I just finished playing with Luke at a Colorado Springs Farmer’s Market.

It was set up in a parking lot behind a library that overlooked the mountains. Right across from our little music tent was a woman named Brenda selling some tamales and to my right was a lady selling pretty wild flowers in recycled glass jars. There were probably three trucks set up with owners selling fresh farm produce. Jeff bought one juicy peach and ate it right in front of me in the middle of my set. I was sad that he didn’t share. It got worse when ripe peach juice dripped down his chin and he wiped it off with a sticky hand and a big smile.

Then my mom called me during one of our intermissions. She asked what I was doing and I told her I was playing music at a Farmer’s Market “just for fun.” She was quiet on the phone for a little while and then just said “MmmmHmmm. . . So you’re not getting paid? I thought you started at least making a little money at these gigs of yours?”

“N o o o o. . . mom. Sometimes I just play because I love music.”

“O o o o h h h. . . ”

“Stop being so critical. Your tone is critical. I’m having a great time and lots of friends are here. I don’t need to make money every time I do music.”

“O o o o h h h . . . ”

“Look, I’ve gotta go.”

“MmmmHmmm . . . Well, at least call your grandparents. They never hear from you.”

Click. I love my mom.

We finished out the set and I was pretty excited about some new plucking I tried out on the Titanic song. Then I bought 6 pork tamales from Brenda, packed up and came home.

(Mom, if you’re reading, I want you to know that Luke sold 2-3 CD’s. One might have been stolen, but we’re not sure.)

I bought a beautiful skirt from a store in Chicago for about $60 on St. Patrick’s Day. It’s long with patches of green, gray, and turquoise (think flower power) and has been sitting in my closet unworn for months. I was waiting for the perfect occasion and didn’t feel like my normal work week merited the debut of such a piece. It’s the kind of skirt that you’re supposed to wear without shoes, on a balmy evening in a place where picnic baskets litter the grass.

Last night was the perfect night for it. Patty Griffin was playing at the Denver Botanical Gardens.

She has been described as a “songwriters’ songwriter” and is able to claim that the likes of Dave Matthews consider themselves her fans. Hearing her play in the middle of rose gardens and underneath perfect trees with thousands of little glittering white lights made me understand why the best of the best consider her an icon. As she sang “Burgundy Shoes,” I felt the same sort of tingling feeling that Elvis’s first fans might have experienced when he was still undiscovered. I kept picturing myself at the prison where Johnny Cash played, being as enthralled as those inmates were to hear such honest words.

Patty is tiny, too. Even with 4 inch red heels, she was dwarfed by the rest of her band. Her hair was purple/red and she wore it wild. And she has the most beautiful old face. Some just starting and other deep wrinkles highlight her frowns and smiles and prove that her songs were inspired by her own hard experiences.

And it seems that hard experiences are what she writes about most. Patty Griffin’s lyrics feel sad and the music that serves as a backdrop is haunting. Her songs are exposing and sung with a rich old voice that seems out of place coming from such a pixie.

It was one of the best shows I’ve seen all summer.

I spent 30 minutes before the show walking through the gardens and spun around at least twice in my new skirt. (I almost didn’t wear it! I walked out of my house in cut-off shorts and a tank top and decided at the last minute that Patty Griffin was reason enough to break out the new duds.)