In a galaxy far away, long ago, I was a summer camp counselor.  Sponsored by the University of North Carolina-Greensboro, it was advertised as an All Arts and Sciences Camp.  Loosely implemented – it was run by and staffed by soccer players, the director played professionally and the assistant director collegiately.

Other than Disney World, I had little experience with the South. 

But I roll with it.  We end up in Greensboro and Wake Forest in Winston Salem.  It was so humid that my Bible’s pages were damp.  I pickup a Southern drawl while learning to say “dog” from my black friends as in “Who’s the man now, dog?”   My Irish supervisor teaches me to swear with one of the most profane combinations of words in the English language with an Irish accent.  When I stay with my friend in his small town, Denton, heads turn in a diner when I enter.

The camp is not run properly.  We smoke cigars, drink, and engage in other activities to relieve stress – I participate minimally (telling the truth).

But it was so much fun!  Southern girls are beautiful and I dance with a few.  I lead a group to an unexpected championship.  I teach biology to kids.  Make a lot of friends.  And by pure chance, run into the girl I lit the candles for at one site.

I ride Greyhound back to Maryland in the middle of the night.  And sing James Taylor’s Carolina in My Mind the rest of the summer.

To show their staff is diverse, I end up on the following year’s brochure’s front cover.