Gut Instincts

The thing about growing older is that you become…experienced.  You know that a certain breeze will bring a storm because it always does, and that when the clouds layer in the sky like fish scales, it will rain the next day.  You know the old adage, “... red sun in the morning, sailors take warning" is true, and when you wake up to a crimson dawn, you plan around it.  You step outdoors on a winter day and inhale the just-from-the-washing-machine-damp smell, and anticipate the snow that's on the way. 

And at our house, we know when a cloudy sky is back-lit from a clearing west and it begins to rain, the situation is ripe for a rainbow.  In this case, we know it by gut, but not by sight, because the neighbors’ trees block the eastern sky where a rainbow would appear.   I used to climb into the car with the camera when those conditions occurred, determined to get to a clear spot where I could capture what I knew was there.  Most times, I arrived too late, the last snippet of a rainbow, fading before me. 

A few days ago, my husband and I were home on a cloudy afternoon.  The sun broke through just as rain started to fall and I thought about hightailing it to the beach for a photo op.  But experience advised me I’d never get there in time, so I shrugged, and joked.  “We have to tell (neighbor) to cut her trees down, because I know there's a rainbow up there, but we can’t see it.”  I forgot something though.  This year, spring is late.  The trees are just leafing out now and that day, they were bare. A few minutes after my fuss, my husband stepped outside.  “Hey, Lize?  You might want to come out here.”   

 Let's call it an obstructed view.  But at least there was one.