Camp Runamok
This isn't a Presidential Residence; it's a summer camp for bleeding-heart liberal Democrats and their spawn!
Unidentified Secret Service Agent
Requesting reassignment away from the Bartlet detail
Some years you never want to end and some you never want to do again. Two thousand ten, the tenth anniversary of Rosslyn, should have been the year to skip but it wasn't. The next was one I probably could have done without-well, most of it.
After Mallory's death Sam just went through the motions, doing what was expected but without his usual fervor. I spent as much time as I could in Washington but, by March it was obvious that, between single fatherhood and a broken heart, he just didn't have the spirit for his Congressional post. Luckily a seat opened up on the United States District Court for the District of Columbia and somehow (with considerable work by a number of elves) his name topped the list. The hours, combined with the quiet nature of the job, appealed to him and he jumped at the chance-developing a reputation, in a few short months, of being the judge poorly prepared lawyers loved to hate. You didn't dare step into Judge Seaborn's courtroom unless you had every little thing by the letter and straight up.
On the last Friday in May, as I was returning to New Hampshire from DC, I called and informed the jurist that I was, basically, kidnaping Abigail and Samuel and he could come and get them at the mill. Toby, Andrea and Isaac rode up with me and CJ and Will flew in on Saturday. On Memorial Day, 2011, eleven fishermen, including John Leo Butterfield, greeted me when I took the President his coffee on the pond bank beginning a summer tradition that we have kept for sixteen years now: Camp Runamok.
It was, to put it mildly, chaos. The kids were sort of like the Lost Boys with Jed Bartlet as Peter Pan (without the flying). In fact, he did read Pan to them that first summer. They'd fish, they'd hike, they'd collect all things that skittered and slithered, they'd explore, they'd do anything. And the President was right in the middle. He'd appear at the pond, early in the morning, and romp and play until I'd drive him back to the farmhouse, so weary I'd have to help him up the stairs. And the next day it would start over again. It was a pace that rivaled that of the White House at its most hectic but we didn't mind: it was good to see the President so vital again. It was a golden time.
The visitors went home after Independence Day and the Lost Boys dwindled to the usual five (John Leo Butterfield had become a de facto member of the tribe). It was then that the President started disappearing.
First he'd forget the day, then mix up events that had happened in the past. By August he'd ask the kids their names, honestly knowing he should know but not being able to bring it to his tongue. His body grew fragile, bruising at the slightest bump. He stopped coming to fish when he got lost on his way over and his detail had to find him. After that, Ron or I would bring him over, watching the cane pole sway like the childrens'. After Labor Day, he stopped coming by to fish, the morning chill too much for him. I'd go up to the house to conduct business, talking over every aspect of the Foundation with him even though he'd ask the same questions seemingly a thousand times.
By October the days darkened, as did his mind. Some days there'd be sunshine and clarity but those days grew shorter. I remember the last day-how clear it and his mind were-golden, rare and precious. We talked business, we talked politics, we talked family. He laughed a lot, I remember, smiling at Mrs. Bartlet when she chided him for not eating his green beans. After lunch I helped him to his study to a wing chair by a sunny window where he often read for hours, Peter Pan on the table nearby. Despite the sun he was chilly and Mrs. Bartlet covered him with a quilt given to him during the first Presidential campaign in 1998. I followed her back to the kitchen, where we talked about Elizabeth, Eleanor and Zoey while washing dishes. After about an hour she slipped back to the study to check on him. When she didn't return I followed and, rounding the corner, I spotted her, kneeling in front of him, her hand cupping his placid face. I paused a moment, laying my hand on her shoulder, before stepping to the phone to begin again the business of burying a friend.
Like Brigadoon, Camp Runamok rose from the mists New Hampshire every June but it was not the same. Pan was gone and, try though they did, the new pans-Ron, Sam, CJ, me and even Toby-just couldn't fly like Peter.