Some call it coincidence. One of nature's oddball pranks, like small fish or polliwogs falling by the thousands from an empty sky.
If I believed in signs and miracles, I might grant that just maybe there's a connection between events occurring days apart and a strange, still-ongoing result that followed.
Rationalist that I am, I despise TV evangelists who claim to speak for God. (For some reason of mental hearing loss they're always, always angry or shouting.)
One dunderhead, much in our town's usually boring Channel 8 News, says he's a Born Again Seventh-Day Baptist. He says the tornado that struck here suddenly this summer is God's way of punishing our Lutheran neighbors for allowing same-sex clergy in committed relationships to pastor. (Who gives a damn anyway?)
Fortunately no one was injured during the recent so-called act of God – really a huge wind storm. No house was blown to smithereens. No Toto or Dorothy was whisked away to Oz. Truthfully, if God had a hand in this "whirlwind" it appears to be pretty much just a slap on the wrist. (Why God never took Martin Luther to task for blatant, Germanic anti-Semitism is something for all fundygelical preachers to stew over.)
What really puzzles me – no: amazes hell outta me, and continues to do so – is the strange happening that occurred (at least I think it did) in a near-cloudless sky shortly after the mentally challenged TV John the B made a barking Balaam's ass of himself.
While I can't explain rationally what happened – I'm no meteorologist (I can't tell a cumulous cloud from a cirrus one), believe me when I tell you this … it began with a rainbow, that arc'd from east to west across the distant valley between our town's nearby Stallion Mountain Range.
There was no rain. Just thin wisps of clouds. Threads of candy cotton. Whiter than snow, as it were. And a baffling, out-of-place gigantic rainbow. Vibrating in ultra-radiant colors. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue … gloriously prismatic!
You'll question my sanity, but … what I saw were thousands of flowers – tiny, blue, lavender, violet, pansy like – tumbling, floating, falling gently from the rainbow sky – for five minutes. A cascade of fragrance. Then – as I turned eagerly to see who was witnessing this – there was no one – the rainbow faded. The wind blew a lovely, unforgettable scent my way. The flowers still fluttered down. Then stopped. I was oddly content.
But I found it difficult to sleep that night, and the next. Curious, yes curious beyond belief, I drove early to the mountain range, hoping to find a souvenir as proof of the spectacle I had witnessed. I drove for an hour. On the way, I stopped at Donald's Football Grill for an iced tea.
Don, a jock's jock – I've known him for 10 yardage-long years – went out of his way to welcome me. Shook my hand. Winked. Patted me on my butt, and, out of nowhere: "How's it hanging, Studmuffin?" Shocked by such faggy behavior – totally, totally, totally – out of character, I paid my bill and left.
I did get lucky. Under my car window wiper I found a flower. Bright lavender as all get out. For three weeks it hasn't withered. Same touch-life-honestly fragrance. June, my wife, says it's so weird. Something's happening to us both. She's off for a "long, long overdue" visit to her Vassar roommate, Maxine. And … I've got the damnedest urge to ring up Don to ask him if it's not too late to finally nip things in the bud. For old time's sake. Petal by petal …
