You Should Have Been Here Yesterday

My Best Encounter With a Cute Boy

On Saturday morning, March 4, 1967, my mom, Joey, Mick, and I buckled into our seat-belts for the four hour drive to my grandparents' house.

        So instead of telling you about the boring, long-ass car ride, I'll tell you about the house because I love it so much:

        My grandparents have lived there for as long as I can remember.  Every spring we go up there.  It's in New Hampshire, positioned on this lake called Sunapee.  It's a little cozy place that's white on the outside, with a giant porch out back with a perfect view of the lake.  It's got a dock only a little bit off the property line, but it's not like the neighbors care that we use it–all the houses are so far apart.  The front of the house has this huge lawn, perfect for playing catch with... With my grandpa.  In fact, my dad taught me how to play football there, when I was just seven.  But... he can't really do that anymore... Enough about my past, though.  The lake is surrounded with giant rocks, positioned sporadically.  One of the main reasons Mick and Joey like to come so much is because the people a few houses down are a group of college girls that come up the same weekend we do.  They come up looking for a tan–everywhere, mind you–whereas we just wanna have a good time and not be spied on by creepy teenage boys...

        "Are we almost there?" Mick asked, again shoving Joey off of him in the backseat.  Joey's head flopped towards the window, his mouth agape and snoring loudly.

        I looked out the window at the passing trees lining the curving road, serving as a kind of solid wall between the road and the woods.  "Yeah," I said.  "Ten minutes."

        And twelve minutes later, we were pulling into the driveway, waving to my grandma, who was pruning her plants.

        "Ginny!" she exclaimed once we got out of the car.  Mick fell out the backseat dramatically, kissing the ground while Joey shoved him out of his way.  "And Mick and Joey!" she added, putting the right name to the wrong face.

        Now I may not like Jennifer, Jenny, or Jen, but Ginny is just fine to me.

     "Joey, Mick," Mick said, correcting her.  She laughed, delighted to see my mom, my friends, and me.

        We dragged our bags for the week inside, tossing them into the guest rooms.  My mom had her own room, I had guest room número uno, and Mick and Joey shared the second one (I'll let them duke it out over who sleeps on the floor...).

        The nice thing about up here is that we–Mick, Joey and I–can do whatever the hell we want.  It's my mom's weekend to relax, and she's usually busy with my grandparents, so as long as we say we're not doing anything bad, they believe us and we go do whatever.  It's great!

        Usually we just do what we would normally do at home: go to shows on Fridays and smoke some weed–Mick brought plenty.

        And if we run out?  No big deal!  There's this house a little ways around the lake with a field next to it, and right by the telephone wires, whoever lives there plants the stuff!  We found it last summer (sometimes we come up here more than once) when we were walking back late from a show.  We don't take a whole lot; we don't want whoever lives there to know we know about it.

        As it was now lunchtime, my mom was already talking with my grandma in the kitchen, while my grandpa was out hunting for charcoal in town for the grill, so the three of us decided to go into town too.

        My grandpa just so happens to keep an old Vespa Mo-Ped in the garage.  It just so happens that it's a passenger scooter.  And if it can fit two people, then it can sure as hell fit three.