The beginning of spring brings the Savannah Music Festival. This year, I went hog wild with tickets, so this weekend, Chris and I went to a Cajun/Zydeco dance party on Friday night, and on Saturday night, the entire family went to see Pink Martini. The big misstep of Friday night — that I made a bad wardrobe choice — was quickly overshadowed by the big concern of Saturday night — that I almost got into my first fist fight.

The Music Festival is a new endeavor for me, one occasioned by a long-time love of music and older children who can be left to their own devices. I teach spin classes, and throw my earnings into a savings account, and use that money to buy exactly what I want. It is like a middle-aged version of a child’s allowance, except that this time, I am no longer buying each and every Nancy Drew novel and stupid horse figurine and Barbie that I can find. Instead, I buy things like tickets to music festivals. So over the next two weeks, I am listening to Zydeco and lounge music, jazz and western swing, funk and singer-songwriters, retro soul and the Dap Kings.

Like I said, Chris and I went to a Cajun/Zydeco dance party on Friday at a small covered outdoor venue. I thought about the music, and I sang “Hey, Good Lookin'” non-stop for a few days, and I hit upon what I thought was the perfect outfit for the evening: the biggest skirt I had, in a blue floral, my favorite pink gingham shirt, a necklace featuring a state of Georgia pendant, tons of bracelets, and turquoise blue Chuck Taylors. When I mentioned this to my friend Rosemary, she said, “What?  No hat?,” and I realized that of course she was right. At the last minute, I added my favorite straw cowgirl hat, and so I bounded into the venue, like an unbridled and spastic Golden Retriever, to find that I looked slightly ridiculous. Every other woman was tastefully attired, and other than the first band, no one else wore a cowboy hat. It did not help that I saw a friend from law school who mentioned that she never knew that I was so (pause) country, or that I felt most at ease standing next to a man in black pants and suspenders and a red T-shirt that said, “ZYDECO IS FOR LOVERS.” On the bright side, I started dancing — swing, Texas two-step, shag, or some reasonable approximation of a combination of all three that involved a lot of twirling — and saw a lot of friends, and smiled at a lot of people, and twirled some more. (Here is a life lesson for you: When you are slightly dizzy and very happy and listening to an accordion play, it is hard to care about the inopportune wearing of a cowgirl hat.)

But the next night — Saturday — was the big night, for I had four tickets to the sold-out show of Pink Martini. I have read a description of Pink Martini along the lines of “If the U.N. had a house band, this would be it!” And it is true. There are eleven extremely talented musicians, playing the piano, violin, bass guitar, stand-up bass, trombone, trumpet, and every manner of drums and percussion instrument. There is also one principal singer, and if you are extremely lucky, as we were, Ari Shapiro, the host of NPR’s All Things Considered, shows up to join the band. They sing in English, French, Hindi, Japanese, Spanish — you name it — all the while with gently wry patter and witty observations. This is a concert in the sense that it is a musical performance; the audience (who had paid good money for these tickets) was attentive and respectful, silent and rapt. This is not, for instance, a nascent Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute band playing at a local bar on a Monday night with dollar cover and two dollar well drinks.

But you may have thought so by what happened after intermission.

The four of us had excellent seats in the balcony, and a few minutes after the show began, three well-dressed couples filled the six seats behind us. They talked the entire time, and the children and I tried to ignore them, and that strategy did not work. So at intermission, my son and daughter and I talked about the talkers, and my daughter and I agreed that we would shoot pointed, steely looks at the talkers in the hope that they would get the hint.

It got worse — the six people behind us were now talking loudly, bemoaning the alcohol limits imposed by the lobby bar. My daughter and I engaged Operation Pointed Looks, to no avail. And my son, who was really enjoying the music, turned around and said, “Please. If you are going to talk, would you take it into the lobby?”

That is all. That is it. And that is why I feared a fist fight.

(I try not to use bad language in this blog, figuring that genteel English language is broad enough to encompass what I want to say, but I will be quoting the row behind us in the upcoming paragraph. Cover your ears if you are sensitive.)

So my son, who was really enjoying the music, turned around and said, “Please. If you are going to talk, would you take it into the lobby?” And one of the men behind us replied, “I am going to whip your ass, boy.” And I wheeled around, and Chris wheeled around, and another of the men said to me, to Chris, who knows, “If you don’t turn around right now, I am going to rip off your goddamn fucking face.”

I wish that I were making this up, but I am not. In the split second after I heard these words, all I could think of was this: There is going to be a fist fight, and I am going to be hit.

I have never been in a fist fight before, and in that split second, I scanned my accumulated knowledge. The college boyfriend who insisted on quoting “The Art of War.” The time at the gym hitting the heavy bag and the sparring mitts. The kickboxing classes. The viewings of “Fight Club.”

When I got to the viewings of “Fight Club,” I remembered the first rule: You do not talk about Fight Club. And then I remembered the second rule: YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB! And as I stood there in that split-second, I bemoaned the fact that no one talked about Fight Club, because I sure could have used the help.

All I had was a threatened cub. All I was was a mother bear. All I wanted to do was to keep everyone safe. All I needed was to keep my husband and my son in their seats. All I had to do was avoid a fist fight.

And with that resolve, I leaped up, twirling past trouble like a Zydeco dancer, and burned the ears of the 75 year-old music festival volunteer with the words uttered by the talkers. She led me to the manager, who enlisted the on-duty police officer. (This was such a sedate affair that the young officer wore khakis and a polo shirt embroidered with a badge, to the effect that he looked like a cop at a country club.) With Officer Dockers and the manager in tow, I pointed out the row and the talkers and who said what. Mr. Rip Off Your Face, ushered out by his girlfriend, left shortly thereafter, and Mr. Whip Your Ass walked out some time later.

I am proud of how my son handled the situation. I am thankful beyond all measure that Chris remained in his seat. I am grateful that I kept my mouth shut and sought help. I am pleased that other concert-goers approached me after the concert to identify Mr. Whip Your Ass, a local businessman who won’t be getting any of my business.

The human mind loves to make connections, to gather information. I write to process things, make sense of it all. I wish there were a moral to this story, a lesson to be learned, a universal truth to be taken away. There’s really not, no matter how much I think about it, no matter how much I write. It’s just a bunch of stuff that happened. And I wish it hadn’t.

ALC

The dining room in my house is dark chocolate brown, and a few years ago, we replaced a large rectangular table with a round table that seats four comfortably or six uncomfortably. About five nights a week, the four of us sit at this cozy table, in a dark room that feels very much like an inviting cave, and eat dinner. When I saw my son’s high school graduation robe laying on the kitchen counter this week, my immediate thought was that dinner would take a direct hit, the three of us eating in missing man formation for weeks on end, awaiting the return of my son.

I wish I could tell you that dinner in my house is a genteel affair. While there are certainly the trappings — a set table, flowers, cloth napkins, good food, music playing — the conversation tends to follow Australian rules, which is to say really no rules at all. We have had a few uncomfortable conversations around that table, to be sure, but for the most part, the discussions veer from the raucous and funny to the ordinary and practical and back again. The night that I saw my son’s graduation robe on the counter, we discussed high school classes, the prom, college dorms, and Warren Buffett.

I feel relatively certain that our son will not miss the money talks, for if it is possible to be 47 and 49 years old and to have been raised during the Great Depression, Chris and I are those people. Chris’ parents are accountants, and my father (bless his heart) is very frugal, and I pick up change from the ground and play all sorts of elaborate games to save money and casually recount articles that I read about things like how the founder of IKEA wears second hand clothes. (It’s true!) No doubt it is tiresome. And no doubt that I was droning on and on and on tiresomely when one of the children asked exactly how Warren Buffett made all of his money.

There is a dispute about what happened next, for my daughter swears that she gave this explanation, and I am equally certain that it came from me. But when asked exactly how Warren Buffett made all of his money, I — yes, daughter, I — said, “He is the man who introduced the buffet to America, and he has been living handsomely from the proceeds of that introduction every since, from financial wellsprings as disparate as Golden Corral and the fanciest hotels.” And then I went on to explain that Bill Gates made all of his money by introducing gates to America, because before that time, fences were merely open spaces, and livestock, dogs, and small children roamed freely.

As I spoke, I realized that I was turning into my father — these explanations are straight from his playbook– and as my daughter insisted that the Buffett line was hers, I realized that she was turning into me. God help us all.

But beyond being called the Oracle of Omaha, the plan to give away the vast majority of his personal wealth to the Gates Foundation, and Berkshire Hathaway, I knew little about Warren Buffett, so I decided to read up. You can, too — no doubt that you are equally astute with the Google machine — but one part of what I read has really stuck with me.

Warren Buffett has an interesting personal life.

He married his wife Susie in 1952; after raising their children, she moved out in 1977; and they remained married until her death in 2004. Buffett was devastated by Susie’s decision to leave, what he called the biggest mistake of his life. (It seemed to have been occasioned by the work, the absence, the lack of willingness to quit when there was enough.) So Susie left for San Francisco, and before she did, she introduced her husband to Astrid, a co-worker. Warren and Astrid engaged in a relationship with Susie’s knowledge and approval. All three remained on good terms, sending out Christmas cards from Warren, Susie, and Astrid. Susie’s death in 2004 filled Warren with such despair that he could not even attend her funeral. In 2006, Warren and Astrid married in a small civil ceremony, with a ring probably purchased with an employee discount, and headed to Bonefish Grill immediately to celebrate. You will be pleased to know that Astrid shares Warren’s notions of thrift. (And yes, this is true, too, and has even appeared in an authorized biography, which you can read about here.)

A few months ago — maybe a few years ago, it all runs together now — I read an essay about business, and (specifically) ownership of that business: your business, your neighbor’s business, and God’s business. (If I remember correctly — always a dubious proposition — the example was that your neighbor buys a flashy car that you think he can’t afford. Whether your neighbor can afford the car is his business. Dealing with your jealously occasioned by the new car is your business.) So how Warren Buffett spends his personal life is clearly none of my business; it falls squarely in the other two camps. I do not pass judgment.

But the unconventional relationship, the slavery to thrift — all of it — has been rolling around in my head. It has been like back-door investment advice from the Oracle himself. Who among us does not think about how nice it would be to be a multi-billionaire? But at some point,  shouldn’t we be thinking about how nice it feels to have a small life? To leave the office. To sit down reliably at a dinner table with family. To joke. To laugh. To save.

And sometimes to spend.

So last night, I did just that. I herded the family to a nice restaurant in walking distance. Granted, I took advantage of a special that lasted only from 5 to 6 p.m. on weekdays, and for the most part, we were alone in the restaurant. But there we were, huddled on our little raft of a table, all four of us together. None of us cooked. None of us cleaned. We talked about the usual. Love, money, school, friends, music, home. We talked about my son’s imminent departure, my daughter’s plans to be a chef, the Zydeco dance party that Chris and I are going to tonight. There we were, frozen in time, two of us chomping at the bit to get on with life, two of us deliberately slowing our pace. All of us happy. All of us fed. All of us making a prudent investment. All of us rich.

ALC

My sister, daughter, and I did a 10K this weekend, which has put running on my mind. I would describe my running career as follows: I ran for a few decades, hated every minute of it, felt my knees begin to crumble, and finally quit. This is all true, I suppose, but also a little flip, and it discounts a few happy moments pounding the pavement.

At a 5K in February 1997, I ran my usual time but felt off the entire way. When the race ended, I found the nearest trash can and threw up. The moment that I thought, “That has never happened before.” coincided with the moment that I thought, “Perhaps I am pregnant.” As it turned out, there was no “perhaps” to it. I kept running until I couldn’t. (I also kept lifting weights until, at 7 1/2 months pregnant, I brought the entire gym to a screeching halt by balancing on a small seat to change out a pull-down bar above my head (anonymous, annoyed, insistent man: Any one of us — he said, pointing to the assembled masses — any one of us would have changed that out for you if you had just asked).) And six days before I delivered, I walked a 5K with another woman, eight days before her own child was born, waddling in misery, shouting at a clump of walkers who made a short cut to avoid being passed by two hugely pregnant, terrifyingly hormonal women. An ambulance followed us the entire time.

I ran while pregnant with my second child. I ran with friends, I ran alone. I tried to run with my first dog, Harris, until he abruptly sat down on his 92 pound butt one-half block into our first run. As I sling-shot past him, I realized that it was a terrible idea.  I ran with a group, all of us in green, along the St. Patrick’s Day parade route in Savannah a few hours before the parade, enjoying the cheers of the spectators and waving at the crowds.  I last ran on April 4, 2009 — a 10K where the unthinkable happened: I won my age group. It was a victory in the sense that I rolled out of bed that morning and laced up my running shoes, for I must have been the only person in my age group actually running. As I collected my prize, I had visions of running a half-marathon, and then a marathon. And then I took two weeks off and quit.

Here was my fundamental problem with running: If I couldn’t have speed, I wanted joy. And I had neither. So at some point I started to walk. Alone. With my dog. With my children. With friends. With Chris.

It has been funny — and by funny, I mean hard — to switch from being a runner to being a walker. It has seemed somehow like a massive cop-out, a surrender, a waving of the athletic white flag. I have felt like I was channeling my grandmother Doris — who, as a sassy septuagenarian, became an avid early morning walker at the Greenwood Mall, her perfectly coiffed hair and metallic gold sneakers making her very easy to spot indeed.

It all got easier for me this weekend. Like I said, I did a 10K with my younger sister and my daughter. I had groused about it some, for it seemed like a very expensive way to take a morning walk, another T-shirt that I did not need a lousy trade-off for the entry fee. But I loved it: The only pressure was to finish, and to not finish last. If you have no real skin in the game, and all the time in the world, it is easier to marvel at the fast runners flying by and the wheelchair racers whizzing around tight corners. I found myself encouraging people running their first race, listening to another walker and my sister talk about Continental Giant rabbits, dancing to a Gorillaz song with a volunteer handing out water, laughing at someone playing  “Running on Empty” at the second mile marker. I enjoyed the time spent with two of my favorite people, from my daughter’s asking me the night before, “Are we going to win it all in the morning?” to asking my sister for some walk-up music, whereupon “The Bitch Is Back” played from her phone.

I had sold walking short because I associated it with growing older — a physically unappealing concept that nonetheless beats the alternative. But at spare moments on this walk, I thought about the Most Interesting Man in the World — the beer spokesman — because Dos Equis had announced that it was discontinuing that ad campaign by sending the Man on a one-way trip to Mars. In an interview, the actor’s agent mentioned that at the audition, there was some reluctance to cast the actor due to his age, and the agent, thinking quickly, said, “How could the most interesting man in the world be young?”

Even though I miss my knees, I loved that response.

I faced a different kind of race the next day. The airport is 90 minutes from my sister’s house, a straight shot up the interstate. Unless, of course, 30 miles of interstate is unexpectedly closed due to a fatal accident, as it was that Sunday morning. My daughter and I had a flight to catch and a rental car to return. So I panicked, and then railed against Google maps, and finally acted like it was 1982: I stopped at a convenience store and begged for help from a stranger. He told me to follow him to a different route and waved me on. When the road dead-ended, I had no idea of which way to go, so my daughter and I sat at a stop sign for a moment. A Greyhound bus passed. It was an anomaly — a Greyhound bus on an unmarked back road in Northern Kentucky — so I followed it. Soon, there we were, a little convoy of the Greyhound bus, my rental car, a few semi-trucks, and another Greyhound, trying to get past the closed interstate and make it home. With the back roads and the convoy, there was no choice but to go slowly.

As I drove, a 90 minute drive ultimately taking almost three hours, I thought about what would happen when we missed the flight. At first, all I could think about was the expense of new plane tickets, the uncertainty, the wasted time, the delayed arrival home. And then I thought about it like I thought about walking the 10K: My only goal was to make it home, preferably not in last place. I could rent another car, drive through horse country, visit my mother and brother. I could see my father in Nashville, friends and family in Atlanta. I would have my daughter with me to keep me company, beautiful weather, good music. I might not have speed, but I would have joy. And that seemed like enough.

But we made the plane — just barely — and as the safety instructions hinted professionally and coolly that we could all die unexpectedly, it hit me that life is like a race: The shorter the distance to be run, the faster the pace becomes. So I settled in, and I squeezed my daughter’s hand, and as the plane went up, up, up, I dreamed of all the many ways life would surprise me, and force me to adapt, and make me become more interesting. Bad knees and all, that seemed perfectly fine to me.

ALC

P.S. — Here I am after the race, with the funniest Chick-Fil-A cow to ever wear the costume. (The other cow was one unintentional mishap after another. It is fitting that he is clutching his stomach in this photo.)

Last weekend was almost perfect — almost perfect, that is, if you are an extrovert who loves road trips, meeting new people, Athens, Georgia, vintage clothes, and college basketball. Here is a big surprise:  I am that extrovert, and as the architect of last weekend, I am pleased to say it was a rousing success. I drove to Athens, listened to podcasts, happily saw a number of cows, sang at the top of my lungs, dropped the top on the car, and sang even louder. I checked into my favorite hotel, and got the room key, and went to my room, where I was confronted with this: There was but a single king-sized bed.

This hardly sounds like a problem, but there is a rub. On the second night of my stay, I would have a roommate — Gwen — a friend from college that I had not seen in, oh, 27 years. So I called the front desk (Surely there is a mistake! This room was supposed to have two beds!), but there was no mistake, so I texted Gwen (Be sure to pack a pair of pajamas), and tried to ignore that in 24 short hours, I would be a 47 year-old woman sharing both a room and a bed with a long-ago acquaintance.

After a night alone, the next day brought official functions at the University, where I met with students who had applied to be part of a program there. I had been part of that program in the go-go 80s, and I fear that my loftiest goal in college had been to drive the largest Mercedes in production to an undisclosed location where I would quietly but efficiently take over the world. It was only much later that I realized total world domination may not be all that it is cracked up to be, and I embraced the charms of a more manageable, outwardly focused life. Having had this realization far earlier, these students had the jump on me,  and when I spoke with them, I was inspired to hear how they envisioned themselves. Rather than being frustrated by seemingly insoluble problems, they seemed resolved to chip away — a little piece here, a little piece there — under the notion that something was better than nothing. And that something could turn into something big. One of the students described her outlook as “What next?” What next, indeed?

Well, Gwen arrived, and I doubled down on my I’m-a-47-year-old-woman-sharing-a-bed anxiety. I did not think that it would be like the Appalachian Trail a few years ago, bunking with strangers and hoping that mice would not run across my face. Oh, no. It was a lot of things, but perhaps it can be distilled into this comparison. Gwen was worried that she would snore. I was worried that I would wake up and find that I had made Gwen the little spoon. Oh, I am the worst — an inveterate cuddler who sleeps best as a socked-in puppy, serving as Chris’ personal electric blanket and furnace even — and maybe especially — in the heat of August. So I erected (discreetly, I hope) a barrier of pillows down the middle of the bed, an imaginary line of death for me, and I hoped for the best. Gwen snored lightly. I really did not sleep. When morning came, the two of us had one of those meaningful talks probably made possible by the bed, the soft foam barrier, the light snoring, and the sleepiness — a talk about the hopes and disappointments of the last 27 years. And because I am me, I cried.

But there is no crying in baseball, and I suppose basketball, too, and I had a ticket to a men’s college hoops game. Being the only sports fan in my household, I am met with foot-dragging reluctance at all sporting events, which means I never get there for pre-game activities. Saturday’s game was bobble-head day, for the first 1,000 fans got a Shandon Anderson bobble-head. I raced to the coliseum, and tugged on the doors, and twenty-one minutes later, when the doors finally opened, I was number three. I collected my bobble-head and grabbed my seat and began to wonder why I felt compelled to come to a basketball game an hour early. The big excitement was watching an Ole Miss fan with the worst toupee I had ever seen creep further and further onto the court, until his wife was taking photographs of him as the players ran their drills all around him. His ultimate removal from the floor was a little exciting, but not enough — no, not really enough at all — to kill the other 57 minutes.

But the game finally started, and I fell into the steady rhythm of being a sports fan. For me, that involves yelling and clapping, singing the fight song, secretly assuring myself that with the right amount of Tylenol, ice, and Spanx, I could still make the Dance Dawgs half-time troupe. I was in this happy reverie, alone on a short row, until a woman sat down next to me, and her husband — I thought of him as the Handsome Mute — sat next to her.

I am pleased to tell you that Bobby Knight has shifted shape to a woman in her early 60s, sensible haircut and comfortable shoes, attired entirely in black, a rabid fan of Georgia Bulldogs basketball. There was no joy in the game for her. There was one mishap after another, a constant barrage of palms to the forehead. She enjoyed the game the way that a coach enjoys the game, which is to say not at all, and my great regret was that I did not have a clipboard to hand over for her to throw. (My great relief was that all chairs were securely bolted to the coliseum floor.) So we were watching the game, the Handsome Mute, Bobby Knight, and I, and all of sudden Bobby Knight yelled, “YOU WERE UNDER THE BASKET, WILLIAM.”

My computer lacks a scorn font to adequately convey how this sounded, and I have no idea how to embed a sound file of my saying this, but I hope that you get the idea. For William was under the basket, and he should have gotten the shot or the rebound or whatever he was under the basket for, and he did not. (I have not interviewed William for this story, but the lapse was so glaring that I have no doubt that he acutely realized that he was, in fact, under the basket yet screwed up.)

I have thought a lot about Bobby Knight’s words all week, for lately I have felt under the basket, William. Flat-footed. Slow. Knowing what to do in theory, unable to execute it in practice. A step too late, an aim too imprecise, a clutching of the ball when I should have thrown it away, throwing the ball away when I should have clutched it tightly. It has been low-level, and not at all catastrophic, but unable to resist the urge to revisit disappointments and hammer home even obvious mistakes, I have dwelled on it.

I clearly needed a Plan B to dampen my inner Bobby Knight. I happened to pick up a magazine and read a column by Martha Beck. To deal with problems, she suggested a three step process:

1. Freedom.
2. Kindness.
3. Rest.

I have tried it. To my delight, this has not resulted in my running out of the home or workplace, hands up and hair flying, for a fit of narcoleptic-level sleeping. It has been as simple as not folding clothes at 10 p.m. (freedom), assuring myself that the world would continue to revolve on its axis were those clothes not folded right then and there (kindness), and hanging out in the hot tub instead (rest), So for the the last week or so, I have been in these little F-K-R cycles, and it has been a pleasure.

In this vein, I enjoyed a weekend — this weekend — that was perfectly ordinary. It was ordinary, yes, but do not misunderstand what I mean by perfectly: It was the Platonic ideal of an ordinary weekend. I saw a luna month on the fence post near where I park my car, a purple pansy growing out of a crack in a parking lot. I napped and I laughed and I ate dinner with friends. On a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, I worked in the yard with Chris and our son, raking and sweeping, cutting off dead branches, getting everything ready for spring.

Part of the preparations extended to the birds. I cleaned the fountain and the bird bath, moved the feeders, hung new bird houses. I turned to an older bird house, high on a post, a house that I had painted bright red with a black roof, figuring that any bird worth her salt would embrace such festive digs. Last spring when I was in the backyard, I looked at the bird house at just the right time and saw a yellow head poking out of the hole, followed by a body, and a small bird taking flight. It was a moment of magic.

Chris opened the bird house to clean it out, and there was last year’s nest. Birds apparently do not reuse nests, so Chris gently handed it to me. “Someone had quite a family,” he said. And I peered into the nest and saw that he was right and carefully took the nest and sat it on a table. I then snapped this photograph, which may have been the most beautiful picture I have ever taken:

Look at the nest. It was an accumulation of small parts woven into a marvel, bits and pieces of the surroundings spiraled into a complex whole. There was joy (the remnants of the hatched eggs) and a stark reminder of disappointment and failed plans (the unhatched egg). The very stuff of life, which I held in my hands and which you see in this photo, overwhelmed me and calmed me. And it made me think: Yes, there have been many times I have been under the basket, William, and while I have missed my fair share of shots, not all of those times have been lame attempts at the game. There has been offense and defense and a whole lot of net. And it is all good.

ALC

P.S. — Being outside all weekend and preparing for spring stuck the last line and one-half of this ee cummings poem in my head:

never could anyone
who simply lives to die
dream that your valentine
makes happier me than i

but always everything
which only dies to grow
can guess and as for spring
she’ll be the first to know