Somewhere, Under the Rainbow

#131, December 10, 2003

 

I could hear them from my desk, through the double-paned sealed windows of the office building, above the white noise of its ventilation system. A sound like clowns at a faraway party, like a parade of squeaky oxcarts. I looked out the glass, and saw only the peach-colored dusk. Not until I was out on Old Redwood Highway, pedaling home, did I hear them again. And then I saw.

 

Holy mother of God! The first V formation flew over, followed by another… then another, and another. The Pearl Harbor attack of waterfowl!  I pulled my bike to the curb a stared, drop-jawed, while the first flock circled their approach, gliding now, wings tilted and webbed feet dragging like flaps on a 747. As the geese crossed the road on their final descent to the pond, it reminded me of how the big jets pass over the freeways just before they touch down. But there was no roar of turbines, no screech of tires… just the soft swish as their outstretched feet slipped into the water, followed by the silent spread of ripples reflecting the evening’s fading light.

 

How do we humans get over the mountain, when gravity keeps us on the ground? That’s the problem Petaluma’s Pedestrian and Bicycle Advisory Committee was again trying to solve, as we reviewed a proposal for a small subdivision tucked in the hills between Petaluma High and the Victoria neighborhood. We would recommend requiring the developer to install and maintain trails, but where? One of our members had walked the property, and we had the plans from the developer, but they lacked the bigger picture, the view from above.

 

Fortunately, I had the magic feather: a copy of the City’s new Geographic Information System (GIS) on my laptop PC. I pulled up the aerial photo of the site and its surroundings, complete with property lines and street boundaries. From that perspective, we could see how continuing a trail all the way across the northern property line would enable connection with the developer-built trails planned for the neighboring Rockridge Pointe subdivision. Thus, with the planned future path down to Dana Drive, people would be able to travel from the high school direct to Putnam Park without having to walk along any major streets. PBAC member Anne Cottrell prepared the formal recommendation on her laptop, for emailing to the City Planner the next day, while Keith Canevaro, Council Liaison to the Committee, prepared an email to the City Traffic Engineer with our recommendation about crosswalks. It was leading-edge government, flapping its digital wings.

 

That night, just before bedtime, I looked out the sliding glass door into my garden. The moon was high and nearing full. The mist had thrown its arms across the shoulders of the mountain, pulling them in close. It was pulling on me, too. I slid the door open and stood for a moment on the step, but the silky moist air drew me further into the garden, to drink it all in.

 

I walked up the path, around the fountain, and stood under the snowbell tree, a fine black skeleton against the clouds. I scooped some water from the fountain for a ritual tree watering. As I was slowly pouring water into the soil, a meteor blazed across the sky behind the branches, so slow and bright I could almost hear it. It exploded brilliant blue-green, then winked back into darkness.

 

The next morning, the sun rose away across the Petaluma Valley, casting tangerine and pink hues into the rippled nimbostratus. My commute windbreaker was an extraordinarily bright yellow in the red-shifted glow. As I started peddling down the street, Jimi Hendrix came to me, and we sang, "...then we’ll watch the sunrise, from the bottom of the sea. But first, are you experienced? Ah, have you ever been experienced? Well, I have.” Something then caught the corner of my eye, and I looked back, and up. It was a rainbow. A full half-hoop of rainbow was bright in the slate gray sky.

 

Right here, under the rainbow, we can fly.