Don't Knock Over the Warhol

The wind was up high in the early morning, tearing around the four corners of the house. One of my favorite things to hear around this time of year. Spring is coming.

I wasn’t sure my two-and-a-half year-old would sit through chapel that morning. Every Friday Puck’s school meets for about twenty minutes in the sanctuary together, and that morning’s focus was “Spanish”. So I figured I’d give it a try.

He squirmed around until the music started. Then suddenly he was riveted and began trying to sing along with the Spanish words on the screen, applauding afterwards. Sometimes I wonder how much he really remembers of those days under the equator “so long ago”.

The afternoon was fine. More wind, more sun. Three kids heckling each other good-naturedly on the playground. A few ten-second temper tantrums from Yali to round things out.

It’s not often I find myself driving out at night to attend some event alone. So I felt about 25 pounds lighter as I arrived at a small art gallery for the headmaster and his wife’s welcoming party at about 6:30 that evening. No Yali attached to my hip.

I haven’t generally been a klutz myself going through life. However I think there’s just something about being in a small room stacked with paintings – paintings where you have to ask for the price – that makes me feel a little more clumsy than usual… I kept my distance from most of them. Although the Native-American-Cowboy room was a little more tempting to get up close and personal.

Back downstairs amongst modern art and mini quiches, it was starting to get pretty warm. I returned upstairs where Julia-Agnes and a few other moms were talking science with an engineer dad.

A few minutes later, one of the other moms came up the stairs. “Guys! I just knocked over a painting!” she said. “With my purse!”

I think everyone took one more step away from the walls.

“Well I just ran into one with my foot,” said one of the girls.

This may or may not have inspired me to leave earlier than necessary. I enjoy looking at paintings just as much as the next guy. But the last thing I need is accidentally putting a hole through a $100,000 Andy Warhol cat, true klutz or not.