Memories in the Making
A couple weeks ago I got an email inviting me to go to a concert in Atlanta. I’m not one to turn down music, so I replied back immediately. I got the details and started thinking about which local friend I would like to invite. Then it dawned on me; the perfect person came to mind. My artiste daughter Olivia, lover of music and creator of all things artsy-fartsy.
When I told her, her eyes wide as saucers, she said, “Mama, this is my first concert. Ever.”
“I know, isn’t it exciting,” I replied.
The day of the show we went out to run some errands, one of which included getting her a worthy concert-going outfit.
When we got home I painted her finger and toenails.
She put on a little lip gloss. I wore mascara.
And, we took off.
We got down to the venue (which is a restaurant/bar with a music room) and shared some grub. The meal consisted of mozzarella sticks, Buffalo chicken wraps, and fried pickles.
Oh, the waiting was torture.
But, finally the curtains opened and the stage was occupied by 3 guitar playing guys and a drummer.
The music? Was loud.
The second song started, just as loud as the first.
“MAMA, IS THIS ONE ESKIMO?”
“I DON’T THINK SO, BABY!”
“WHAT?”
“I. DON’T. THINK. THIS. IS. THEM.”
“WHAT?”
It was that loud.
Finally the opening band stopped making our poor ears bleed, and our band took the stage.
They were like butter. Mostly acoustic with infectious melodies. It was exactly what our ears needed.
The one thing that kept resounding within me was that this night would be forever remembered by Olivia.
It’s not every day that your Mama takes you to a concert in the big city.
You know, now that I think about it, it’s not a night that I’ll easily forget either.
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