The only thing in Colorado bigger than the mountains and the prairies is the sky.
I know, I know. All the writing teachers that I've had the good fortune to meet tell you not to start your story with a weather report. The old "It was a dark and stormy night" bugaboo. But, you know what? Skies and their weather are facts of nature that we can't ignore no matter how we're surrounded by concrete, glass, and steel.
I lived most of my life in Central Oklahoma where paying attention to the weather can literally save your life. There, people learn early on what the Fujita Scale is. And when the television meteorologist says to get below ground, you're glad you have a storm shelter. Or your neighbor does and they are kind, generous people with whom you have a reasonably good relationship.
The nice thing about meteorologists in Oklahoma is that they have the equipment and trained personnel to track tornadoes. They can tell you what town -- indeed, what intersection -- the storm will be crossing when. So if it's not your neighborhood right now, you're free to enjoy the show. And even when the Oklahoma skies are the most threatening, they are beautiful. And exciting.
Lucky for me, I now live at the foot of the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, one step above the prairie.
Tornadoes can happen anywhere in the world. Even in the mountains. But they're small, much less damaging than the big Super Cells that grow over the open plains. Here at the edge of the mountains, storms are born and build as they move east out onto the Colorado prairie. There they can become the monsters I've known in Oklahoma.
But, not here. Lightning and wind are certainly hazards, but with reasonable precautions, the skies are not dangerous. They're just beautiful.
The sky is a splendid distraction from my life and a balm to my spirit almost anytime I need it to be.
We had two dreary days in a row. Cloudy and a heavy mist. Not a real rain, just soggy air. The kind that collects on your glasses and you have to use the intermittent setting on your car windshield wipers. Until a truck passes you and the splash back blinds you for that less than a second that seems like forever until you can hit the windshield wiper button for an extra swipe to clear your vision.
Makes you wonder whatever happened to those mud flaps that trucks used to sport. (You know, the ones with the buxom chrome maid on a background of black rubber who might promise more than you're interested in right then, but at least she delivered protection against what that truck's tires merrily kicked up in your face.)
And then. And then. The sun came back. It was stunning.
I spend a lot of time with my dad. He has dementia and lives in a residential care home. Not the most pleasant way to spend the rest of his life, or even the few hours of my life that I visit there. That afternoon he and I sat out on their back patio and basked. Two turtles in straw hats just glad the sun was back.
As often happens here, the afternoon sun spawned storm clouds.
They gathered high into the impossibly blue Colorado sky. They were magnificent. And I had my cell phone which takes pretty good pictures. BUT, I was driving in rush hour traffic. I could snag a few shots when I came to a stop light, which is usually pretty often along the first part of my route home.
Not that day. Wouldn't you know, I hit green lights all along Broadway. (When would I ever complain about green lights in rush hour traffic?) Then finally I hit a red one.That's when I got the pic at the top of this blog. There would be rain in the night. And rain on the high plains desert of Colorado is good.
The car radio was off. No bad news. The car windows were down. I noticed how many other drivers were enjoying their ride with their windows down and the air washing through their cars and their lives with light and promise.
From one day to the next, we'd gone from gray cloudy mist to sunshine blue skies to glorious life-affirming rain clouds.
Skies! It feels good to remember life ain't so bad.
