Most of us cling to a version of summer left over from our childhood--a memory of opened hydrants, a lifeguard's whistle, the smell of cocoa butter on skin. For me, this has to include Vacation Bible School, held every summer at the Methodist church in my hometown. Kids would gather in the musty sanctuary for songs featuring hand gestures that seemed, for our brand of Methodism, dangerously close to dancing. We played Bible tag, memorized the books of the Old Testament and drank gallons of Kool-Aid out of waxy paper cups. Our teachers entertained us so well that we scarcely noticed...
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