those were the best days of my life

A year earlier, it had started with a "swirlie." Not one of my finer moments.

I was happy to leave for Northern Ireland. My parents had not yet received my college report card, thus were unaware that I had failed my first class. For that matter, I had never received lower than a C+ (and had been grounded on those rare occurrences). I pushed aside my impending doom, setting out to climb hills, drink tea, and play soccer (poorly) with the locals. This trip marked flannel's last hurrah:

I returned to receive a painful, but surprisingly short-lived reprimand -- my dad didn't talk to me for five days after his initial wrath. Besides, it was summer camp season and we didn't need to dwell on my spring failures. For the fifth straight summer, I would counsel kids entering 4th-8th grade. That was, before I received the call.

My camp director (Ken) delicately exercised the accusation. He couldn't imagine two of his veterans would be stupid enough to give a 14-year-old a swirlie. He didn't know me well. I was entirely stupid enough. The kid himself had no issues with the act -- we had lowered him into the recently cleaned bowl after he made a derogatory comment about a female camper. A year later, he was laughing about the punishment to his family and was hoping I would be his counselor again. His grandmother was not amused.

Ken didn't want to fire me, but couldn't justify doing nothing, what with lawsuits becoming popular and whatnot. I told him not to sweat it and to find someone else; I could find more hours at the grocery store.

Little did I know, my hours were spoken for. Anticipating my absence, the head manager at Woodies Supermarket had hired a replacement. My immediate supervisor (Deron) had begun a Prodigal Son's tour of the retail industry, and I was without an advocate. I called Deron on the phone, and he told me I could unload truck at the Save-A-Lot which now employed him, a run of the mill discount store of Aldi-like renown and clientele. 5am was punch-in time. Wonderful.

My absence at camp left its mark, but allegedly a new counselor named "Bob" had taken my place. For the remainder of the summer, Bob heard my name; I read his through various camper snail-mail. Didn't know if I cared for this Bob. Nobody likes to feel adequately replaceable.

In the meantime, I spent the early summer driving at 4:30 in the morning to Semisonic, Eagle Eye Cherry, and Everlast. Closing time was my opening time. It didn't prevent me from staying up until the wee hours playing NHL '99 with Brett and Gene. Before cell phones and online gaming, young men found more productive ways to pass the daytime hours:

I was told that Backstreet was back. We sang in agreement. I didn't mind that Anakin couldn't act, because I was in love with the girl playing Padme Amidala. 4th of July fireworks couldn't be spoiled by chiggers, and Deron was about to make a drunken return home to Woodies. Yes, an honest, drunken confrontation works in places other than the movies.

My phone rang again halfway through the summer. The Teen Camp director had received clearance from Ken to hire me if he'd like. God must of been orchestrating something, because grace had been a previously foreign substance. He asked me to arrange the bus driver schedule (I knew there was a catch), and I showed up in early August to spend time with these cats:

I spoke of this crew previously, so I won't overstate the point. Suffice it to say, the unexpected changed my life.

On the last day of camp, I was asked if I would like to drive 14 hours to work a camp in Pennsylvania. What else did I have going?

[Who rode shotgun with me? Bob. We've been cordial ever since.]

That was the summer of '99.