Year: 2005

I was born in a working naval port town, and grew up just across the bay in a town built on pilings over the water. There were majestic mountain ranges on either side of our little peninsula, and water everywhere. But most of the towns were built with their facades facing the street, not the scenery.

This was a working class place, populated by working people. Many of my relatives took the decrepit foot ferry to work in the shipyard every day. Friends worked the forests or went out in the fishing boats when the season allowed.

As I grew up in that place I watched the small towns dwindle. When the traditional industries faltered or disappeared one town after the next had to figure out a way to survive, or simply give up.

Port Orchard was reinvented by the antiques trade. Poulsbo went for twee ethnic tourism. Bremerton just died. The core of the downtown, including all the grand department stores and office buildings with marble stairs, were shuttered and then scheduled for demolition. In each of these cases, even if I personally did not like the aesthetics of the process, it made sense. It was an example of a natural evolution of the local communities.

I love the Kitsap Peninsula more than I care about most people. The mountains, water, and forests are intrinsically part of my identity. But recently when I have visited I have watched the enroaching gentrification, as rich commuters move in to snap up the last parcels of the homesteads, as a place that seemed impervious to development starts to look more and more like Bainbridge Island – previously the only part of the county known to host the wealthy elite.

This process is inexorable and logical. It is a beautiful place and I understand why people want to live there. But every time I go home there is something new and treacherous to think about. On a trip last year I tried to take my kids to one of the beaches that was central to my childhood. I was shocked beyond speech to find that a five dollar parking fee had been instituted. If there had been such a stiff charge to visit a county park when I was small, we simply would not have visited.

There is a fiscal explanation behind user fees: state and federal agencies have been choked by budget cuts. But it is obvious and bluntly ruinous that the charges will mainly impact the people who cannot afford to pay.

During the first thirty-two years of my life I would not have been able to afford the admission price to visit Mt. Rainier, or the public beaches of my own hometown. Most of the wonders of the Northwest would have been out of reach.

Now that I can afford to pay for whatever adventures I wish to seek out, it seems more important to remember the days when I didn’t have an extra dollar in my pocket. It is imperative to keep our public holdings free and accessible for everyone.

Will we turn all of our natural resources into playgrounds for the wealthy? Will we give up our communal, hard-won rights to enjoy the land and water together?

Last night I had a dream about the St. Vincent de Paul store in Bremerton. The dream was so real and detailed, from the smell of the place to the likely content of each rack and display counter, I woke up expecting to have an excellent thrifted wool coat to wear.

But it was just a dream, and I sat on the edge of the bed looking at the river and thinking about all the bits and pieces I dragged from the states to our new home in England. It is probably time to get rid of some of the ephemera of that old life.

There is one thing I will always keep. I’ve been wearing this wedding ring since my grandmother bought it for one dollar at the St. Vincent store, before the move from the old bank building. She just liked the look of it, and didn’t know that it was actually white gold, or that it wouldn’t fit any of the grownups in the family.

Since I have tiny hands that never grew the ring fit me, and I’ve been wearing it since I was a little kid.

The ring has nothing to do with my marital status. It reminds me of my grandmother, and growing up on the peninsula.

For those who may have wondered about the reasons: my expatriate manifesto can be found in the Home & Away issue of Bitch: Feminist Response to Pop Culture.

Repudiating the month of January has turned out to be the best idea ever. No stress, no sadness, no birthday!

The weather here is, to my profound surprise, a vast improvement on the Pacific Northwest. Days are short but never stormy; there are stiff winds but only occasional rain.

On what would have been the birthday packages started to arrive. There were email wishes from all manner of friends near and far, and in the days since then slips for more packages keep falling through the mail slot.

At the weekend I picked a treat: we went to the Canal Museum, then walked along the Regent Canal and through the Camden Lock complex, ignoring the crowds and squinting at the outlines of the old buildings. Later we went to Brick Lane and ate Urubeesi Gaata at The Shampan.

This week I have been working relentlessly against various deadlines, building fires in the boat and huddling in front of the crackle of wood and glow of coal, ignoring the cygnets who occasionally tap on the window asking for bread.

I’m thirty-four now, and it feels pretty good.