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woman? What could I do? What if she attacked me? No doubt, if she had even so much as laid a hand on me, I would have wet myself (or worse) and fainted on the spot (already a skill I excelled at).
    The downside of having only brothers was that there were no girls to provide crucial counseling. Mike was always busy putting Bond-O on his collection of rusted '57 Chevys and Don didn't know any more than I did.
    When junior high rolled around and we merged into a larger school known as West Maple, I became surrounded by what seemed to be an ocean of beautiful women in halter-tops, bell-bottoms and Earth Shoes.
    My locker was directly between Joan and Heather Campbell. Joan I knew -- she was swell, but Heather was a whole new ballgame. She was a redhead with a great sense of humor and a body that would distract any postpubescent male on the planet. I tried in vain to woo her.
    "But Heather," I pleaded, "if we got married, you wouldn't even have to change your last name."
    Heather had other plans. I'm sure she now is happily married to some lucky sap in a Detroit suburb and has fourteen kids.
    Kathy Beard's locker wasn't far away either. For some as yet unexplained reason this tall, bronzed goddess and I found each other in an arranged relationship.
    "You like each other," we were informed. Our "dates" were set up by mutual friends: "You should go out with each other."
    "Buy her stuff," came the next directive. The next thing I knew, I was buying Kathy the lamest pair of earrings ever sold and spending the longest hour of my life at her house. Don't get me wrong, Kathy was a knockout. The problem with this pairing was that there was nothing organic about it. Within a month, news of our dissolved relationship came through third parties as well.
    "Sorry Bruce, she doesn't like you anymore."
    I met Kathy at her locker and all I could manage to blurt out, in utter bewilderment, was, "I guess we should break up."
    "Yeah, I guess so," was her equally confused reply.

2
    I BEHELD THE FUTURE, AND THE FUTURE WAS PLAY
    Childhood was coming to a halt and I didn't like it one bit.
    The prospects were depressing: Adulthood meant that I'd have to stop having fun and do something I didn't really want to do for the rest of my life -- which was apparently a considerable chunk of time.
    I was convinced that there was a way out -- a way to avoid becoming an unhappy adult -- and I searched unconsciously for a profession that could perpetuate the concept of the endless summer.
    St. Dunstan's provided the answer.

    Back in 1887, George Booth, an iron magnate, married Ellen Scripps, daughter of The Detroit News owner -- an event that was as much of a merger as it was a marriage. In 1904, they moved to the rolling farmlands of suburban Detroit and created a 174-acre estate, back when the word still had meaning.
    Between 1922 and 1942, as their empire faded, George and Ellen donated much of their surrounding land to an educational academy which, in turn, gave birth to St. Dunstan's Guild of Cranbrook -- or simply, St. D's.
    This amateur theater guild put on a half dozen plays a year. Most of them were mounted in the indoor pavilion, but each summer a showy musical was presented in the outdoor theater. Built in 1932 as a replica of a Greek theater, this amazing facility boasted circular, arena-type seating, towering pine trees and reflecting pools.
    There, in the summer of 1966, I watched my dad Charlie perform in the musical, The Pajama Game. As an eight-year-old, there was something special about sipping hot chocolate atop cushions in this dreamy location while my dad goofed around on stage.
    Until that night, I had no idea that the old man did that "actor" stuff. My dad always struck me as a relatively serious, "normal" guy, so what was up with the makeup and the funny clothes? The same guy who tucked me in at night was singing and dancing with a woman that wasn't my mom and he was having fun.

    Right at that very moment, it struck me that if I was an