COME ON NOW CHILD, WE'RE GONNA GO FOR A RIDE

Lucinda Williams was responsible for one of the most awkward nights of my life.

One afternoon back when Lana was around 4, we were playing in Pottery Barn Kids. Mind you, I don’t think I’ve ever bought so much as a pillowcase from a Pottery Barn, but they had a good selection of toys for freeloaders of fun like us.

Lana started playing with a little blonde girl, and Taeko struck up a conversation with the girl’s mom. I was floating around the edges of the store— a satellite, unaware.

When my orbit finally crossed theirs, I found them talking about Lucinda Williams. Car Wheels On a Gravel Road had been out for some months, and Taeko knew I was a fan of the album.

It turned out that the girl’s mom was the organizer of a benefit that Lucinda Williams was going to be playing that weekend at Old Westbury Gardens. She asked if I’d like to bring Lana, so that our daughters could play together some more. I said sure thing, and after a couple of phone calls, we had arranged for me to pick up tickets and meet them in the event staging area.

The weather forecast for that night was terrible, and the early returns were in— heavy rain, and stiff, persistent winds. We parked the car, picked up our tickets, and ran across the grounds, dodging widening puddles.

We finally made it to the staging area, after some twists and turns. I reintroduced myself, and Lana and the girl made some tentative attempts to reconnect.

But really the girl was too distracted by the night’s events to spend much time with Lana. Her mom was caught up in the welter of her responsibilities, and did not have any time for us beyond the initial greeting.

It was a tony affair, and I felt way out of place, particularly now that my connection to the whole thing had pretty much fizzled before my eyes.

The saving grace would be when the concert started, I thought— until I realized that our tickets were lawn seats. There was a large tent set up with actual chairs, and all but the most peripheral residents of the tent remained dry. But we were out on the grass.

Lana and I crouched under a golf umbrella on the lawn, angling it against the prevailing winds. I gave up after 4 or 5 songs, concerned for Lana’s health, and just wanting to be home. Not to go home— just to be home.

We drove all the way back with the wiper blades on high. I called the next day and left a message for the girl’s mom, thanking her for the tickets— I never heard back, and I never considered calling again…