Bonnie would have been our drummer even if she didn’t have the shed. The girl laid down a solid beat. Despite her cute young “earth mother” body, she was “one of the guys”, able to dish it out and take it during our frequent screaming matches. Her round face would get red under her long black hair. Her ample tits would bounce as she put her hands on hips, spread her sexy legs and stood her ground. At that time we were grabbing any work we could scrounge up but we dreamed of chart topping hits and worldwide tours while we fought to find our sound.

I had written a song the previous night and was excited about it. Some songs take a lot of work. This one seemed like a gift from the music gods. I was so eager to play it for someone that I decided to pop by the shed two hours before we’d planned to rehearse. In my creative glow, it never even occurred to me that Bonnie might have other plans for the early afternoon. If I’d thought of it all, I would have called to let her know I was dropping by. Then again, had I called I would have missed out on an incredible experience.

The shed was a relic from the late 1950s. Bonnie’s grandfather had started building a fallout shelter not too far from their farmhouse. As Bonnie tells it, he ran into some financial troubles and never completed it. Bonnie’s father and a few friends took the half-completed shelter and turned it into the shed when they were in their teens. It was a strange structure. Over half of it was underground. The shed windows were like skylights and you had to walk downstairs from the door. But, it had electricity, running water, plenty of space, furniture and a good deal of natural soundproofing.