My brother called me at 4 p.m. Sunday to see if I wanted to play a round of golf.
"It's looking rather ominous," I said looking out the window.
"Huh?" he said.
"It's gonna rain," I translated.
"Na. It'll pass. It looks clear to the south."
"OK," I said. Then I put on a cap and told my wife and kids I was going to play golf.
"It's going to storm," said my wife.
"Na. It'll pass. It looks clear to the south," I said echoing my brother's wise words that convinced me to go out.
"You'll be home in 15 minutes," said my 10-year-old daughter.
I laughed, patted her on the head condescendingly and left for the course. When I was half way there an ear-shattering thunderclap opened the skies and released a torrential downpour. The wind kicked up and leaves and small branched littered the country road I was on. Lightning was flashing all around. I actually was worried that my car was going to be struck. I turned around and went home.
When I walked in my daughter said, "Told you."
"You sure did," I said. "And, oh, by the way: you're grounded."