My Scoutmaster’s name was Harry Phillips. He let us call him Harry, which, to a 12 year old kid in the early ’70’s, was pretty informal. The man had his house toilet papered at least a zillion times, but it was affectionate T.P.ing, not angry T.P.ing. I remember when he leaned over the rail of a ski-boat at Flaming Gorge and we watched as the keys to his station wagon sank to the bottom of the lake. Six hours later, his sweet ...
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