Leon Russell, Kirby Brown & Younger Days

Defining moments. They occur every day, every where. Most of the time we just ignore them and blindly stumble forward.

Mine occur in weird places always with an ironic twist.

Such was the case Sunday night. I along with Karen, my BFF of 37 years, went to go see Leon Russell at a the Granada Theater, a small music venue in Dallas. Some of you may recall our last incident involving Leon.

This time I had secured front row seats, but sadly, when we entered the parking lot, Leon was nowhere to be found–probably still scarred and/or scared from last year.

Kirby Brown

OK, so back to defining moments. I was particularly excited to hear Kirby Brown. My favorite tech guy at school (who incidentally is young enough to be a child of mine) told me a buddy of his played in the band.

I did what all good teachers and moms do. I googled and discovered I really liked the band. While I loved the music (purchasing a half dozen songs on iTunes), I loved the fact that Kirby apparently can read. 

According to the bio on his web site, Kirby said he was "weaned on Twain and Whitman, became a man with The Stones on the radio."

(So for all you English teachers out there reading this, the Twain and Whitman thing should be enough to make you run speedy quick to purchase at least one song.)

This is someone you could actually carry on a conversation with–in complete sentences (which btw, I did). And if that's not enough to make you go buy his music (and don't you think it ought to be?), his CD, Child of Calamity, takes its name from Twain's Huckleberry Finn.

So I'm sitting on the front row with the rest of the older set listening to Kirby Brown while waiting for Leon (a tough crowd for any young band–picture all these old people just waiting and waiting and waiting and drinking and drinking and drinking). Seated to the right of me was a woman claiming to be "a Leon Russell fan for life" who followed him from a show in Tulsa. (I decided NOT to tell her about the parking lot incident of last year fearing it might result in fisticuffs.)

When Kirby was finished, I commented to the safer woman sitting to the left of Karen how great the "kid" was as well as the rest of the "boys" in the band, and how I hoped they would be successful.

She, too, commented about how great the "kids" were and said that anyone of "those boys" could be her son who was somewhere in New Mexico pursuing his dream of being a musician. Taos, I think she said.

I later told my BFF how ironic it was that 37 years ago, these "boys" would have been hot musicians to us, and we wouldn't have needed any encouragement to get up and dance. (Hails bails, I would have gotten up on the table in my younger years, but at 55 years old, there's just something inherently icky about dancing in front of someone who's young enough to be your son.)

Somewhere along the way, I got old. But that's OK. I may not dance on the table, but 37 years later, I can look at those kids with a sense of school teacher pride, inwardly cheering them on. Yes, I am hoping they will be successful, but it will not be the success that defines them.

Those of us who have jumped over the 50 mile marker of our lives know the importance of pursuing dreams. It's not the outcome that defines us; it's the pursuit that changes us, and ultimately, defines our success in life.

Mini Vans, Mercedes & Leon Russell

It's hard to be cool toodling down the freeway in a blue minivan

…or down a windy road

…in even in a parking lot at an old folks home.

Let's face it, it's hard to be cool at anything when you're part of the over 50 set.

But even if I drove one of those nifty Z cars (a candy apple red one, of course), or  streaked my hair (perhaps purple or blue) or knew all the words to any song sung by the Black Eyed Peas,  (Tonight's Gonna Be A Good Night or Boom Boom Pow), whatever cool card I may or may not have had would have been unceremoniously snatched up and revoked last week.

Last Thursday, my BFF and former college roommate and I ventured out to see  Leon Russell  at the Granada Theater, a small venue in Dallas. Even though  none (as in zero) of my students knew who our beloved Leon was, even though only one co-worker and my principal knew who our beloved Leon was and even though no one at school could name a song or even hum a few bars of a Leon Russell song, my excitement was undeterred.

So what if Leon is 68 years old? As a member of the Leon Russell mailing list, this lack of Leon knowledge was a  travesty that ranked right up there with the entire Neil Young debacle from last year.

My friend Karen drove to the show. She drives a Mercedes (which makes her infinitely cooler than me). She doesn't teach (which makes her infinitely wealthier than me). She has a nice job that doesn't involve cooties, grades or rubber chickens (which probably makes her smarter than me).

Shortly after 7:30 p.m. we arrived in the parking lot in her cool, shiny Mercedes and started to pull into a space by the fence line where an elderly gentleman dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and double knee braces was standing alone. Although slightly balding, the man had hair like Leon and a beard like Leon.

"Oh, look there's Leon," my friend joked.

"Don't hit him," I said, "that would be bad."

Since the parking spot was too tight, she backed out and maneuvered into another space. While walking through the parking lot, we saw the elderly gentleman alone again.

"Oh look, there's Leon again," my friend teased.

"It can't be. Why would Leon be walking around here by himself in shorts?" I said remembering my image of Leon from the 70s with his signature suit and hat. "Do you think it's him?"

No, couldn't be, we decided.

For a brief moment, I thought about going up to him and talking to him, but I dismissed the idea. I suppose I didn't want to appear foolish since we had already dismissed him as a Leon Russell wanna-be. 

Instead, I did exactly what I tell my students never to do. I did nothing.

"Never be afraid to ask someone something," I always say.

"Never assume anything," I always tell them.

Several hours later, just before Leon was scheduled to take the stage, my friend leaned over and whispered, "I'm going to laugh if Leon comes out in a Hawaiian shirt."

 "No way," I said.

But he did.

Lesson learned.