Right as the war began, Islanders wasted no time as they arranged their local defense plans. One group was organized and trained as enemy plane spotters. (Note that in early 1943, three aircraft spotting and warning towers were completed but the one at Battle Point was threatened to be closed a couple of months later because there were not enough spotters - the early enthusiasm had apparently worn off a bit.) Island boaters figured they could haul off every man, woman, and child if the need arose as they formed a brigade of evacuation vessels. They didn't trust mean old Captain Peabody.
The Island was divided into air raid districts. Each district had a Warden and platoon of eager civilian soldiers. Church ladies aid groups baked cookies, rolled bandages, and knit socks to send off to "the boys overseas." And the cigarette companies did their part as they offered coupons for "free smokes" to be sent to those boys. Ouch!
Mrs. Roosevelt was on the bandwagon as champion for black workers and soldiers and for caring for the children of the newly employed "Rosie the Riveters. It was also through her efforts that the U.S. built housing for war workers. Not all Americans shared her concern for others' well-being. The proposed housing project to be built near the shipyard aroused Islanders' anger. The plan was attacked as a probable slum, the cause of plummeting real estate values. There was insistence that anything built would have to be torn or burned down as soon as the war was over. It was rumored that untreated sewage would be dumped into the bay. But it was built and my mother, my sister, and I were one of the lucky few to be assigned one of the little units. The kitchenettes had two burner stoves, an icebox, room for a two-chair table; if two people were sitting, there was no room for one standing up. There was an on-site nursery and pre-school; free child care for the shipyard's working mothers. Progressive!
FLASHBACK
My sister was born on a stormy night in February 1943. My mother had once again shocked her silent family because no one knew she was pregnant. She gained little weight and wore clothing that masked her pregnancy. Aunt Evelyn served as midwife helping deliver the tiny, premature baby. It was not many months later we three moved to our apartment.
The complex was commonly known as "The Project." What I remember is skipping down a path bordered by a tall fence, to the nursery. It was in a big room with small windows all around the top of the walls. At nap time, each of us snuggled up in our very own Army-issue blanket. Then at recess, we used our blankets to stretch a roof in the fenced corners of the playground. Playing house and climbng the monkey bars were my favorite activities. I remember sitting in the sand beneath my olive drab roof and hanging by my knees from the cold, steel bars. Every week the iceman brought a giant ice cube clutched in the bite of tongs and clunked it into the icebox. The icebox was made of wood; inside it was metal enameled white, the racks were square and always wet. Such are the memories of a child - closer to earth, children being the short species.
Rationing of food stuffs, gasoline, cars, rubber, fabrics, etc. is one of history's facts. Living without all that stuff was the impetus for lots of home-grown solutions. I love the story about rubber for girdles allowed to still be made because some senator's wife insisted girdles were inviolable products - fashion dictated the wearing of girdles! Also, girdles held up stockings. Stockings themselves were a torture because silk from Japan was (naturally) unavailable. Rayon was new. It and cotton were used to make hosiery and underwear. The stockings sagged and stretched, were ugly, and were universally hated by women. Going without stockings was simply not acceptable. Some women used pancake make-up to camouflage their legs; going so far as to draw seamlines down the back with an eyebrow pencil. Back seaming was the way stockings were made then. Nylon seamless "panty hose" were fifteen to twenty years in the future.
Two related family stories come to mind. Pictures of my sister as a toddler show her clutching her panties. To hold them up - war-issue drawers with synthetic rubber elastic tended to drift down to one's ankles.
My mother was attractive and vivacious so she had lots of admirers among the many Navy sailors that wandered around the Shipyard and were stationed at the Island's bases. One guy presented my mother with a pilfered parachute. That precious gift was many, many yards of silk-like fabric made of the newly-developed nylon. Blouses, slips, bras, panties - you name it, my mother was able to sew that parachute into lots of things. I don't know what happened to the Sailor.
So-called "Victory Gardens" were common. Not as common but as highly touted by the government as a way for the homefront to further help the "war effort," was to raise chickens and pigs. Grandpa had both.
ANOTHER FLASHBACK
Easter 1944, I was dressed in a white dress, coat, and hat - all of course made by my mother - probably out of the parachute. All of us kids were waiting outside for the grown-ups. My rascally uncle (did I mention he was only two years older than me?) led us to see the new piggies. There is good reason why pig pens are called "pig pens." We climbed over the sty. Mucky muck, muddy mud - ruined Easter finery; filthy and smelly. Uncle was never forgiven. The story was never related with laughter.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Techno geek - NOT!
Well I must have hit the delete button and sent one of my posts off into cyber-neverland. The "bear saga" seems to have disappeared so here it is again.
The Island's weekly newspaper, the "Bainbridge Island Review", was pretty folksy and prided itself on keeping abreast of every event - from birthing kittens to local politics. High school sports, being of serious importance in such a tiny locale, had a page of their own. The Japanese families after they were sent off to camp, were often reported about. Some of the headlines read, "Island Japanese Cheerful (in Manzanar)", "Island Japanese Voted 'Best Sportsmen' in Manzanar", "Los Angeles Japanese regard Island Japanese as "stuck up" and too Americanized", "High school sends text books to Manzanar students so they can graduate from high school", "Two year old boy has chicken pox in Manzanar." (This boy in his teen years was my school mate and was class president several times.)
While the proposed building of a housing project was loudly denegrated in the newspaper forum, another long-running event held its own as front page news. In February 1943, the first of "Marauding Bear" articles appeared. The stories grew, a posse was formed - although its members were not available til the end of deer-hunting season, a big game hunter was hired, traps were set, mothers' fears rose to a fever pitch. One week the bear was pronounced dead even though no carcass was found; only to be resurrected the next week when some poor dog had to have stitches after supposedly being bear-clawed. The headline read, "How Dead Is the Bear?" Major Hopkins, described as a "noted nimrod extolled by the State", accompanied the State Game Warden as they stalked the wily beast. They too were thwarted in their efforts. Then, to add to the ridicule of the mighty hunters, a headline suggested the services of an 86 year old farmer be sought because he had treed a bear and shot it dead - the guy was simply protecting his farm animals. The droll reports went on for months.
"No New Killings - Experts Wonder If Bear Hibernating."
"Killer Bear Has Been Here Four Years Declares Hunter, Major Hopkins."
"Posse Fails to Kill Bear - Traps Coming."
"Islanders Worry Traps Will Trap Dogs."
"Honey Bait May Lure Bear-Trap Setting Report Said."
"Very Dead, Sleeping, or Gone Home; Bear Is Quiet as Major Makes Trap."
Illustrations of various animal footprints were published to assure every Islander would be able to decipher a bear track from other tracks. The drawings included a bear's track walking, running, and compared track sizes. The paper diligently carried on with the bear stories.
"Bear Cub Sighted At Crystal Springs by Mrs. Williamson."
"Mrs. Williamson excitedly reported she saw the cub 'between the Prentiss and Berg places.' She and Mr. Williamson thought they saw tracks and attempted to follow them."
"Wardens, Hounds Fail To Stay Island's Wary Bears; Hunter Baits Two Traps." (Note how the bear numbers increased.)
"Bear Sighted As Big Game Hunter Quits Chase."
"Bear's Growl Frightens Five Youths." As the boys were building a fort or some other boy thing, they swore they heard the bear and ran away as fast as they could.
"Dog Clawed - How Dead Is Bear?"
"86 Year Old Kingston Man Shows How To Kill A Bear Dead!"
After a few weeks of bear silence;
"Island Bear Walks Again," when a boy sighted the beast in a field as he cycled by. He sped to the nearest house to report the danger.
April 1944, the last headline, "Killer Bear Dead, Hopins." marked the end of the saga that had begun more than a year earlier. The actual bear carcass was never reported as found. But some Seattle wise acres must have been loud in their laughter and scorn at the bimbo Islanders. An Island poet, Mrs. Lottie Jane Logg, set up defense poetically.
"If you've spent the week a listenin'
To the noise of trains a whistlin'
And to cars and buses rumblin'
To the many folks a grumblin'
'Bout a million things or more
Til just listenin' is a bore,
Then you'll long for peace and quiet
And a bit of nature's diet
So take a Black Ball ferry at the foot of Madison Street
And go to Bainbridge Island where the silence is complete.
If you've learned to ride the buses in the latest sardine style,
Had your feet all trampled til you cannot walk a mile
Then I know you must be wishin'
For a place to go a fishin'
Where there's room to stretch and eat
And a place to put your feet
And if you need a place for nappin'
Where you can hear the tide a lappin'
In the shadow of the Mountain capped with snow,
Then, my friend, to Bainbridge Island you must go.
If you've spent the week a breathin'
Air that's full of cough and sneezin'
And you've spent the week a breathin'
Many things you can't be tellin'
Then you'll need to spend a day
Where the birds all love to play
Where the air is sweet and clean
And the mountains can be seen
So take a trip and spend a while
On our lovely Bainbridge Isle."
So there too, you mainlanders you!
A few more wild animal headline came along in future months - like - "Cougar Tracks Found On Beach." followed the next week with, "Peripatetic Cougars On Prowl Again." Look out for the beasty beasts! Nothing could escape news-worthiness.
The Island's weekly newspaper, the "Bainbridge Island Review", was pretty folksy and prided itself on keeping abreast of every event - from birthing kittens to local politics. High school sports, being of serious importance in such a tiny locale, had a page of their own. The Japanese families after they were sent off to camp, were often reported about. Some of the headlines read, "Island Japanese Cheerful (in Manzanar)", "Island Japanese Voted 'Best Sportsmen' in Manzanar", "Los Angeles Japanese regard Island Japanese as "stuck up" and too Americanized", "High school sends text books to Manzanar students so they can graduate from high school", "Two year old boy has chicken pox in Manzanar." (This boy in his teen years was my school mate and was class president several times.)
While the proposed building of a housing project was loudly denegrated in the newspaper forum, another long-running event held its own as front page news. In February 1943, the first of "Marauding Bear" articles appeared. The stories grew, a posse was formed - although its members were not available til the end of deer-hunting season, a big game hunter was hired, traps were set, mothers' fears rose to a fever pitch. One week the bear was pronounced dead even though no carcass was found; only to be resurrected the next week when some poor dog had to have stitches after supposedly being bear-clawed. The headline read, "How Dead Is the Bear?" Major Hopkins, described as a "noted nimrod extolled by the State", accompanied the State Game Warden as they stalked the wily beast. They too were thwarted in their efforts. Then, to add to the ridicule of the mighty hunters, a headline suggested the services of an 86 year old farmer be sought because he had treed a bear and shot it dead - the guy was simply protecting his farm animals. The droll reports went on for months.
"No New Killings - Experts Wonder If Bear Hibernating."
"Killer Bear Has Been Here Four Years Declares Hunter, Major Hopkins."
"Posse Fails to Kill Bear - Traps Coming."
"Islanders Worry Traps Will Trap Dogs."
"Honey Bait May Lure Bear-Trap Setting Report Said."
"Very Dead, Sleeping, or Gone Home; Bear Is Quiet as Major Makes Trap."
Illustrations of various animal footprints were published to assure every Islander would be able to decipher a bear track from other tracks. The drawings included a bear's track walking, running, and compared track sizes. The paper diligently carried on with the bear stories.
"Bear Cub Sighted At Crystal Springs by Mrs. Williamson."
"Mrs. Williamson excitedly reported she saw the cub 'between the Prentiss and Berg places.' She and Mr. Williamson thought they saw tracks and attempted to follow them."
"Wardens, Hounds Fail To Stay Island's Wary Bears; Hunter Baits Two Traps." (Note how the bear numbers increased.)
"Bear Sighted As Big Game Hunter Quits Chase."
"Bear's Growl Frightens Five Youths." As the boys were building a fort or some other boy thing, they swore they heard the bear and ran away as fast as they could.
"Dog Clawed - How Dead Is Bear?"
"86 Year Old Kingston Man Shows How To Kill A Bear Dead!"
After a few weeks of bear silence;
"Island Bear Walks Again," when a boy sighted the beast in a field as he cycled by. He sped to the nearest house to report the danger.
April 1944, the last headline, "Killer Bear Dead, Hopins." marked the end of the saga that had begun more than a year earlier. The actual bear carcass was never reported as found. But some Seattle wise acres must have been loud in their laughter and scorn at the bimbo Islanders. An Island poet, Mrs. Lottie Jane Logg, set up defense poetically.
"If you've spent the week a listenin'
To the noise of trains a whistlin'
And to cars and buses rumblin'
To the many folks a grumblin'
'Bout a million things or more
Til just listenin' is a bore,
Then you'll long for peace and quiet
And a bit of nature's diet
So take a Black Ball ferry at the foot of Madison Street
And go to Bainbridge Island where the silence is complete.
If you've learned to ride the buses in the latest sardine style,
Had your feet all trampled til you cannot walk a mile
Then I know you must be wishin'
For a place to go a fishin'
Where there's room to stretch and eat
And a place to put your feet
And if you need a place for nappin'
Where you can hear the tide a lappin'
In the shadow of the Mountain capped with snow,
Then, my friend, to Bainbridge Island you must go.
If you've spent the week a breathin'
Air that's full of cough and sneezin'
And you've spent the week a breathin'
Many things you can't be tellin'
Then you'll need to spend a day
Where the birds all love to play
Where the air is sweet and clean
And the mountains can be seen
So take a trip and spend a while
On our lovely Bainbridge Isle."
So there too, you mainlanders you!
A few more wild animal headline came along in future months - like - "Cougar Tracks Found On Beach." followed the next week with, "Peripatetic Cougars On Prowl Again." Look out for the beasty beasts! Nothing could escape news-worthiness.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wild kids and animals?
There was a lot of important animal news in the weekly paper. Raccoon raids, puppies and kittens born, turtle burials, even the killing of a chicken hawk by a broom-wielding angry woman. Working mothers seemed to have caused the most widespread consternation, though. Both employed moms and inattentive schools were blamed in the press for juvenile delinquency. The Superintendent of Schools lectured in the state's schools, big and small, that the cure for problematic kids would be to get those darn working moms back home. The Superintendent's name began with a Mrs.!
To put things in perspective, however, it must be noted that the Island's delinquents seemed to be boys who badly aimed their BB guns (which all boys and even some girls, had - a rite of passage). Although there was one loudly reported incident of some kids doing damage to a vacant house. Not that such behavior should be chalked up to "just being kids." It's just that in comparison with the level of difficulties now, BB guns seem pretty tame.
It's a good thing the Island was pretty much crime-free. There was not an Island-based county sheriff until 1947. Because the county seat was(is) in Port Orchard and peace officers were headquartered in Bremerton, it was quite a long trip from or to the Island. Two ferry routes and a long highway stretch meant travelling either way would take a good three hours or more.
When I read and talk to people about those years, it seems that social events often ended in brawls. The Saturday dances at Stanley Park on the Island's north end, the Wing Point Country Club bashes, and the waterfront tavern referred to as "the bloody bucket" were all infamous for their apparently popular fisticuff events. Even Winslow council meetings could end in arguments. One time a well-known councilman and an attendee got into it after a meeting. I don't think the councilman resigned his post. He was just spirited.
Have we become more civilized? A state to ponder.
To put things in perspective, however, it must be noted that the Island's delinquents seemed to be boys who badly aimed their BB guns (which all boys and even some girls, had - a rite of passage). Although there was one loudly reported incident of some kids doing damage to a vacant house. Not that such behavior should be chalked up to "just being kids." It's just that in comparison with the level of difficulties now, BB guns seem pretty tame.
It's a good thing the Island was pretty much crime-free. There was not an Island-based county sheriff until 1947. Because the county seat was(is) in Port Orchard and peace officers were headquartered in Bremerton, it was quite a long trip from or to the Island. Two ferry routes and a long highway stretch meant travelling either way would take a good three hours or more.
When I read and talk to people about those years, it seems that social events often ended in brawls. The Saturday dances at Stanley Park on the Island's north end, the Wing Point Country Club bashes, and the waterfront tavern referred to as "the bloody bucket" were all infamous for their apparently popular fisticuff events. Even Winslow council meetings could end in arguments. One time a well-known councilman and an attendee got into it after a meeting. I don't think the councilman resigned his post. He was just spirited.
Have we become more civilized? A state to ponder.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Roads - Some Travelled and Some Not
The "main road" was of course the routes of the ferry boats. The Island itself had lots of roads, many more like driveways winding through stands of evergreens. The ditches outlining them served as both erosion protection and as playgrounds. I could not find in my research, the reason for the depth of the ditches. I suppose it simply must have been to provide runoff for the constant rain and resulting groundwater. A paradox since living on the Island is dependent on the availability of water. "Water communities" such as the one where I spent my high school years, Madrona Community Water, depended on capturing rain water in a tower. Residents of the community worked constantly to keep the tower free of fallen leaves. This was some years after the war ended and one of the residents was a Japanese man and his family. The tower stood next to his property. By default, he was the one everyone turned to for information and scheduling of maintenance. Looking back, it must have been odd for the local people to depend on someone who had so recently been a so-called "enemy." In my family, I remember him as one we both respected and stood in awe of. His wife was from Japan, did not speak English. There were whispers of her strange ways such as her gathering of sea weed and drying it on the clothes line. Few could imagine eating it. Now sushi, some wrapped with seaweed, is common in many local supermarkets.
In Port Madison, the house my grandfather bought served as family headquarters throughout the war years. There were no new cars available on the Island during those years. The rationing of cars allowed only three new cars for the Island. Dr. Shepard got one according to a news article. The one car in my family was the 1936 Ford Model T my grandfather drove from Minnesota. Those were sturdy vehicles with their flat-head and four cylinder engines any sixteen year old boy could fix. Grandpa used his for chores and occasional entertainment. He rode the Navy bus to the shipyard to work each day. Bus fare was ten cents. That left the flivver and its ration of fuel for other things.
Flashback
It was early in the morning and still dark. I heard wood being shoved into the kitchen stove. My grandfather was up, making coffee. Usually I even beat him out of bed. My mother complained I never slept. There was just too much to do and see. Sleep still is an annoying necessity.
"Grandpa - what are you doing?"
"Taking Betsy to Winslow," was his reply; only as many words as he considered necessary.
"Can I go too?"
He didn't answer. Just took a huge bite of bread and some foul-smelling, brown cheese; slurped his coffee through it; nodded his head. I put on corduroy trousers over my pajamas, socks, boots, and jacket; I was ready in a flash. Grandpa did not wait for slow pokes. He plunked his fedora on as he opened the back door. His stride was long and I skipped rapidly to keep up. In the barn, he lit a swinging light bulb. Mr. Murdoch was already there, looping a rope around the cow's neck. The two men nodded at one another. The barn's fragrance and warmth was thick. Grandpa opened the big doors, backed the Ford in, left the motor running as he stepped out, opened the back doors, removed the back seat and threw in some hay. He and Mr. Murdoch, one at each of the car's back doors, pushed and pulled brown-eyed Betsy in.
"You sit there and hold the rope," he gestured to me as I climbed eagerly in, sat by Betsy's head and importantly held the rope. It wasn't raining or snowing for once so the road was relatively easy to traverse though the trip was slow. (It was 1944 and long before the highway that now slices in a nearly straight line from the south to the north across the Island.) The road wound along the beach's edge and through tunnels of tall trees.
A model-T carrying a cow and three passengers was not unusual than. Whatever vehicle was available was used for whatever had to be done. When we arrived at Beach's Butcher Locker, it was still dark. The building stood near the drive leading to the Winslow ferry dock. "Old Man Beach" (the man was still young but I never heard him called anything except "Old Man Beach" - and respectfully at that - he was an Island icon.) came out and directed the delivery of Betsy. He was a tall, skinny silhouette backlit by dim lighting. That's the last I saw of the cow, alive that is. I rode home in the back which still richly smelled of cow and hay. I think I grew an inch that day; I felt very grown up.
Not only guys were drafted. So were trucks because at the beginning of the war, military vehicles were in drastically short supply. Even Big Bertha, the one and only truck of the Bainbridge Island Auto Freight company, had been conscripted into military service. That huge, bull-nosed vehicle returned from the war, un-scathed, to serve the needs of Islanders for many years after the war.
Model-T's were versatile motor cars. The low-gear-ratio transmission and the simple engine made the cars like tractors. Months of winter's freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing, and then spring's warmth and more rain turned the Island's many dirt roads, into quaqmires of mod. The model-T plowed right through, no problem. When it snowed on the Island, there were plenty of hills for sledding. My grandpa's little car chugged up the steep hill (where Frog Rock sits at the bottom) pulling sleds, over and over. Lots of activities seem dark in my memory. Maybe because the Northwest's winter days are particularly short.
In Port Madison, the house my grandfather bought served as family headquarters throughout the war years. There were no new cars available on the Island during those years. The rationing of cars allowed only three new cars for the Island. Dr. Shepard got one according to a news article. The one car in my family was the 1936 Ford Model T my grandfather drove from Minnesota. Those were sturdy vehicles with their flat-head and four cylinder engines any sixteen year old boy could fix. Grandpa used his for chores and occasional entertainment. He rode the Navy bus to the shipyard to work each day. Bus fare was ten cents. That left the flivver and its ration of fuel for other things.
Flashback
It was early in the morning and still dark. I heard wood being shoved into the kitchen stove. My grandfather was up, making coffee. Usually I even beat him out of bed. My mother complained I never slept. There was just too much to do and see. Sleep still is an annoying necessity.
"Grandpa - what are you doing?"
"Taking Betsy to Winslow," was his reply; only as many words as he considered necessary.
"Can I go too?"
He didn't answer. Just took a huge bite of bread and some foul-smelling, brown cheese; slurped his coffee through it; nodded his head. I put on corduroy trousers over my pajamas, socks, boots, and jacket; I was ready in a flash. Grandpa did not wait for slow pokes. He plunked his fedora on as he opened the back door. His stride was long and I skipped rapidly to keep up. In the barn, he lit a swinging light bulb. Mr. Murdoch was already there, looping a rope around the cow's neck. The two men nodded at one another. The barn's fragrance and warmth was thick. Grandpa opened the big doors, backed the Ford in, left the motor running as he stepped out, opened the back doors, removed the back seat and threw in some hay. He and Mr. Murdoch, one at each of the car's back doors, pushed and pulled brown-eyed Betsy in.
"You sit there and hold the rope," he gestured to me as I climbed eagerly in, sat by Betsy's head and importantly held the rope. It wasn't raining or snowing for once so the road was relatively easy to traverse though the trip was slow. (It was 1944 and long before the highway that now slices in a nearly straight line from the south to the north across the Island.) The road wound along the beach's edge and through tunnels of tall trees.
A model-T carrying a cow and three passengers was not unusual than. Whatever vehicle was available was used for whatever had to be done. When we arrived at Beach's Butcher Locker, it was still dark. The building stood near the drive leading to the Winslow ferry dock. "Old Man Beach" (the man was still young but I never heard him called anything except "Old Man Beach" - and respectfully at that - he was an Island icon.) came out and directed the delivery of Betsy. He was a tall, skinny silhouette backlit by dim lighting. That's the last I saw of the cow, alive that is. I rode home in the back which still richly smelled of cow and hay. I think I grew an inch that day; I felt very grown up.
Not only guys were drafted. So were trucks because at the beginning of the war, military vehicles were in drastically short supply. Even Big Bertha, the one and only truck of the Bainbridge Island Auto Freight company, had been conscripted into military service. That huge, bull-nosed vehicle returned from the war, un-scathed, to serve the needs of Islanders for many years after the war.
Model-T's were versatile motor cars. The low-gear-ratio transmission and the simple engine made the cars like tractors. Months of winter's freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing, and then spring's warmth and more rain turned the Island's many dirt roads, into quaqmires of mod. The model-T plowed right through, no problem. When it snowed on the Island, there were plenty of hills for sledding. My grandpa's little car chugged up the steep hill (where Frog Rock sits at the bottom) pulling sleds, over and over. Lots of activities seem dark in my memory. Maybe because the Northwest's winter days are particularly short.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
On Ferry Boats and Other Stuff
At the beginning of the war,the population of Bainbridge Island was somewhere between 3 and 4 thousand residents. Now there is reportedly 26,000! Almost nine times more people on roughly 30 square miles of water-surrounded land. The Winslow Marine Highway and Ship Repair Yard that had once been a world class builder of many-masted sailing vessels, had shrunk over the decades and employed about one hundred fifty workers. But it was quick to join in war production. Contracts to build Navy mine sweepers were awarded to the tiny ship repair yard. The number of shipyard workers grew exponentially to around fifteen hundred. (The numbers were kept secret so actual numbers are difficult to pinpoint.) Islanders had long prized their privacy and invisibility; their rural environment; what they considered their unique-ness. "Newcomers" quickly exhausted all available housing. Woodsheds, garages, berry pickers' shacks, anything with a roof, though not necessarily a floor, were rented. Tar paper shacks, primitive trailers, and even tents housed families. Once they were sent off to camp, the Island's Japanese families' houses became fair game for rental. Their permission was not sought - afterall, they were now "the enemy."
Lots of Island roads, locations, and communities are named for local residents and old business locations. Other names are more obscure; such as, Toejam Hill, an interesting variation of its original name after a man who lived there, Torjam Hill. An early battle, before the settling of hardy pioneers, a couple of Indian tribes had a beach battle. It was a half-hearted affair with no fatalities but left its mark as Battle Point. During the war it was a military station with an airplane spotting tower. It is now a park and visitors' center. There were roads aptly referred to as "Suicide Lane", "Devil's Dip", and the like. Many of the roads were dirt or gravel. The few street lights in Winslow installed in much earlier years were left unused after a few short months of operation because there reportedly was no interest in maintaining them. And certainly there were no traffic lights - no need because there was little if any "traffic."
In the first frenzied and uncertain days of the war, all lighting at night had to be "blacked out." Blankets hung over windows as families inside anxiously listened to their radios for the latest news. There was a fear that lights seen from the air would help enemy bombing raids. Radio and newspapers were the common communication channels. Cell telephones, television, computers, were the stuff of science fiction. Each day Seattle newspapers were ferried to the Island. Lots of the papers were delivered by hardy boys on bicycles . They stuffed the papers into long tin cylinders nailed to mail box posts or tossed to a porch. One time, a popular boy on his dark, early morning route was seriously injured by a hit and run driver. Islanders were stunned by the heartlessness of "one of their own." The boy was rushed to a Seattle hospital. His condition was carefully followed in the local newspaper. The heavy, woolen watch hat he was wearing may have actually saved his life. But his injury left him unable to follow his dream of being a pro-baseball player. Another of the newspaper carriers took over his route during his two-month recovery, saving his job for him. The other boy only had to get up two hours earlier - 4 a.m. - to complete both routes - BEFORE heading off to school. Islanders stuck by their own.
Ferry commuters could purchase their daily news dose from a stack of papers on one of the docks. There were several landings; the ferries were small; not like the huge vessels of today. On the Island to/from Bremerton route, a tiny boat carried foot traffic only. Winslow's modern, state-owned terminal with its warm waiting room and covered walkway perched above and away from vehicles was years away. Not much thought was given in those times of the possible dangers to the foot passengers. It was the way it was. They gathered as a group either at the loading end of the dock or the lip of the ferry and were hurried on and off before the cars and trucks. In the land of rain the ferry decks and docks were often slippery. The stairs from the bottom decks to the upper decks were steep. It was part of the adventure of living on an island.
That ferryboat commuters consider certain seats to be their very own, is legendary and very true. It was said that ferry coffee, brewed in giant pots that held hours and hours worth of the hot stuff, could curl your hair, was almost true. The tarry liquid was served in thick white mugs and was ambrosia to the early morning crowd and cleared many fogged heads. Women in white uniforms and starched green caps and aprons, knew everyone and usually their orders. In the cafe, the counter curved around stanchions. In stormy weather, it was a balancing act to sit on one of the stools, hanging on with feet and legs wrapped around the pedestal, elbows tensed to the counter, fingers lacing the blistering mugs. Today it is a "Grande Latte" individually brewed and sipped while watching the rich scenery gliding by, no matter what the weather. Commuters still possessively guard their particular seats.
The ferries were little compared to today's giants. Those boats came from California. Part of their initiation was to be re-named to more suit Puget Sound culture - like Klahawnee, Quinault, Illahee, Kehloken, Quilliyote - chunky names for the equally chunky boats.
The ferries, their crews, and captains were almost family members; after all, islanders relied on them as more than just transportation. They were lifelines. The captains took on legendary status. Each vessel had a distinct personality - at least it seemed that way from news articles. They were talked about as if they were people. Nearly every Islander had a favorite boat or considered one their own bad or good luck charm. Sometimes it seemed the boats themselves were alive and kicking as headlines heralded feats and injuries. Headlines like, "Ferry Rosario Rescues Lost 16' Boat - Puts It High and Dry on Point White Dock," "Little Ferry San Mateo Suffers Severe Burns From Burst Steam Pipe," are examples of how personal the boats seemed.
Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters immortalized the ferries in song in 1943. They crooned "The Black Ball Ferry Line" over the radio waves. I believe Bing wrote the lyrics, "On the Black Ball Ferry Line up in Seattle . . . where the whistles blow and the bells toll and the ferry boats go chugging right along. . . . . "
Homesick service men and women were treated to many ballads with geographic and sentimental roots - "Chatanooga Choo Choo", "Moon Over Miami", - The list of hundreds of titles tell the emotional stories of that era - love, friendships, good times and bad, passion, heartaches, fear, joy and more, wrought by the unpredictableness of war. The music was dance-able and sing-able. The Armed Services uniforms opened all the doors at home and the guys and gals could do no wrong. Even though the pall of war darkened the air, it was still exciting and the country bounced with energy.
Lots of Island roads, locations, and communities are named for local residents and old business locations. Other names are more obscure; such as, Toejam Hill, an interesting variation of its original name after a man who lived there, Torjam Hill. An early battle, before the settling of hardy pioneers, a couple of Indian tribes had a beach battle. It was a half-hearted affair with no fatalities but left its mark as Battle Point. During the war it was a military station with an airplane spotting tower. It is now a park and visitors' center. There were roads aptly referred to as "Suicide Lane", "Devil's Dip", and the like. Many of the roads were dirt or gravel. The few street lights in Winslow installed in much earlier years were left unused after a few short months of operation because there reportedly was no interest in maintaining them. And certainly there were no traffic lights - no need because there was little if any "traffic."
In the first frenzied and uncertain days of the war, all lighting at night had to be "blacked out." Blankets hung over windows as families inside anxiously listened to their radios for the latest news. There was a fear that lights seen from the air would help enemy bombing raids. Radio and newspapers were the common communication channels. Cell telephones, television, computers, were the stuff of science fiction. Each day Seattle newspapers were ferried to the Island. Lots of the papers were delivered by hardy boys on bicycles . They stuffed the papers into long tin cylinders nailed to mail box posts or tossed to a porch. One time, a popular boy on his dark, early morning route was seriously injured by a hit and run driver. Islanders were stunned by the heartlessness of "one of their own." The boy was rushed to a Seattle hospital. His condition was carefully followed in the local newspaper. The heavy, woolen watch hat he was wearing may have actually saved his life. But his injury left him unable to follow his dream of being a pro-baseball player. Another of the newspaper carriers took over his route during his two-month recovery, saving his job for him. The other boy only had to get up two hours earlier - 4 a.m. - to complete both routes - BEFORE heading off to school. Islanders stuck by their own.
Ferry commuters could purchase their daily news dose from a stack of papers on one of the docks. There were several landings; the ferries were small; not like the huge vessels of today. On the Island to/from Bremerton route, a tiny boat carried foot traffic only. Winslow's modern, state-owned terminal with its warm waiting room and covered walkway perched above and away from vehicles was years away. Not much thought was given in those times of the possible dangers to the foot passengers. It was the way it was. They gathered as a group either at the loading end of the dock or the lip of the ferry and were hurried on and off before the cars and trucks. In the land of rain the ferry decks and docks were often slippery. The stairs from the bottom decks to the upper decks were steep. It was part of the adventure of living on an island.
That ferryboat commuters consider certain seats to be their very own, is legendary and very true. It was said that ferry coffee, brewed in giant pots that held hours and hours worth of the hot stuff, could curl your hair, was almost true. The tarry liquid was served in thick white mugs and was ambrosia to the early morning crowd and cleared many fogged heads. Women in white uniforms and starched green caps and aprons, knew everyone and usually their orders. In the cafe, the counter curved around stanchions. In stormy weather, it was a balancing act to sit on one of the stools, hanging on with feet and legs wrapped around the pedestal, elbows tensed to the counter, fingers lacing the blistering mugs. Today it is a "Grande Latte" individually brewed and sipped while watching the rich scenery gliding by, no matter what the weather. Commuters still possessively guard their particular seats.
The ferries were little compared to today's giants. Those boats came from California. Part of their initiation was to be re-named to more suit Puget Sound culture - like Klahawnee, Quinault, Illahee, Kehloken, Quilliyote - chunky names for the equally chunky boats.
The ferries, their crews, and captains were almost family members; after all, islanders relied on them as more than just transportation. They were lifelines. The captains took on legendary status. Each vessel had a distinct personality - at least it seemed that way from news articles. They were talked about as if they were people. Nearly every Islander had a favorite boat or considered one their own bad or good luck charm. Sometimes it seemed the boats themselves were alive and kicking as headlines heralded feats and injuries. Headlines like, "Ferry Rosario Rescues Lost 16' Boat - Puts It High and Dry on Point White Dock," "Little Ferry San Mateo Suffers Severe Burns From Burst Steam Pipe," are examples of how personal the boats seemed.
Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters immortalized the ferries in song in 1943. They crooned "The Black Ball Ferry Line" over the radio waves. I believe Bing wrote the lyrics, "On the Black Ball Ferry Line up in Seattle . . . where the whistles blow and the bells toll and the ferry boats go chugging right along. . . . . "
Homesick service men and women were treated to many ballads with geographic and sentimental roots - "Chatanooga Choo Choo", "Moon Over Miami", - The list of hundreds of titles tell the emotional stories of that era - love, friendships, good times and bad, passion, heartaches, fear, joy and more, wrought by the unpredictableness of war. The music was dance-able and sing-able. The Armed Services uniforms opened all the doors at home and the guys and gals could do no wrong. Even though the pall of war darkened the air, it was still exciting and the country bounced with energy.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Surprises! Secrets!
No one told Grandpa my mother and I had joined in the journey West. There wasn't time - the only way would have been by mail. Not only would a telephone call have been expensive, there was not a phone in the new house. Grandma just shrugged her shoulders; there was nothing she could do - hope for the best. But now instead of my two young aunts having rooms of their own, they would have to share. Just as my mother and I would be roommates. Little did anyone know at that moment, another little girl would join us. My mother was pregnant. It was so soon I'm sure not even she knew. My father must have been surprised when he came home from work the day we left. In (my family's) typical "run-away" fashion, my mother had simply left a note on a table telling him his little family was all gone. His story is a mystery. I never saw him again.
So there we were, my baby sister, my cousins, and even my uncle - children born in the cusp decade of 1935 to 1945. After political struggles, our families thrived under the "GI Bill" - health care, education, our own homes. At the same time we suffered the effects of our parents' and grandparents' struggle to cope with "the brave new world." We were raised by families worn out by the "Great Depression" but then renewed and energized by the cost of death and destruction. Our parents and then, us, prospered supplying the necessities of fierce war. Our fathers went to the battle fronts, our mothers went to work. The fathers who came back, were profoundly changed. The mothers who came back home and those who continued to work, too were changed. The women who had donned trousers and took over the home front, chafed at the loss of their freedom and identity. They were tortured with public and private admonitions to return to "a woman's proper place in the home" and burned with guilt if they didn't want to. Those who had chosen to stay at home felt they had been justified in their decision. No one celebrated the end of war who had not been forever, changed.
World War II left gutted countries, cemeteries filled with dead young men, women longing for the arms of their menfolk. It also served as the springboard that secured the "Great American Dream" at last, for America's vast "middle class." The (nicknamed) "GI Bill" was passed despite bitter arguments against it. Veterans were awarded the reality of an education, a house, a car, a chicken in every pot. Even health care finally was provided. A healthy body, eyes, and teeth, too, were possible. Before the war, a young man who could not see too well, suffered from a birth-defect limp, or had bad teeth, was considered a "reject" at least by our government. The need for manpower lowered the so-called standards and gave those otherwise labelled as unfit, a chance at a new, more equal life. Life standards we take for granted today would have seemed unreachable, not even considered, for so many of American citizens, before that conflagration. That was not that long ago!
My family's train ride to change, was uneventful except for a stop somewhere in Montana where I disappeared. It was panic and a noisy search. To the shock of everyone, I stood on top of the railroad bar as the cowboys there counter-searched for my mother. I guess I went looking for my Daddy. Mother put a harness on me.
The new family house on Bainbridge Island included the trappings of a small farm. Grandpa's Swedish farming heritage was never to leave him. There were several buildings besides the house. A barn, a couple of shacks, a wood shed, pigsty with pigs, a hayfield, a cow, and some chickens - I don't know if Grandma wanted a farm but she got one - the whole family did. Even a small farm is a lot of work.
Aunt Evelyn picked us up at the train station. It was teeming with crowds of uniformed young men. Not only were the factories and shipyards of the Seattle area drawing thousands of war workers from all parts of the country, the military bases were expanding exponentially. It was an exhilarating experience for my family, unused as they were to big city life.
It must have been frightening for my grandmother to board a ferry boat to reach her new home. She was deathly afraid of water and Puget Sound looked like the Pacific Ocean to her. The ferries then were owned and operated by the (in)famous Captain Alexander Peabody. He ruled the waterways with his Black Ball Ferry Line. The now familiar green and black smokestacks of the state-owned vessels were red and black under their private ownership. The company flag was red with a black circle in its middle - hauntingly akin to the flag of Japan.
Grandpa's Model T with its embarassing decal of a bubble dancer on the driver's door, chugged up from the Winslow ferry dock. Our new home was a winding drive along gravel and dirt roads mostly along beach fronts to the north end of the Island. I'm sure that drive was a curiosity to the family from the flat prairies of Minnesota. A stranger doffed his hat in greeting and set about helping unload the car. Aunt Evelyn introduced him as Mr. Murdock. He was silent, skinny, dressed in shabby, dark work clothes. There was a Mrs. Murdock, too. She was silent, tiny, and uncomfortably timid and shy. They lived in one of the shacks in exchange for helping with the farm chores. Their addition to the family circle was not known until we met them face to face. No family stories remain about how and/or why they strayed so far from their home country, Australia.
In the late summer, it was time for the hay to be harvested. Gas rationing was in full force. Using a tractor was out of the question. My mother, Aunt Evelyn, and Mr. Murdock cut the hay with old fashioned hand scythes. The hay was stored in the barn's loft in anticipation of winter. A photograph of the two women in the hayfield clearly displays my mother's anger at being reduced to a field hand. Her legendary anger made a scowling grimace of her pretty face. Aunt Evelyn looks resigned. She was a tall, strong woman who took pride in keeping pace and coping with whatever life handed her. Looking at her, no one would ever have guessed she was the Jezebel who had stolen the heart of her father's sister's husband. Passion is potent in a heart ripe for love.
Many Islanders kept farm animals and raised vegetables and fruits. It still was a rural, more agricultural place than what it is now; renowned as chic, sophisticated, worldly. Then it was considered a backwater if it was even considered at all. (When, as a high school graduate, I moved from "the Rock" to the metropolis of Seattle, I always said I was from Seattle - no one would have known where Bainbridge Island was.)
The war provided more work than workers as the "boys" went off to fight. Women soon were welding airplanes and ships and driving trucks. And so began "women's lib", in bits and pieces it's true, but began nonetheless. My mother was one of those legendary "Rosie the Riveters" as she eschewed dresses and worked as an electrician in the Island's shipyard. She met her new best friend, Gertrude, and the two of them gaily played and had the time of their lives as they partied through the war. After their shipyard shifts, they would shed their coveralls and kerchiefs, don fresh lipstick and go dancing - on the ferries. It was of course against the rules, but rules didn't apply to our country's beloved service boys - yes - they were lovingly called "boys" because they were everyone's sons, brothers, sweethearts, the boy('s) next door. The ferry boats were sort of like floating USO's as crews ignored the beers passing from hand to hand and the flirtations. After all, the world could end tomorrow or even tonight - there was no logical reason to not enjoy life as much as one could.
So life began anew in a changed fashion for everyone. This is not to denegrate the ferocious changes, deaths, imprisonments, and horrible fighting of the battlefront - this is to highlight the homefront - the opposite side of the war that forever changed life for the whole world.
So there we were, my baby sister, my cousins, and even my uncle - children born in the cusp decade of 1935 to 1945. After political struggles, our families thrived under the "GI Bill" - health care, education, our own homes. At the same time we suffered the effects of our parents' and grandparents' struggle to cope with "the brave new world." We were raised by families worn out by the "Great Depression" but then renewed and energized by the cost of death and destruction. Our parents and then, us, prospered supplying the necessities of fierce war. Our fathers went to the battle fronts, our mothers went to work. The fathers who came back, were profoundly changed. The mothers who came back home and those who continued to work, too were changed. The women who had donned trousers and took over the home front, chafed at the loss of their freedom and identity. They were tortured with public and private admonitions to return to "a woman's proper place in the home" and burned with guilt if they didn't want to. Those who had chosen to stay at home felt they had been justified in their decision. No one celebrated the end of war who had not been forever, changed.
World War II left gutted countries, cemeteries filled with dead young men, women longing for the arms of their menfolk. It also served as the springboard that secured the "Great American Dream" at last, for America's vast "middle class." The (nicknamed) "GI Bill" was passed despite bitter arguments against it. Veterans were awarded the reality of an education, a house, a car, a chicken in every pot. Even health care finally was provided. A healthy body, eyes, and teeth, too, were possible. Before the war, a young man who could not see too well, suffered from a birth-defect limp, or had bad teeth, was considered a "reject" at least by our government. The need for manpower lowered the so-called standards and gave those otherwise labelled as unfit, a chance at a new, more equal life. Life standards we take for granted today would have seemed unreachable, not even considered, for so many of American citizens, before that conflagration. That was not that long ago!
My family's train ride to change, was uneventful except for a stop somewhere in Montana where I disappeared. It was panic and a noisy search. To the shock of everyone, I stood on top of the railroad bar as the cowboys there counter-searched for my mother. I guess I went looking for my Daddy. Mother put a harness on me.
The new family house on Bainbridge Island included the trappings of a small farm. Grandpa's Swedish farming heritage was never to leave him. There were several buildings besides the house. A barn, a couple of shacks, a wood shed, pigsty with pigs, a hayfield, a cow, and some chickens - I don't know if Grandma wanted a farm but she got one - the whole family did. Even a small farm is a lot of work.
Aunt Evelyn picked us up at the train station. It was teeming with crowds of uniformed young men. Not only were the factories and shipyards of the Seattle area drawing thousands of war workers from all parts of the country, the military bases were expanding exponentially. It was an exhilarating experience for my family, unused as they were to big city life.
It must have been frightening for my grandmother to board a ferry boat to reach her new home. She was deathly afraid of water and Puget Sound looked like the Pacific Ocean to her. The ferries then were owned and operated by the (in)famous Captain Alexander Peabody. He ruled the waterways with his Black Ball Ferry Line. The now familiar green and black smokestacks of the state-owned vessels were red and black under their private ownership. The company flag was red with a black circle in its middle - hauntingly akin to the flag of Japan.
Grandpa's Model T with its embarassing decal of a bubble dancer on the driver's door, chugged up from the Winslow ferry dock. Our new home was a winding drive along gravel and dirt roads mostly along beach fronts to the north end of the Island. I'm sure that drive was a curiosity to the family from the flat prairies of Minnesota. A stranger doffed his hat in greeting and set about helping unload the car. Aunt Evelyn introduced him as Mr. Murdock. He was silent, skinny, dressed in shabby, dark work clothes. There was a Mrs. Murdock, too. She was silent, tiny, and uncomfortably timid and shy. They lived in one of the shacks in exchange for helping with the farm chores. Their addition to the family circle was not known until we met them face to face. No family stories remain about how and/or why they strayed so far from their home country, Australia.
In the late summer, it was time for the hay to be harvested. Gas rationing was in full force. Using a tractor was out of the question. My mother, Aunt Evelyn, and Mr. Murdock cut the hay with old fashioned hand scythes. The hay was stored in the barn's loft in anticipation of winter. A photograph of the two women in the hayfield clearly displays my mother's anger at being reduced to a field hand. Her legendary anger made a scowling grimace of her pretty face. Aunt Evelyn looks resigned. She was a tall, strong woman who took pride in keeping pace and coping with whatever life handed her. Looking at her, no one would ever have guessed she was the Jezebel who had stolen the heart of her father's sister's husband. Passion is potent in a heart ripe for love.
Many Islanders kept farm animals and raised vegetables and fruits. It still was a rural, more agricultural place than what it is now; renowned as chic, sophisticated, worldly. Then it was considered a backwater if it was even considered at all. (When, as a high school graduate, I moved from "the Rock" to the metropolis of Seattle, I always said I was from Seattle - no one would have known where Bainbridge Island was.)
The war provided more work than workers as the "boys" went off to fight. Women soon were welding airplanes and ships and driving trucks. And so began "women's lib", in bits and pieces it's true, but began nonetheless. My mother was one of those legendary "Rosie the Riveters" as she eschewed dresses and worked as an electrician in the Island's shipyard. She met her new best friend, Gertrude, and the two of them gaily played and had the time of their lives as they partied through the war. After their shipyard shifts, they would shed their coveralls and kerchiefs, don fresh lipstick and go dancing - on the ferries. It was of course against the rules, but rules didn't apply to our country's beloved service boys - yes - they were lovingly called "boys" because they were everyone's sons, brothers, sweethearts, the boy('s) next door. The ferry boats were sort of like floating USO's as crews ignored the beers passing from hand to hand and the flirtations. After all, the world could end tomorrow or even tonight - there was no logical reason to not enjoy life as much as one could.
So life began anew in a changed fashion for everyone. This is not to denegrate the ferocious changes, deaths, imprisonments, and horrible fighting of the battlefront - this is to highlight the homefront - the opposite side of the war that forever changed life for the whole world.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Rumors and facts
Before World War II, Bainbridge Island was rural, isolated, a sanctuary for ordinary people. It would never be quite the same once it was overrun by "newcomers." In 1942, the year-round population of according to one count, 3,200, almost doubled. Some of the new citizens took the foot ferry from the west side of the Island to Bremerton where they worked at the booming Naval Shipyard. Others clocked in at the Winslow Shipyard and the Creosote Plant each located at different places on the shores of Eagle Harbor; the tiny inlet that afforded deep water to the docks surrounding it. Island ferry commuters were joined by the newbies on the picturesque crossing to Seattle and its factories, shipyards, and related "war effort" manufacturers and suppliers. The Pacific NW experienced a population boom. The East coast and the industrial center states were experiencing an influx of people, too, but in the sparsely populated states of the West, the growth was far more visible. Such growth on an island by definition a strictly limited space, was especially notable.
The Island was and still is,a 35 to 45 minute ferry ride to/from downtown Seattle. In 1951, the culmination of a long, bitter battle, the Agate Pass bridge at the Island's northern end was finally completed. The Olympic Peninsula was finally accessible to the general public. The little fishing town of Poulsbo had a largely Norwegian population - the unofficial language was Norwegian - as many spoke that as spoke English. The people of Poulsbo and its surrounds weren't impressed by their introduction to the "outside world."
So in 1942 my family, accustomed to the flat plains and un-salted waters of the Great Lakes, must have experienced culture shock. The climate and landscape were so different. No one dared complain because Grandpa ruled the roost and it had been his decision to make the dramatic move. It was whispered that Grandpa planned to return to Minnesota once the war ended.
The reputation of the Pacific NW as being more-often-than-not, rainy is true. Raindrops drizzle and splatter causing constant feelings of wet and mildew. The sun is unpredictable. Silvery grey is the usual color of the sky. When the sun does shine, a depth-defying blue canopy envelopes the entire geography. To the east and south of the Island, sparkling cities, Seattle and Tacoma, rise from the edge of Puget Sound. Behind them, the Cascade Mountain range rises majesticly. To the west and north, are more forests and mountains. The Olympic Mountain Range, the rain forests of the Olympic Peninsula, and all the other immense stands of giant trees that drew the early nineteenth and twentieth century robber lumber barons still encompass Puget Sound. Despite the early butchery of clear-cutting, the Pacific NW remains anchored in forestry. If you are in a floating vessel of any kind plying the hypnotic waters of Puget Sound, in all directions, rise year-round snow-frosted mountains and dark green forests. To the southeast, Mount Rainier rises in Pope-like majesty. Although clouds, fog, and rain often obscures the mountain, its presence is ever-present, a monolith.
Nature's symphony includes sounds and smells. There are the bells and whistles of foghorns, seals bark, killer whales breach and blow, waves lap and lash. Winds are either cradle-songs or the bellow the voices of storms. Ferries toot and chug their constant rhythm of reassurance. Beaches, coves, and inlets offer their intoxicating perfume of salt water, wet sand, fishy odors of the life cycles of crabs, clams, fish and vegetation; seaweed, driftwood, the mucky odors and tunes of the swamps nearby. Stands of evergreens, vine maple, madronas; their feet nestled in blankets of mosses, ferns, skunk cabbage, and treasured trilliums hum amongest un-named flora and fauna. It is intricate and exquisite. It is a composition by the master of all of us. There are hills, meadows, harbors, bays, thick woods, gravel pits, ravines, a miniscule lake, all add to the scene. The Island is lacey with lanes, roads, and paths. There is a tiny town and several village centers. The people who live there are the audience to this symphonic portrait. This still is as it was.
In the decades of the forties and fifties, the story of change remains. Like everywhere it is one of growth. The past must be tucked in our memory and not forgotten.
In the early months of WWII and before, rumors and hints of danger were evident because in February 1941 the Island's weekly newspaper reported the installation of "barrage balloons - baby blimps attached to earth by slender steel cables" - across the narrow pass which separated the Island from the narrow stretch of the mainland which lead to Bremerton, Washington. There, a major Naval shipyard hovered at the edge of Puget Sound and was known to be an important military location. The steel cables of the balloons were meant to cause damage to low-flying enemy aircraft. Smoke screens were tested routinely across major waterways. Strong fishing nets were strung underwater to deter hostile submarines.
American suspicion of foreigners had caused Japanese immigration to be halted by federal mandate many years before, in 1924. In 1940 and 1941 the Japanese living in Washington, Oregon, and California had either immigrated long years before WWII or had been born in the United States. As my family arrived on Bainbridge early in 1942, the Island's Japanese population of 242 men, women, and children, had just been hauled off to internment camps. Islanders were of course bewildered by their removal. Some celebrated the enemies' disappearance; just as many said it was not justified. No matter now, it must be remembered that then it was the first time Americans were fearful of being attacked in their own homes. Irrational emotions can be reviled later, but it must be judged in the context of the time. More than a half century later, it is odd to think of the war preparations that were considered necessary than.
I must relate some of the rumors that circulated in those times. My aunt tells me some of the only things she remembers about the war (she was less than ten years old) were scary rumors about the Japanese hiding in the trees and the ultra-deep ditches of the Island. That they (the Japs - a historical reference to a derogatory term for our then enemies) used their radios to not only communicate with their countrymen but to set off dynamite explosions. There were rumors of legions of Japanese soldiers and sailors waiting in landing vessels just beyond our Pacific shores. Hysteria was everywhere and in the minds of most, manipulating even the most clear-headed Americans.
It is important to set the context of the time. It was long before the ubiquitous TV instant news reporting, video broadcasts, etc. Overnight delivery was far in the future. Computers were a thing of science fiction. Radio and newspapers were the sources of communication. There were movie newsreels but their stories were hardly current and on the Island, the little theatre at the village of Lynnwood only operated on the weekends and nothing was new. The cost of first-run "flickers" was beyond the budget of the tiny entertainment center. Mail could be sent by air but only at a higher price than slower transportation - trucks, trains, boats - and in rural America, including Bainbridge Island, people either picked up their mail at a post office or it was delivered by postal service employees often driving their own automobiles.
The circumstances of every day life were far different, more primitive some would say, than how we live today.
The Island was and still is,a 35 to 45 minute ferry ride to/from downtown Seattle. In 1951, the culmination of a long, bitter battle, the Agate Pass bridge at the Island's northern end was finally completed. The Olympic Peninsula was finally accessible to the general public. The little fishing town of Poulsbo had a largely Norwegian population - the unofficial language was Norwegian - as many spoke that as spoke English. The people of Poulsbo and its surrounds weren't impressed by their introduction to the "outside world."
So in 1942 my family, accustomed to the flat plains and un-salted waters of the Great Lakes, must have experienced culture shock. The climate and landscape were so different. No one dared complain because Grandpa ruled the roost and it had been his decision to make the dramatic move. It was whispered that Grandpa planned to return to Minnesota once the war ended.
The reputation of the Pacific NW as being more-often-than-not, rainy is true. Raindrops drizzle and splatter causing constant feelings of wet and mildew. The sun is unpredictable. Silvery grey is the usual color of the sky. When the sun does shine, a depth-defying blue canopy envelopes the entire geography. To the east and south of the Island, sparkling cities, Seattle and Tacoma, rise from the edge of Puget Sound. Behind them, the Cascade Mountain range rises majesticly. To the west and north, are more forests and mountains. The Olympic Mountain Range, the rain forests of the Olympic Peninsula, and all the other immense stands of giant trees that drew the early nineteenth and twentieth century robber lumber barons still encompass Puget Sound. Despite the early butchery of clear-cutting, the Pacific NW remains anchored in forestry. If you are in a floating vessel of any kind plying the hypnotic waters of Puget Sound, in all directions, rise year-round snow-frosted mountains and dark green forests. To the southeast, Mount Rainier rises in Pope-like majesty. Although clouds, fog, and rain often obscures the mountain, its presence is ever-present, a monolith.
Nature's symphony includes sounds and smells. There are the bells and whistles of foghorns, seals bark, killer whales breach and blow, waves lap and lash. Winds are either cradle-songs or the bellow the voices of storms. Ferries toot and chug their constant rhythm of reassurance. Beaches, coves, and inlets offer their intoxicating perfume of salt water, wet sand, fishy odors of the life cycles of crabs, clams, fish and vegetation; seaweed, driftwood, the mucky odors and tunes of the swamps nearby. Stands of evergreens, vine maple, madronas; their feet nestled in blankets of mosses, ferns, skunk cabbage, and treasured trilliums hum amongest un-named flora and fauna. It is intricate and exquisite. It is a composition by the master of all of us. There are hills, meadows, harbors, bays, thick woods, gravel pits, ravines, a miniscule lake, all add to the scene. The Island is lacey with lanes, roads, and paths. There is a tiny town and several village centers. The people who live there are the audience to this symphonic portrait. This still is as it was.
In the decades of the forties and fifties, the story of change remains. Like everywhere it is one of growth. The past must be tucked in our memory and not forgotten.
In the early months of WWII and before, rumors and hints of danger were evident because in February 1941 the Island's weekly newspaper reported the installation of "barrage balloons - baby blimps attached to earth by slender steel cables" - across the narrow pass which separated the Island from the narrow stretch of the mainland which lead to Bremerton, Washington. There, a major Naval shipyard hovered at the edge of Puget Sound and was known to be an important military location. The steel cables of the balloons were meant to cause damage to low-flying enemy aircraft. Smoke screens were tested routinely across major waterways. Strong fishing nets were strung underwater to deter hostile submarines.
American suspicion of foreigners had caused Japanese immigration to be halted by federal mandate many years before, in 1924. In 1940 and 1941 the Japanese living in Washington, Oregon, and California had either immigrated long years before WWII or had been born in the United States. As my family arrived on Bainbridge early in 1942, the Island's Japanese population of 242 men, women, and children, had just been hauled off to internment camps. Islanders were of course bewildered by their removal. Some celebrated the enemies' disappearance; just as many said it was not justified. No matter now, it must be remembered that then it was the first time Americans were fearful of being attacked in their own homes. Irrational emotions can be reviled later, but it must be judged in the context of the time. More than a half century later, it is odd to think of the war preparations that were considered necessary than.
I must relate some of the rumors that circulated in those times. My aunt tells me some of the only things she remembers about the war (she was less than ten years old) were scary rumors about the Japanese hiding in the trees and the ultra-deep ditches of the Island. That they (the Japs - a historical reference to a derogatory term for our then enemies) used their radios to not only communicate with their countrymen but to set off dynamite explosions. There were rumors of legions of Japanese soldiers and sailors waiting in landing vessels just beyond our Pacific shores. Hysteria was everywhere and in the minds of most, manipulating even the most clear-headed Americans.
It is important to set the context of the time. It was long before the ubiquitous TV instant news reporting, video broadcasts, etc. Overnight delivery was far in the future. Computers were a thing of science fiction. Radio and newspapers were the sources of communication. There were movie newsreels but their stories were hardly current and on the Island, the little theatre at the village of Lynnwood only operated on the weekends and nothing was new. The cost of first-run "flickers" was beyond the budget of the tiny entertainment center. Mail could be sent by air but only at a higher price than slower transportation - trucks, trains, boats - and in rural America, including Bainbridge Island, people either picked up their mail at a post office or it was delivered by postal service employees often driving their own automobiles.
The circumstances of every day life were far different, more primitive some would say, than how we live today.
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