By Alan B. Combs

The recent high school reunion has shaken a lot of cobwebs loose. I thank Don Drinnon for reminding me of this tale. I will not vouch for its authenticity, however.

Every small town has one, and although I never grew up in a large town, I imagine they are no different. I am talking about a house of evening entertainments, a house where there are more red lights than usual. Whether or not such a house actually exists, it is ill-reputed to do so. My high school’s home town was no different. The peculiar establishment in this case was said to be near Yosemite Junction, about twenty miles or so out of town.

Imagine if you will a car full of adventurous youths, rising sons, if you will, driving to check out to see if Nirvana might actually exist at The House Near Yosemite Junction. The driving instructions were quite explicit and, sure enough, there was the dirt road off the highway in just the right location.

However, a locked gate was found blocking the road, and on that gate was the fatal sign:

CLOSED!
Beat it!