I was nineteen and staying in a cabin near friends of my parents, not close friends, and, thus, not close friends of mine. They picked me up at the bus depot, welcomed me warmly, and left me alone the entire week. Brought me food and water. I was in Canada, miles away from anyone I knew. Night and day, it rained torrents. There were a few books, a couple of Readers Digest Condensed. These friends of my parents were not what I expected. The visit could not have been called a vacation, more like some kind of weird punishment for something I had never done. Except that with the food, they brought me tapes of Liona Boyd, the exquisite Canadian guitarist. I am listening to her now.
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