In my holiday pictures, fathers wear hunting shirts and mothers, pantsuits—while children are dolled up in formal clothes. Sara’s people are the opposite. Her parents are dressed up in dark suits. Sara and her sister are in hippie dresses; the three little brothers sport blue jeans and disheveled mops of long hair.

“What does your father do?” I ask.

“My parents are both college professors.”

I ignore my little gaffe. “So that’s where you get it.”

“What?”

“You talk like a pro-fes-sor.”

“Sorry about that.” She doesn’t sound at all sorry. “I do like to talk. A whole lot. It’s my specialty. I know it might be hard for you to get a word in edgewise. Just hit me or something. I am trainable.”

“Okay. I will. Ne-ver fear.”

*   *   *

“It’s time to play—Let’s Make a Deal!” In the lodge after supper, a boys’ counselor does a passable imitation of the game show host, Monty Hall. But I’ve never seen Monty Hall take pains to explain that once you make a deal, you can’t unmake it. And Monty never protects contestants from winding up with the booby prize. This guy does.

Each of us has brought something. One by one, we go forward and exchange our things for prizes that counselors have hidden in boxes and behind curtains. Some of our things wind up back on the trading floor. Someone gets Sara’s camp T-shirt from 1965. Someone else winds up with my Tar Heel pennant. Like most campers, I get one trade and I’m done; occasionally, when the MC spots a good sport with entertainment potential, he lets the trading get more elaborate.

Hideous Willie starts with a well-worn paperback spy novel and completes multiple transactions. His spy novel comes back to him. He’s offered another trade. He agonizes. Curtain or box?

Finally, he opens the box. “This is it, Monty! No way am I trading this away!” With a flourish he holds up his prize: a can of Spam. It’s supposed to be a booby prize. “I’m starving! I was just thinking, ‘How will I make it to breakfast?’ Now, this is great!” In front of all of us, he opens the can and eagerly stuffs his misshapen mouth with grayish gunk. The audience groans. Willie attacks the Spam with moans of ecstasy.

“Sit down, Willie!” Monty yells.

Willie takes a chair behind Sara and me. He’s still eating the Spam. I can smell it.

Sara whispers, “You’re making me sick.”

“I know. Someone’s got to do it.”

Now a counselor comes forward leading a pale man dressed completely—from canvas fishing hat to socks—in yellow. He walks on the balls of his feet in a rather dainty way. He’s a full-grown man, maybe only a year or two older than the rest of us, but tall and solid, with a body of normal shape and function. But never would he be called a walkie-talkie.

“Oh, God,” Sara says, “this should be wild. They say Robert is PMR—profoundly mentally retarded—but he’s so aussie, who can tell?”