I’m spending the next couple of days at my parents’ house. Last night was digging through old pictures. Came across this one …

I’m the dork in the front row, second from the right. I actually remember that shirt, because it was Star Wars, which I loved. But I’m not here to talk about 6-year-old Jeffie.

I’m here to talk about Skip.

Skip was my counselor. The big guy in the middle. I don’t remember too much about Skip, save for his long brown hair and “Groovy, maaaaan …” genre of speak. At the time, I probably could care less. Take me to the boats, hook me up with a basketball court—I’m good. However now, as a parent, I can only imagine what that first day of drop-off was like.

Mom: “Hello, I’m Joan Pearlman. This is my husband, Stanley. And this here is Jeffrey—he’s in your group.”

Skip: “Righteous.”

Mom: “Uh, yeah, soooo, he’s allergic to penicillin …”

Skip: “Yups. Penicillin.”

Mom: “And he still wets his underwear, so he needs to …”

Skip: “Wait! Hold still …”

Mandi (screaming from aside): “Skip!”

Skip: “Mandi!”

Mandi: “Skip!”

Skip: “Mandi!”

Mandi: “I’ve got some crazy shrooms in my …”

Skip: “Mandi, I’m talking to John’s mother here …”

Mom: “Skip, his name is Jeffrey …”

Skip: “Right.”

Mom: “Skip, Jeffrey needs to be brought to the bathroom eve- …”