When I was
young, my father worked on the Governor’s staff. It was a hard job with long
hours, but it did come with some perks. One of the perks was that occasionally
he was able to take his family on vacation and stay at “the Chateau.” The
Chateau was on the National Guard camp on the coast. I was told it was where
the General stayed when he was in residence at the camp. The Chateau was a
lovely log cabin design built in the 1930’s, but it was big. To my ten or
eleven year-old eyes it was huge. I believe the arrangement was that a member
of the Governor’s staff could schedule a stay there if it was available and
only pay for a cleaning fee.
So, one
Christmas we stayed there along with another family who were friends of ours. I
don’t remember a lot of detail because this was like 50 years ago. I do
remember the house: exposed logs of the walls, beautiful hardwood floors, and a
huge rock fireplace. Santa would have no problem fitting in that fireplace. This
was just the coolest place, full of secrets.
I remember
that we went clamming for razor clams and got skunked (well not quite skunked.
One member of our party came back with half a clam, having sliced it in two
with the misguided plunge of his shovel. We were, none of us, expert clammers.)
Other than the clamming, there was not a lot of playing at the beach. This
being December, the weather was not conducive to beach frolicking. But there
were games to be played, and food and conversation. One specific memory I have
is that I got a Swiss army knife for Christmas. Somehow that day or the day
after I managed to slice my finger pretty badly. My mother did not take the
knife away. Back then, kids were supposed to survive childhood without safeties
on. It also did not tarnish my love for that knife.
I have warm
feelings when I think of our Christmas there, good times with our friends and
just an affection for the place. The Chateau was not generally available for
civilian use. I don’t think I realized at the time what a privilege we were
being given.
Comments
Post a Comment