feeling that only a thick layer of snow can provide that southerners will never know. The seventies live on in my turntable consciousness, along with the blue shag carpet I used to roll around on before I was able to walk or crawl (it's true). But there will always be Gordon Lightfoot, always be the White Album playing on perpetually somewhere there in the background on memory's horizon, somewhere passed the shores of Gitche Gumee.