The whole reason I moved to the Rock... the birth of my son. It happened right after my last post to this blog. And the following three months were a crazy colicky ride. But now I'm back, with a few new hobbies (thanks to late third trimester insomnia) and a beautiful baby to introduce to his new home. Welcome Niblo, to the universe, the earth, and the tiny island of Bainbridge. It'll be so exciting to (re)discover it all together (especially now that you've stopped crying so much...)

Last year was my very first Bainbridge Christmas. I sang carols with the Bainbridge Chorale and suffered through a power outage and prayed for unseasonable snowfall. And even though I spent the actual day with my family in Illinois, I got a taste of what happens on The Rock during the holidays. And this year, I'm not leaving.

First, there was the Christmas tree lighting. Two trees were lit up in lights, a big evergreen in front of the Bainbridge Performing Arts Center and a smaller tree off the downtown main drag. Last year, we gathered around the big tree in a large unruly circle, singing Christmas carols and sipping warm apple cider and waiting for Santa. The tree itself was wonderful in its sincerity, with strands of Christmas lights thrown every which way in an effort to scale the overwhelming size of the evergreen--the bottom half in a horizontal pattern, the top half vertical, until all the lights criss-crossed around themselves in utter exhaustion. It was a beautiful sight. [It reminded me of the many times my father and I attempted to string lights around our own massive outdoor evergreen, choosing a different technique each time, making all efforts to think it through and attack the project with intelligence, every attempt eventually giving way to frustration and surrender. The tree was just too big. After I left home and my father was abandoned to face the task alone--and the evergreen continued to grow taller and taller--he stopped decorating the top of the tree altogether. Now the lights wrap around it in beautiful uniformity, stopping somewhere around six feet from the ground. My father is only 5'9", after all.]

Then there was the dash from the big tree to the smaller one, where everyone tumbled and straggled and ambled down Madrone Lane, and across the very busy main street. I remember WD grabbing me by the arm, because in my desperation to get to the smaller tree "in time for carols" I forgot to look before crossing the street. I don't think I was the only one. There were many horns honking, and not just at me, as the huge group clustered around the tree, spilling out into the street, a mass of dogs and strollers and carolers. There was apple cider afterwards, and it was good. I don't think anyone was run over.

And then there was the fire engine. Let me set the stage: the power has been out for several days. WD and I have decided that even though it's 9pm, we're tired of playing monopoly by candlelight and maybe it's time for bed. The dog is hiding in the corner, because he hates candles, and I consider whether I should read by flashlight. WD is already snoring. Then the dog jumps up and starts growling. I give WD a good shove and he rolls over. There is a strange sound coming from the front yard, like someone singing along with Alvin and the Chipmunks. WD hears it, too. It gets louder and louder and suddenly we see lights coming through the window, flashing all different colors. Is this a joke? I mean, didn't I see this in a horror movie once?

When we get the courage to look out the window, we see a fire engine entirely lit with Christmas lights, blasting Christmas music over its loud speaker. The people inside are wearing Santa hats. We shine a flashlight at them, to let them know we're here in the darkness and we're safe. They sit at the end of our driveway for several minutes, and WD is laughing. I want to cry. We'd felt so alone and abandoned in the darkness of our first Bainbridge Christmas, not able to light the tree or watch the same old holiday movies on television. And the fire engine is like Scrooge's Ghost of Christmas Present, reminding us to have faith in the good of humanity. Can you imagine anything more corny? And more perfect?

This week the Christmas season starts again on Bainbridge, with the annual tree lighting on Thursday, November 29th. I'm over 8 months pregnant and loathe to leave my couch, let alone attend a community gathering. But I'll be there. I'm going to see the tree and sing the carols and hobble my way across the busy main street to drink apple cider. And then I'll go home, back to my couch, and wait for the strange sound of Christmas music coming from a fire engine's loudspeaker. And I'll pray for unseasonable snowfall, and hope that this year, the lights don't go out.

(You can find out more about upcoming Bainbridge holiday events by clicking on the "Bainbridge Hollydays" links to the right, or by keeping an eye on this blog.)

At eighteen years old my parents registered me to vote and sent me out to the polls with a single request: "Vote Democrat." This was easy enough when choosing my president, but the local elections got a bit more tricky. Many times there were several Democrats running for the same office, or worse, a whole slew of people who called themselves "Unaffiliated." I have to confess, at the time I felt it was worse not to vote at all than to vote based on gender. (I always chose women.) Failing a female candidate, I voted based upon the uniqueness of the name. Later, my parents would quiz me, "Did you vote for Mr. Z? Or Mr. Y?" Most of the time I couldn't remember. But I'd voted, so I figured my part was done.

When I realized this was a foolish system, I stopped voting in local elections altogether. It seemed that no matter where I lived, things went on exactly as they always had, regardless of who actually won. (Obviously, I wasn't paying very close attention.) I still voted for the president, even once attending a local primary, but seven years ago my faith in the "every vote counts" cliche was a bit shaken. Voting had become another one of those things which caused my bitter old adult self to laugh mirthlessly without looking up from the newspaper. Pour another cup of coffee. The world is a cruel place.

When I moved to Bainbridge, though, something very strange happened. After I dutifully registered to vote (take that bitterness) I got a ballot in the mail. In the mail! I'd never heard of such a thing. How very strange, indeed. But so brilliant. Especially when it was followed by a rather thick pamphlet detailing the issues, the candidates, and where they all stood. Finally, I thought, my willfull ignorance has met its match.

And yet I still had trouble. The ballot would arrive and then sit on my kitchen table for days on end. WD is a resident alien, not a citizen, and therefore doesn't have the right to vote. So the weight was even greater. We share the same political views. I had the responsibility of voting for two. Complicating things even more, it seemed there were ballots arriving all the time, asking me to vote for this or that, demanding I educate myself on library initiatives or ferry rates. I started to dread the sight of those little envelopes. The ghost of my socialist grandfather was disappointed. My inner feminist was downright PO'd.

But this election I gathered myself together. I joined a listserve. I subscribed to blogs. I lurked around other people's online conversations, read newspapers, tried to formulate my own decisions. By the time the envelope came, I was ready for it, and mailed it back the very same day.

I'm proud of myself. I may have actually learned something. It might be easier next time.

And best of all, if it doesn't go my way, this time I have the right to complain. And that even makes my bitter old adult self smile, with her coffee-stained teeth.

Welcome to the resurrected Bainbridge Breezes blog. I'm the new girl, taking over from Wendy Wallace, who has moved on to better things. You can still read her old blog posts, which will remain posted on the web and in the archives, but from now on it's just me and you and Bainbridge Island. So get comfy.

My story begins almost two years ago, when I moved to Bainbridge to own a house and settle down and start a family. My husband, WD, and I packed up our little Seattle apartment, got on the ferry boat, and tried to breathe. Owning our first house was frightening, but on an island? My family in the Midwest kept asking me questions like "Do they have stores out there or do you have to do all your shopping in Seattle?" and "Does anyone on the island own a car?" Obviously, they didn't understand certain things about the Pacific Northwest (its geography, for one...)

WD grew up in a city. I was raised on a farm, so I took every opportunity to boast about my ability to maneuver a rural environment. WD had never even mowed a lawn before. Granted, our little house on Bainbridge sits on a small half-acre, but after several years in the concrete jungle, it felt like I was home again. I sent my mother an e-mail telling her how nice it would be to have a backporch. There were giant trees surrounding my house and wild strawberries growing in the yard and an ocean bay just down the street. I couldn't wait to buy a hammock and a pair of overalls.

Until the ferry shut down. I was alone, in the new house, with two freaked-out apartment cats and no curtains on the windows. The movers had left hours before, it was getting dark, my cell phone was dying... And WD was still on the other side of the water. The cats and I locked ourselves in the bathroom and hid in the tub.

This was our first night on Bainbridge and the next day was my birthday, so WD had made a last-minute trip back to Seattle to get the cake (we've since learned where you can buy cake on the island, by the way). And then there was a bomb scare at the ferry terminal. And WD was left without any way to get home.

This is not a new story. I've heard many others like it. Bainbridge has a way of welcoming the new people, just in case they had any idealistic delusions about "life on an island."

Needless to say, we eventually settled in. There have been many canceled ferries since then, many power outages, many wild-eyed racoons on my innocent backporch... hungry coyotes yelping in the distance... countless odd Twin Peaks moments between me and a few of the less-friendly locals (animal, plant, and mineral.)

They say if you can last a year on Bainbridge, and still love it, you might just stay for a lifetime. Now that I'm pregnant and due in a matter of weeks, I'm starting to feel like this is my home. Exploring the family-friendly aspects of the island has been the most sincere fun I've had since my old farm days, and it's a journey I'm just beginning. And as long as nobody minds my tattoos, I might not miss living in the city at all.

And after that first night, alone in the darkness without any idea where in the world I had landed, we bought a dog. He barks at every squirrel that scurries across the roof in the middle of the night, but he keeps us warm when the heat goes out. And maybe this year, we'll even buy a generator (stay tuned...)

Jessica Star

Yes, dear friends, neighbors and other readers lost in the maze of the P-I blogosphere who accidentally ended up here, I am writing to tell you that I am ending my blogging time here at the P-I.

Just hold your cheers until the end, please!

This fall I am focusing more time and energy on finishing and publishing my fiction writing. So, in an effort to simplify life, I am bowing out of this job. I'll keep up my personal blog, Let the Dog in!, but probably at a slower pace. Feel free to visit there anytime!

This is kind of like a new year's resolution, only in October.

So kill me, I'm ten months late. Or a few months early.

If you or someone you know residing on Bainbridge Island would like to take over the reigns of this blog, please comment here or email me. I'll happily put you in touch with the P-I blogman. The pay is not so great, but it can be an amusing jaunt.

Happy reading to all!

Wendy

Just a few folks from Bainbridge, as well as some from Seattle, came out to hear Greg Mortenson, author of Three Cups of Tea, speak last night at our high school gym. Actually, they needed speakers and screens of the presentation outside for all those turned away.

In case you have been scuba diving in Honduras for the past year and don't know his story, after a failed attempt at the K2 summit, Mortenson spent time in a Pakistani village and promised to return to build them a school. He did. Since then, he and his organization, Central Asia Institute, have been building schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan, including all-girls schools.

His message provides lessons for us all.

On the broadest interpretation, his story offers great hope for peace, political bridge-building in communities worldwide, and improved health care for impoverished areas.

Given the widespread attention and awards his book has received, his story also offers hope for first-time writers everywhere.

Perhaps most importantly, by virtue of his humble, unintentional beginning, his story offers hope for anyone experiencing failure in his life.

Only in descending from a failed K2 summit attempt did his real and most purposeful ascent begin.

Nice to hear an inspiring and hopeful message about the world.

Be sure to check out his book. Let's hope our world leaders do, too.

If you live on Bainbridge, chances are you've been to the aquatic center. Two pools, one solely for laps, a lazy river, a dark and spooky slide, a whirlpool, a sauna, a tots pool, a swinging rope, and a few ginormous floating boats and climbing obstacles.

It has it all. Almost.

From the time we moved here, I noticed a door with a special sign on it reading "steam room." However, if you chose to try it out, you were bombarded with stacks of kickboards and other pool paraphenalia falling on your head.

I wondered if this was a part of some great community experiment. We have a space; we have a sign. If everyone can visualize the steam, the heat......

Actually, they managed to run out of money in the construction of the center before getting to the steam room. That is what I was told. How anyone could choose to finish a sauna over a steam room is beyond me. Pulleeeaaaze. Dry heat versus a warm, wet hug? Do the mafia bosses meet in saunas? Heck no. It's steam all the way.

At this point what we all need to know here is they are trying to get the steam heat. You don't have to write a check either. Just clear out that spare room. They are taking donations of items, household items and otherwise, to sell as fundraisers. You can find deals there, too.

Personally, I have some extra chairs and framed posters that I would gladly trade for a steam room! Winter is coming; colds abound. Nothing feels better than to breathe in the warm, moist air of a steam room with that slight hint of eucalyptus. Ahhhhh.

Come on, you know you want it!

Give generously! Clear that clutter!

Alright, I'm officially old, but as I recall when I was a kid and temporarily without parental supervision, I would head away from other people's parents.

Not pick a place where mothers are hanging around with their little kids. How is this cool? Mothers, babies, that's the kind of scene where someone gets whacked. Or at least given a good talking-to.

Why do all these kids, I'm guessing junior high aged, head to that little "grocery store park," as one of our little friends calls it? The lower level of Waterfront Park, while it doesn't yet have its restrooms installed, still has numerous picnic tables and a little something realtor types call waterfront. Waterfront is not cool? Come on, you can throw all kinds of things at it! Splashing, swishing. Not cool?

Last time my kid and I went to the park, allll the swings were being used by "big kids." The big slide was clogged full of "big kids," and the tiniest, flatest baby slide was crammed full of "big kids." (all true, I have witnesses!)

Three year olds had to wait their turn for their babysitters to get off the equipment.

Does this island need a junior high park? With wifi hot spots and a latte cart? And, of course, swings.

Well, it's that time again, folks. Soccer season.

Having never played on a real team as a kid (when was Title 9....?), I was one of those sisters who went to her brother's games. Cheering, hanging around, eventually crushing on his fellow teammates.....

Anyway, now I am parent to one four-year-old girl who is playing. Or, was supposed to play.

We didn't have just the game to worry about either. I volunteered to be the manager of the team. I'm not sure why. It must have been some Marsha Brady stupor I was under at the time the Parks and Recreation Department notice came.

So off we go to play/manage. Fortunately for me, Parks and Rec provides a ref/trainer for the girls. I notice the other team's manager handing out all her shirts to her girls right away and then they huddle.

I also notice a couple of my girls were looking over at the huddle. Some started to walk slowly towards that group. I knew what they were thinking.....

That must be the teacher. She is full of authority and listen to all the information she is telling those girls. Must go there..... Must hear that....

Meanwhile, I'm thinking, what is there to say? Kick the ball to the goal. Stay in the lines. You'll all take turns playing and resting. What else is there to say? What IS she telling the four-year-olds??? I started leaning out, just to eavesdrop.

They all warm-up together, practice some moves, and then play their game. Mostly, they run the right direction. Mostly. But, some doofus decided that they should play like big kids and switch directions at the half. Try explaining that to a four-year-old.

Everyone had fun, except my kid who freaked out that her mom was talking to another child and after much screaming and leg-hugging, refused to play.

Now, she claims to be my "assistant manager" for the next game.

After all the stress and heartache, my only question is this:

Can I get my money back on the pink shinguards?

I'd never make it as a reporter (you don't need to tell me this, dear reader says). I am not "up" on events, don't get the local paper (I just had to cancel my subscription recently!......NOT! :) ), and I don't like being told to do something, go somewhere, and report on this or that.

All of which is my own personal baggage (but it's cute, waterproof and expandable from carry on size to cargo), and I usually carry it around myself.

However, it does leave me missing out on things. What now? Zucchini races.

Yes, here I thought they were mostly just good for my chocolate-zucchini cake, but no. It seems that upon proper preparation, this handy vegetable can ZOOM.

I missed it. Fast ones, slow ones, fancy ones, plain ones. They were at the Bainbridge Farmer's Market yesterday.

If anyone has some eye-witness accounts, or even better, pictures, please share.

Maybe I'll actually go somewhere soon and report back with pictures myself.....maybe. Unless it keeps raining.