Camp Strange

When my youngest son, Mar­tin, chased gap-toothed girls through a dusty school­yard, he car­ried a tiny Star Trek shut­tle­craft in the front pocket of his jeans. “Vroooooooooom! Ba-ba-ba-ba-bing! Bing!” The shut­tle­craft — tor­pe­dos armed and ready — made the noise of a boy’s pursed lips. It flew grace­ful arcs, one hand over head, around body, swooped …