Paris (it’s actually spelled both ways) Island lies on the way from Savannah to Charleston. Since my younger (20 months) brother Wayne spent so many delightful weeks frolicking there in the mid-60’s, we just had to drop by and snap a few photos for his memory bank. Right after snapping this one, we took one of the guard shack and the snappy Marines manning it. Uh oh. “Maam, did you just take a picture of the guard station? You’ll have to delete that from your camera.” Hmmm, welcome wall, O.K., shack a no-no? “You can take pictures anywhere else on base.” Well, alrighty. Must be something mighty special about that shack. Looked like a parking attendant booth to us.
We motored in, felt the spirit,
imagined what it would be like to be running these obstacles in this heat and humidity,
and were thankful to escape into the cool climes of the base museum, which actually was very nice. Since both Dad and Wayne were Marines (I wimped into the Navy), it was fun looking at the history of the place
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