Hippie House Read Free Page B

you to do that. It just seems to me like you’re gathering a lot of hangers-on.”
    â€œDad, it’s not your problem.”
    My father thought for a moment, but he didn’t reply. Clearly, Eric was not denying that it was a problem—it just didn’t belong to Dad. He would give Eric time to deal with it in his own way.
    So it was decided that The Rectifiers and their friends and all their acquaintances would have to park along the county road next to the woods. Never mind that the cars risked being pelted by gravel and dust. That was the price my father attached to his hospitality.
    This made far more sense, anyway, because the walk from the main road to the Hippie House was short. Eric’s friends could come and go and, with the exception of the noise level, we wouldn’t even know they were there.
    Tired of tanning, anxious for the last few days of summer to be over, Megan and I sat on the steps of the stone porch, leafing through the Eatons catalog, choosing winter coats and boots. We both adored a three-quarter-length suede jacket with zip-out lining. It came in tan, chocolate and, my favorite, dusty rose.
    As we turned the pages of the cataloge we noticed that the sounds drifting through the woods from the direction of the Hippie House were becoming fragmented. Disjointed. A frenzied drumroll, an incomplete guitar riff, the wheeze of the harmonica suddenly cut short, and Malcolm’s voice, too determined in its imitation of Jim Morrison, start and stall. All of this was nearly drowned by the hum and shouts of a crowd independent of the band.
    Curious, Megan and I wandered down toward the Hippie House. As we drew closer, we could hear outbursts between the scraps of music. Malcolm was accusing Miles of playing so loudly that he was drowning out his voice.
    â€œWell, listen to you! Marvin Gaye does not begin ‘Grapevine’ like he’s being castrated. Can’t you just sing the song and shut up!”
    This prompted Malcolm to loudly and explicitly suggest what Miles could do with his drumsticks.
    Now within sight of the Hippie House, it occurred to Megan and me that we recognized few of the bodies looming in the doorway and leaning against my father’s shed. It frightened us that the strange men playing a strange game—throwing knives at each other’s feet—did not ignore us as we were used to being ignored by the members of the band.
    But they were not like the members of the band. Their hair was not long like my brother’s, but short and slick. They wore black pants and black boots when everyone else wore cutoff jeans and leather thongs.
    When they grinned and asked us to cross the creek, Megan and I made every excuse not to stay.
    Eric began to arrive at the farmhouse in a bad mood, lock himself in his room and wail on his guitar, often while the party continued down at the Hippie House. He had not found a way to deal with the hangers-on.
    ON LABOR DAY , my father shut it down. The Hippie House was, from that day forward, off-limits to anyone with the exception of the original band.
    The following day I started grade nine in a newly renovated school. It was a sprawling, state-of-the-art school built to serve a small town and a large farming community. Fifteen school buses waited along the maple-shaded street when school dismissed at three o’clock. I was amazed that any school, but particularly my school, would have a theater with padded seats, two gymnasiums, a band room, carpentry and automotive shops, and, most impressive to me, a sewing room with all Bernina machines. Strolling through the wide halls with my friends, I felt that I had been promoted—that I was a part of something very big. By the end of the second week I had joined the badminton club and volunteered to sew costumes for the drama department’s production of
Oliver
! that year.
    My circle of friends widened as I began to socialize with people not just because we found