When I was a kid I did not go to camp. Several friends went to Camp Corleone (maybe I’m remembering the name wrong) somewhere in New Jersey. I never went was because my father reasoned that he had children because he wanted them and he liked being around them, so why send them away? These wise thoughts came from a man who used to chase my brother and I out of the house every Saturday so he could get some peace and quiet in the form of a nap on the sofa. Every Saturday.

My dad was a very hard worker back then, so I guess he deserved his rest just one day a week, but for some reason my brother and I thought it was our duty to keep him conscious in the same way you don’t want to let a person with a concussion fall asleep. We didn’t do anything constructive; we fought, bit one another, batted softballs through windows, climbed up trees and made interesting shapes out of mud.

What is the purpose of camp? Ultimately it’s to get the kids out of your hair so you and your wife can have endless hours of sex. That’s the husband’s vision anyway. I can’t speak for my wife because I’ve been married 28 years and I don’t know her well enough.

My point is that camp doesn’t live up to its potential. In an army camp men and women learn how to become soldiers. They are graduated with skills. They can blow stuff up, throw a hand grenade, shine their boots, follow orders and protect our country from bad guys. What’s a kid at camp come away with? He learns how to steal a girl’s underwear, run it up a flagpole then laugh until his milkshake spews out of his nose. At the end of the six-week session he comes home with stories about poison ivy and Oscar the camp counselor who swam naked with Brittany the camp counselor while sixty pre-pubescent boys watched from the woods taking bets on God-knows-what.

I think summer camp should turn out skilled professionals. You go in as a 12-year-old with an overbite and you come out a mean, lean, cleaning machine. In my ideal world of camp, your little Skippy, Scooter or Biff comes home and the first thing he asks is “How may I serve you, Mom?” Then when you get home he mows the lawn, cleans his room, paints the house, repairs the broken thingy in the den, polishes the dog, does the shopping, vacuums the carpets and pays the bills. He starts an online enterprise that goes into a pension that his parents can retire on by the age of 52. And he does it all with a smile and a wink.

Certainly a kid can learn these things in six weeks, right? I say kickball and panty raids can wait until you join the Lion’s Club at age 35. But when you’re a budding youngster, it’s your duty to take over the house in a responsible fashion as your father drools himself to sleep on a Saturday afternoon while his wife is out buying something from some store that’s bound to break down some day and some kid — your kid — could possibly repair if properly trained.

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