“A few of y’all said a flower. How about a rose?” he asks.
A group of moms in the back on a blanket together cheer, with their kids joining in.
“Maybe not what you’re thinkin,’ but it’ll make Smalls very happy.”
I pull two stools from the side of the stage and make a dramatic show of having him kneel and remove his cap before I crown him with his own cowboy hat. He pops his Braves cap on me when I hand him the guitar he tuned for this.
“It’s time, Moose,” I say into the mic.
He nods solemnly. “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”
I lift my chin up to him. “Yeah, it does.”
It’s probably all the moms, but there’s a lot of screaming as he begins soft and low. I’ve known this song since I was a toddler, and we sing it together often. It’s smooth where it should be and rough where it hurts.
How is this my life?
I got through a lot of thorns to be here. My eyes are misty, and Sam bear-hugs me right in the middle of the stage, knocking our hats off when we finish. It’s not as good as the twelve-string version, but I’ll always remember this.
“That was perfect, y’all!” I yell to the crowd, not believing how many sang along.
“All right, let’s start this party.” Sam retrieves his phone from his pocket. “Y’all have been busy! Let’s see here. You want songs about home and … water?” He looks at the kids in the front row with a silly face. “Then good vibes and family. All right, you got all that, Lu Lu?”
I flash a hang loose sign and grab a couple of waters while he talks about some upcoming events. He’s busy, and I think that’s the real reason he struggles with writing papers. I make a mental note to look at his schedule again.
“Come on, Lu Lu, let’s show ’em how much you love country music.”
“Sorry, y’all. I really don’t.” I shrug at the crowd.
“Okay, we’ll compromise.”
We do a Bon Jovi rock and country crossover, then he runs through a medley of one fast-paced country song after another before settling into an old hymn that sounds suspiciously like bluegrass. I keep his water and towel handy but mostly stay behind him. Somehow, I know every song he plays, so I know when to pop in and when to get off the tracks, because he’s a freight train when he gets going like this.
He finally comes up for air and moves to the keyboard to play “Drift Away” and part of a Crowder song we like. Thekids indulge us, dancing around to our favorite “Girl From Tennessee,” and somehow, he aligns all our favorites with random words from the request comments.
Sam’s eyes shift to Carla on the side of the stage. She’s holding his phone, while he’s been using mine for requests. He pulls away from the mic and tells her, “Go live on this one.”
What? No!
Dang it.
Breathe.
“@LJ.baby_brooks wants to hear family songs. I do have the best family. And what Baby Girl wants, Baby Girl gets. Here ya go, Glow Worm.”
He’s creating a monster, giving my little sister so much attention. The poor child may never recover, but I can’t help the grin spreading over my face. My Moose knows how to work a crowd.
I hand him a guitar, and we sing “Liza Jane,” followed by a little bit of “Layla,” and then he moves back to the keyboard. He gets some water and attempts to play some of “Levon.”
“I’ll have to work on that one. Maybe next time. Are y’all havin’ fun?”
The kids all scream, and I can’t believe they’re still here. I feel like he’s played a hundred songs, but since he hasn’t played most of them all the way through, it’s only been a little over an hour.
“Oh, hang on a second, y’all. Squirrel, tell them how much you love me.”
I laugh and shake my head as he runs over to Carla and checks his phone. I guess I don’t need to know what he’s up to, but we’re live. And just like radio, the greatest commandment isThou shalt not allow dead air.
I grab a guitar and lower a mic so I can sit on the edge of the lowest riser, gently strumming chords to an easier Needtobreathe song while Sam’s doing … whatever he’s doing. Ifeel like a five-year-old, since his acoustic is so much bigger than my guitar at home.
