Looking back, maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to swap vomit stories with James.

Our youngest son was feeling lousy and recounting how rarely he’d regurgitated in his 26 years.

Ah, but not me. I turned it into an unwinnable contest: “I threw up every day of my three pregnancies. That’s 27 months.”

Sorry, James.

In less than a week, he would be onstage at the University of Southern Indiana, playing guitar in the Lucas Washington band, opening for The Driver Era.

So hopefully it was “just” a bad case of nerves. Stage fright. The jitters.

Again, my method of comfort was to launch into a story: “When I was in the musical my senior year of high school, I was nauseated that entire last week. Until I walked into the dressing room on opening night: Butterflies left, hunger hit. I called out to the female portion of our cast, asking if anyone had a snack to share. One person ran over with an open bag of highly aromatic Doritos.”

Sorry, James.

By the next day, we knew the poor guy was working through a case of norovirus. He ordered a supply of bananas, rice, applesauce, and bread for toast, following the prescribed BRAT diet. Girlfriend Joanna sent him a variety of soups.

“That chicken soup hit the spot,” James texted me. That phrase reminded me of Mom.

Just to show that old dogs can learn new tricks, I refrained from telling James about his great-grandmother‘s experience with chicken soup. She made a batch three different times for sick friends – and they all died soon after.

By Friday, norovirus turned into no-mo-virus (sorry, James – I sat on that one till you were feeling better!). James hit the road for the 3.5 hour drive to our house.

Of course, Gary dashed to the store:

James took it easy on Saturday until it was time to head to Evansville for load-in at 3pm and audio check at 3:30.

What did Gary and I do? We went shopping for books.

At 6pm the gates opened and we found our seats. It suddenly occured to me that I was probably the oldest person there. Then I remembered Gary is my elder by three years.

Sorry, Gar.

Cam, John and Aubrie joined us. Our stadium seats were far from the stage, but we could see and hear quite well.

My photos aren’t great, though.

Sorry, James.

As the band came on stage, I held my breath. Would adrenaline get James through the set?

That’s our James, second from left. He’s wearing what I now know is called a beanie, not a thug hat. He told me later he’d stashed a small trash can near him on stage, just in case.

All seemed to be going well until the beanie slipped down a bit. James pushed it back. Then it slipped again. Lower this time, threatening to cover his eyes.

With a flourish worthy of a Shakespearean actor, James quickly whipped off the beanie and flung it to the floor. The crowd roared its approval. His mom nearly cried.

Suddenly, there was our James again, putting his all into each note.

The head-banging* commenced.

*I may have mentioned before that James started head-banging at a very young age. Here he is with his oldest brother, with Metallica blasting on the stereo:

It was impossible not to smile watching James perform. His energy came back with a vengeance.

He even sang a bit (click on video to start):

Their eighth and final number was an original composition. James and Lucas collaborated on it – I’ll wait till they have their video edited and will post it later.

Old geezer that I may be, methinks it’s well-deserved praise to tell James, “You were sick, man!”

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