The Pot of Gold

                                   Ramblings of a Retired Mind

                                     The Pot of Gold

As the rain began to let up, hope stirred in me. Today, I thought, could finally be the day. Since moving to Polson and settling onto our lot with its ever-changing mountain views, we've grown to love the vivid rainbows that follow a good storm. But we'd been waiting for the one. The full, sweeping arch that a sky like this deserves.

Back in the Chicago suburbs, rainbows were more rumor than reality. With houses fifteen feet apart and trees crowding every sightline, you might catch a whisper of color through the branches, but never the arc. Never the whole thing.

This is a special day, a day of green.

With my granddaughter at my side, we stood at the window, watching the sky. "Papa, will we see one today?"

I smiled. "Hope springs eternal."

She scrunched her nose. "What does that mean?"

"It means we hope so," I said, "and if it's meant to be, it shall be."

We watched the clouds slowly pull apart. Then, faintly, an arc began to form — first a whisper of color, then red, then violet, then the unmistakable green. It grew bolder, more certain of itself.

"Papa. It's here!"

The full arch swept down into the valley, all the way to the end of the rainbow.

Her eyes went wide. "Papa, we have to go!"

On this St. Patrick's Day, we will find our pot of gold.

We raced out the back door and flew down the hill, laughing, only to watch the colors quietly fade until there was nothing left but sky.

She took my hand and leaned into my arm. Mud on her boots, cheeks flushed, grinning.

"Same time next rainbow?" I asked.

"Same time next rainbow."




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Esther

Image
  Ramblings of a Retired Mind Esther A Move and a Memory Seven years ago, my wife and I left Chicago—the only home we had ever known—and moved to Polson, Montana. Retirement and the pull to be near our daughter and four grandchildren brought us West. Leaving behind friends, family, and the familiar rhythm of city life was no small undertaking. Before the move, I found myself at my parents’ graves, saying a quiet goodbye. I knew they weren’t truly there, but I felt the need to honor their lives and the life I was leaving behind. Graves matter. They are touchstones of existence, proof that a life once was. Too many leave this world without such a marker. The Pull of Genealogy Decades ago, my wife and I became absorbed in genealogy. With much of the older generation already gone, we pieced together names, dates, photographs, and fragments of stories. We visited cemeteries, photographing gravestones as if gathering the last whispers of lives once lived. But some left no trace at...
Read more

The Samovar

Image
  Ramblings of a Retired Mind: The Samovar A few weeks ago, I opened my laptop and checked my email. My inbox was overflowing with offers—each more ridiculous than the last. One promised free samples , no strings attached—unless you count handing over all your personal information as a string. Another urged me to “sponsor” a lovely young woman fleeing the devastation in Ukraine. Just one click to connect—though if blondes aren’t your thing, brunettes were available too. Two messages later, I was greeted with a miracle product that guaranteed to banish every trace of lime and rust from my toilet. “Never use a toilet brush again!” it proudly proclaimed. Sifting through my inbox felt like panning for gold—only instead of nuggets, I kept pulling up spam and promotional sludge. An Email That Mattered About twenty messages down, I finally found an email from someone I knew: my cousin Alice. Alice is my father’s second cousin—technically my second cousin once removed—and the offic...
Read more

Noisy People

                 Ramblings of a Retired Mind                                                   Noisy People At my age, I get it—some of us struggle with hearing and end up speaking louder just to hear ourselves think. That makes sense. But then there are the naturally loud talkers—the ones with no concept of volume control. Those are the ones who really get under my skin. I’ve got a bone to pick with the steady invasion of unwanted noise in my world. How many times can someone excuse it with, “Oh, they don’t realize they’re being loud” ? Please. If I can understand every word of your conversation from across a football field, you’re not just being loud—you’re broadcasting. Many people fall squarely into the “too-loud” category. This is true of both sexes; it is not regulated to just on...
Read more