At the End of the Rainbow

It must have been at least three years ago, the summer I got the rainbow. My brother and I tagged along with our grandmother, who we called Bubbie, for a lively trip to Oregon. When I woke up in the bright city of Eugene on Saturday morning, I had no idea what the day held in store. We were there to visit our aunt and uncle, as well their adopted son and our great-grandmother. So when my brother Dakota and I were given free reign of the day instead of spending time doing various things with the family, we were both surprised and delighted. We had heard of the magnificent Saturday Market held in Eugene from various family members, including our father, so off we went through the bike-crowded streets of downtown Eugene to the renowned event. Once there, we were assaulted by a vivid shock of colors, smells, music, laughter, and people. A variable array of things spun in a dizzying mixture of excitement. A glance at each other, a wave, and we were off to weave a path through the press of bodies adorned with Henna tattoos, face paints, and feathered masks. I've found it’s impossible to describe the magnificence of this place to Springfieldians such as myself, as we have nothing of this magnitude in our lovely little town. Imagine First Friday Artwalk in our downtown, mixed with the new growing Farmer’s Market near the south side of town, and the Walnut Street art fair held here annually. Imagine all of that, all at once. Now multiply it all by ten. I could go into detail describing the bright art of various mediums for sale, or the block that was full of nothing but food trucks selling every kind of food you've never heard of but would immediately want to try. Or I could narrate for you a recollection of the local bands that were playing, or of the quarter full of brightly adorned people in long skirts holding djembes and didgeridoos and all manner of intriguing instruments, playing and singing and dancing as if trapped in a fairy ring. But the most important thing to me, the one thing that stands out to me the most, is the memory of the rainbow booth. I was walking along the edge of one of the Market Squares, one filled with art and crafts of all kinds. A bright flash caught my eye as the tail of a rainbow wafted up on a gust of wind. I turned to look full on, and was dazzles by the sight of dozens of rainbows of all sizes dancing and blowing in the gentle wind. There were these two gentlemen, definitely getting on in years, one with long hair and a beard struck through with gray, the other with no hair at all save for a small beard. I remember being struck by how lively their eyes were, and noticing that their faces were crinkled with laughter lines. They saw me admiring the lines of flax string dyed in brilliant hues, strung through bars of wood and hanging off the booth. We talked for several minutes, and in discussing where I was from, I mentioned to them that my father had one of these rainbow hangings set up in his living room back home. I told them how amazing it felt to be seeing something I’d seen every weekend during my childhood here, hundreds of miles away, and to finally know where dad had gotten in twenty years before. They were starstruck by my declaration, and ecstatically happy that their work had made it that far from home. After chatting with these two kind, elderly gentlemen for a while longer, I made to depart. As I was excusing myself, one of them pressed a small package in my hand. He said it wouldn't be right if I didn't have one, too. When I opened it later, I was astounded to find a clump of vivid flax string in my hand, which unfolded into a magnificent three foot long rainbow. Just like my dad’s. It hangs above my bed now, where I can see the sun glittering on it every day. And every time I look at it, when I’m discouraged or unhappy or generally angry at the world and the people in it, my heart lightens as if the wind that gusted the rainbows up into my sight that summer in Eugene is now buoying my spirits. This object, given to me by a man with a gray beard and a ready laugh, infallibly reminds me of the bright square in Eugene full of kind people. It reminds me of how amazing it is that I happened to run across those men whom my father had met and talked to so long ago, before I was even a gleam in his eye. Above all, it reminds me that there are good people and good things in the world: love, light, generosity, happiness. And all these things hang on the end of a rainbow.