Rick Nelson and Claude Peck dispense unasked-for advice about clothing, etiquette, culture, relationships, grooming and more.
CP: I forget: Did you ever attend summer camp?
RN: Yes. Lutheran Bible camp. What a dump. Until then, my entire idea of sleep-away camp had been informed by the sumptuous Camp Inch in the Hayley Mills version of “The Parent Trap.” The Lutherans so didn’t live up to Disney. You?
CP: Twice. The first time I was shipped to a YMCA camp somewhere piney. That one was “general interest,” as in swimming, boats, lanyard-making, hoarded candy bars, poison ivy, handwritten letters home and the odd bed-wetter (not me).
RN: In college, I was a counselor at a YMCA camp, and one unfortunate boy in my charge was referred to as “the Faucet” by his fellow campers. Nice.
CP: The other four-week sleep-away session I attended was a gymnastics camp that was “Lord of the Flies” meets “Friday the 13th,” when all I wanted was “Moonrise Kingdom.” I think I was told, “your choice — this camp or military academy.”
RN: Four weeks? That’s a lifetime to a 12-year-old. Rate your homesickness level on a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being “Mom and Dad who?” and 10 being hitchhiking back to Winnetka.
CP: I liked being away from home, even if I hated camp. There was a free-range German shepherd that was trained to nip anyone who ran when we were supposed to walk. The jerk in charge must’ve been kicked out of the Navy SEALs.
RN: Counselor Killjoy, eh? There’s always one Type A type at summer camp.