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