February Flies By

I’m not quite sure who made February the shortest month of the year, but I’m here to tell you…they did a fabulous job. The 28 days came and went so fast that here it is, the second week of March and I’m just now writing about them. So here we go…February 2010 in all her glory.

Its first weekend could not have been better. I drove to Atlanta where Kristin was waiting with two tickets to see Buddy Guy open for BB King at the Fox. What an experience that was. One reviewer noted the two artists had a collective age of 157 years. To have 90 minutes of their talent was quite a joy. Buddy was phenomenal. Truly, he stole the show. BB was good, but the number of his spoken words far out-weighed the number of his strummed notes. I suppose when you turn 82, the stage is yours to do as you wish. I personally wish he would have played more of his music and talked less of his diabetes. Nevertheless, it was still a fabulous night. I am all over the board when it comes to music. So thankful for a friend like Kristin who shares my eclectic tastes…from Bach to BB and everything in between.

Blues is a genre I love for its raw, unadulterated quality. Three basic chords within twelve bars that repeat over and over—so simplistic…music that doesn’t require a Juilliard degree to perform with a sound that doesn’t need a sophisticated taste to enjoy. As if good music wasn’t enough, the Fox is glorious…so glorious that I’d purchase a seat in the absence of a show, just to sit and take it all in. The twinkling stars, moving clouds, and glowing blue hue of the faux sky are always mesmerizing—and that’s just the ceiling….
The following Monday had me in a theater seat at The Bell here in Augusta. Quite the polar opposite of the wondrous Fox, the Bell lacks luster. Yet it made up for its shortcomings with what was on stage: a stool, a microphone, and Garrison Keillor. For nearly three hours, he did what he does best…story-telling. He is a word artist who paints stories so vivid that the 3 hours felt more like 3 minutes. To write about such a phenomenal writer feels oh-so-wrong…so I’ll stop and recommend you read his books. "We Are Still Married” is one of my favorites. I picked it up at a used book store years ago. An old boarding pass of a lady named “Jane Bradley” marks page 164. Not sure who Jane might be, but her name in dot matrix font tells me she took her trip from Reno to Dallas long before e-tickets. And the place she marked tells me something else about Jane: she has great taste.

Back to February…her calendar days continued to flip. Two days post-Keillor, I threw Alicia a shower in preparation for her February 13th wedding. Pulling the table together was much fun. During the proposal in Lake Tahoe, Alicia’s groom Randy tricked her into believing they were posing for a timed photo. Little did she know the camera was rolling and he recorded every moment of her big moment. Broken into still frames, it made for the perfect vase wrapping. “Randy & Alicia: A Perfect Match” was the theme and each guest brought home a candle and, you guessed it…matches. It was a great event with seven great girls.

Speaking of greatness, Alicia went on that weekend to marry a great guy named Randy…proving once again that good things truly do come to those who wait…and also to those who trudge through snow to say, “I do.” Yes, it snowed in Augusta. Four to six inches in most places, making the Hobson-Whitehead wedding weekend one to remember. The earth was hushed…so still and quiet, clothed in radiant white. What a perfect way to close such a hectic week. I played the piano at their wedding, so Saturday morning had me seated on a piano bench with this view out my window.

As the earth wore white that morning, Alicia also found herself clothed similarly that evening, in a white radiance all her own. She and Randy officially tied the knot, a year after the day they first met. What a joy it was to share it with them.

February forged on and I found that its third and fourth weeks were much more restful than the first two. It was about that time that I became thoroughly engrossed in the Olympics and grew teary every time I saw this commercial. It was also about that time that I noticed the camellias blooming on my back yard bush.

Thirty days hath September; April, June and November.
All the rest have 31, except February who stands alone.

In all its loneliness, I developed an affection for February and its 28 short days—days when music played; stories were told; gold, silver, and bronze were won; snow fell; friends wed; and I paused, once again, to take in the camellias.