The summer I was fourteen and had just made some new friends in New York, my mother packed us into the car, and drove us to the least populated part of New Hampshire.
We were only supposed to vacation there for July and August, but we wound up living there two and a half years.
In addition to losing my newly acquired friends, I was also torn away from rock and roll; even the radio air waves shrugged their shoulders and decided our farm was just too remote.
But when we got in the car, if the weather and the road elevation cooperated, we could sort out two different stations on the radio.
One perfect day, when the sun was shining, THAT SONG came on, loud and clear, and for a moment everything felt perfect until suddenly, the road shifted down, static started nipping at the edges of the song, and I reached the precise point in time where I had taken all that I could take of living in Nowhere, New Hampshire, so I tilted my head back and screamed: "Oh my God, Mom, stop the car!
Please Mom, please, will you just PULL OVER?"
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