At Warren Buffett's annual shareholder meeting I received a priceless gift

It had nothing to do with investing

It’s funny the things we carry with us.

Some people collect pink flamingos, shot glasses from faraway places, or ticket stubs from decades of concert-going. Two of the things I carry with me are a soft spot for stale pretzels with bright yellow mustard and handicapped seating. 

This may be an odd start, but stick with me. 

The story of why they mean so much to me can serve as a powerful reminder of the things that matter most in life.

The backdrop for this priceless gift I received came courtesy of a trip to the “Woodstock of Capitalism” – legendary investor Warren Buffett’s annual shareholder’s meeting in Ohama, Nebraska. 

For as long as I can remember, both my dad and I have shared a deep admiration for Warren Buffett. Every year, we would read The Berkshire Hathaway annual shareholder report from cover to cover. In his chairman’s letter, Warren invites all of his shareholders to attend the meeting. And on a spring day in 2015, a thought hit me.

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“Hey, Dad, what are you doing in early May?”

"You know how Warren Buffet invites us to go to his annual shareholder meeting in Omaha every year? I was thinking it’s time for us to take him up on his offer.”

In his typical up-for-anything fashion, Dad responded, “I’ll start packing now.”

We were both Buffett groupies. So what if we only owned five shares of Berkshire Hathaway? We had a right to be there.  We wanted to see Warren and his investing partner for over 50 years, Charlie Munger, pop open cans of Coke and snack on boxes of Sees Candy as they waxed on about their investing philosophy and the endless potential of the American dream.

Why not fly halfway across the country with my 82-year-old dad to attend Warren Buffett’s annual shareholder meeting in Omaha, Nebraska? Who wouldn’t want to rub elbows with 50,000 fellow Buffettophiles?

What I didn’t know at the time, my dad was really sick.  

Sure, I knew he wasn’t 100%.  He was, after all, over 80. 

What I didn’t know was:

He would wake up in the dark of the night and play FreeCell on his computer for hours before he could get back to sleep. 

He needed monthly blood transfusions to keep his iron from getting dangerously low. 

And, every day, his body was failing him.

How could I know?  He always had a smile on his face. Whether he was cheering from the front row at the grandkids’ football and soccer games or sneaking a french fry off my plate, he was happy, strong, and, as far as I knew, was going to live forever. 

So, I made the plane reservations, and two months later, we were on our way to Nebraska. 

We played FreeCell on his computer and got extra snacks from the flight attendant when she heard we were on a father-daughter adventure.

We checked into our hotel just over the Missouri River at the Hampton Inn and Suites. The big meeting was the next day. 

Finding seats in the Convention Center the next day required some “creativity”

Doors opened at 7:00 am. Dad and I got in line at 6:30 am. We skipped breakfast because we figured we would get ahead of the crowds and find a seat early. 

We thought we had gamed the system by arriving two hours before the event started.

Not. So. Much. The line of people snaking out of the entrance of the convention center seemed endless. 

Once we finally got into the building, the bobbing and weaving began. Dad would eye two seats over to the left. I would hustle ahead to grab them. Damn. Not fast enough. 

Disappointed but not discouraged, he’d point to another spot. Another sprint and a miss. After five of these failures, I was starting to question this whole thing. 

Then the clouds cleared, the sun came out, and the angels started to sing.

The handicapped seats.

Now you need to know my dad was by no means handicapped. 

While he didn’t move as fast as he used to, he moved on his own. And he was proud of his mobility. 

I was going to have to convince the “guard of the handicapped seats” that my dad needed the spot.  It required some quick thinking on my part. 

“Dad,” I whispered, hoping no one would hear our devious plot, “Can you pretend your old?  I mean, like, really old? Like leaning over and walking really slowly, kind of old? Like you need a cane but clearly forgot it at home due to your failing memory kind of old?”

It was hilarious. His performance was a mix between Charlie Chaplin and the hunchback of Notre Dame. Not pretty, but effective. While he didn’t win an Oscar, he did win a seat.  And I got to sit on the stair next to him. Sure, it was a fire hazard, but the guard made the right judgment call.  He even took a picture of the two of us with those guilty grins on our faces.

With my dad seated safely next to another diehard Buffett fan, I went off to get us something to eat.  Stale pretzels and bright yellow mustard. The breakfast of champions!

At 8:45 on the dot, as my butt began to lose feeling and my dad’s back magically appeared straight, the event began.  First, we watched the requisite corporate video with the dramatic soundtrack. Then Warren and Charlie Munger took to the stage and answered hundreds of questions.

Two hours in, the questions started getting too complex for us casual investors.

It was time to visit the expo show floor. Capitalism at its finest. The tradeshow floor felt like it was four football fields long and was filled with booths from every one of Berkshire’s investments. From Apple and Benjamin Moore to Wayne Water Systems and the Worldbook, every BH investment had something to say or sell. 

And we wanted to see and hear it all. We talked to all of the enthusiastic booth representatives. Played with the BNSF trainset. Bought my mom a pair of gold earrings. Shared a Dilly bar from GQ. 

It was an incredible weekend, and we were exhausted when Mom picked us up at Logan Airport. We told her everything about the trip until we fell asleep from exhaustion.

Mom didn’t like the earrings, but that was okay. I got to keep them.

That time with Dad is one of my most cherished memories. 

It would be the last time we hit the road together as he passed away one year to the day of our trip.

I didn’t realize it at the time. Today, however, eight years later (on what would have been his 91st birthday), I made the connection. I’m grateful to my Dad for so many things. His kindness. His patience. His curiosity. His love. But when I think about that weekend,  there’s one other thing I’m most grateful for – and that is his courage. 

He was not in good shape the day I called with our plan to make our way to Buffett’s annual shareholder meeting and not in any better shape when we landed in Omaha.

If he had not masked his illness, I would never have had the nerve to take him on this trip. 

I would have never made the phone call.  Booked the reservations. Or had the chance to grab his hand for security when we hit turbulence on the flight. 

I think he knew it all along. 

There wouldn’t be a lot more opportunities. His road warrior days were coming to an end.

These are the moments and memories that stick with us when we lay in bed at night. 

Moments when we say to hell with it. 

Moments when we say we may never get a chance to do something we always wanted to do. 

Moments when we say what was I thinking and then feel grateful for the lapse in judgment.

If you’d been in attendance at that event, you’d probably peg us as just another Charlie Chaplin with a back that could pass for the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a woman who snuck into the event complaining of a sore butt.

But we weren’t just two people. 

We were a father and daughter, enjoying being with each other because we shared a love for two things - the inner workings of capitalism and, more importantly, each other.

You never know who you’re sitting next to.

What that day means to them. 

What the person beside them means to them. 

I’ll never forget that adventure.

I’ll always carry it with me. 

I cherish the picture the security guard took of us at our moment of triumph when we found a place to sit.

I’ve come to love the taste of stale pretzels with mustard.

And I will never look at the handicapped seats in the same way ever again.