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- …”
