It was summer of 2003, just after I had moved down from New Hampshire. I had finished spending my month with my dad, which was truly a bundle of laughs (please note any and all sarcasm). I met my future stepmother for the first time. Enough said.

Dad dropped me back at my grandparents’ house for the weekend before my sister came to get me that Monday to spend two weeks with her before I went to camp (yes, it was a very full summer). The weekend with my grandma was interesting, to say the least. She tried, and failed, to teach me how to sew yet again (I can sew just fine; I just never have the patience). My grandpa and I usually get along much better than my grandma and I, so he and I spent our evening watching baseball (booing for the Yankees, of course—he’s a Boston fan).

Monday arrived at last, and my sister came to pick me up to go and hang out with her. Two weeks of beaches, camping, and horses. Well, beaches and camping first. We went out to Cape Cod for the first week, and went into the fifty-seven degree water of Marconi Beach (I stayed in for about 2 hours, but maybe I’m just crazy…). That Wednesday, my sister’s boyfriend (now husband) came out to visit us for a couple days. Being the rich and powerful engineer he is, we went to Friendly’s. OK, so he’s not exactly rich and powerful. He’s pretty much just in the grunt work (even though the rich and powerful bit is not the lie, just a lie).

Finally, after a beautiful week at the beach (the tent wasn’t so nice, but you can’t have everything I suppose), we went back to my sister’s stable. No, she’s not a horse, she just lived on a horse farm for a couple years. And yes, the only place that was available for her was an old stable that had been redecorated into an apartment. I reconnected with one of my very good friends from when I was eight (she’d moved and come back…I guess she’s just drawn there), and we spent an excellent week riding horses (mine was a retired racehorse named Phantom) and swimming in the pool. It was quite nice.

The two weeks at an end, I returned to my grandparents’ house for one more weekend before camp, and afterwards, eighth grade (A.K.A. “the year from Hell”) started.