Lollapalooza, Mrs. Lindbergh and me

It is not known exactly what Evangeline Lodge Lindbergh did with herself during the 33 hours that her son Charles was airborne in the Spirit of St. Louis and out of radio contact over the North Atlantic.

Here is what I did over the weekend to tamp down the layers of my anxiety over Lollapalooza, to which my daughter and all her friends had tickets, for all four days:

Watched four documentaries on Friday night, while drinking: one about Nina Simone, one about Loudon Wainwright III, one about a minor league baseball team and one other that I can’t remember.

Stayed up long enough to receive my daughter and her friend from Lollapalooza. I made them eggs at 1:30 a.m. because if you don’t have the courage to shatter the earth by forbidding your child to go, at least you can be a good sport when she does.

Saturday: Brunch, solo with a book.

Bought a pipe that I’m planning to hold, unsmoked, between my teeth, until I stop needing the false sense of competence and control.

Rode my motorcycle, in the sun.

Reorganized the “motorcycle bay” in my garage, arranging everything just so: helmets, jackets, gloves, goggles, saddle bags, bungee cords, tie-downs, oil and filters, air compressor, tools.

Nap.

Watered the lawn and garden while talking on the phone to a pal who has bigger worries than me.

Watched the Nina Simone documentary again, this time with my wife.

Sunday: Read The New York Times while watching CBS’ “Sunday Morning.”

Played baseball for three hours. Drank beer for three more.

Nap.

Watched The Conversation, about a man who had bigger worries than me.

Watched a 1977 NFL football game on YouTube, waiting for my daughter to cross the threshold. “It might be a little more than an hour i’m sorry,” she texted at 10:40. “We are hurrying.” Take your time, kid, because you’re never leaving the house again.

“I am grateful,” Mrs. Lindbergh said upon learning her son had safely landed in Paris. “There is no use attempting to find words to express my happiness.”