Tag Archives: Eastsound WA

Yes, There is a Fourth of July in Bangkok.

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You know that elementary school joke: “Is there a Fourth of July in England?” Of course there is! It just isn’t Independence Day for them the way it is for us here in the US of A.

I’ve spent holidays in some unique places. Thanksgiving in Tunisia (let’s just say there was no turkey for dinner), several Christmases in West Berlin, Easter in Paris, and The Fourth of July in Thailand.

Spending your country’s independence day in a different country is bizarre. You feel patriotic and guilty, both at the same time. Kind of like when I traveled to the USSR in high school and all I wanted to do was chew gum…and I hate gum. It was this tenuous connection to the USA – something that made me feel American…as if I needed reminding when all around me was the Cyrillic alphabet, furry hats, and borscht.

When the Fourth of July rolled around in Bangkok the summer of 1989, all of the American ex-patriots were invited to the American Embassy’s front lawn for a down-home American picnic, complete with hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob, and ice cream. There were games, too: three-legged races and tug-of-war. And, at the end of the day, fireworks.

Let’s just say that the American embassy in Thailand doesn’t have a very big fireworks budget.

But, that being said, that afternoon and evening stand out in my mind as one of the most memorable Independence Day celebrations I’ve ever had. Being away from home made home all that much more special.

But I think the best Fourth of Julys were spent on Orcas Island, growing up. Their budget – supplemented by tin donation cans at every island store all summer long – was a million times larger than the Thai embassy’s. Orcas Island had – and still has – the best fireworks I’ve ever seen.

When the sun goes down, round about 10:00 at that latitude, the people of the island – along with a gazillion tourists – line Eastsound Bay and wait patiently for the show to start. Out on tiny Indian Island (only slightly less unpolitically correct than its former name, “Jap Island”) – with fireboats floating at the ready – the pyrotechnics are about to begin.

Now, Orcas Island is an upside-down horse-shoe shape, and Eastsound Bay is at the top of the inner part of the “U”. All around the bay, then, is island and hills – big hills – hills which would be called mountains around here in Minnesota. Indian Island is an itsy-bitsy island just at the head of the bay, which can be reached at low-tide if you’re booted up and keep a wary eye on the rising tide so that you don’t get stranded. It’s the perfect spot for fireworks, as any accidental fire is contained on the island, and you have this amphitheater surrounding it with space for hundreds of viewers, both on land and by sea.

So, picture this: you’ve shimmied across a narrow rock path to get to your favorite place on the beach. In the dark, no less. And now you’re sitting on a promontory, hearing the local YMCA campers singing campfire songs at the top of their lungs (the sound traveling across the water), hearing waves lapping a few feet away, and watching the star-strewn sky for the explosion of fireworks.

There are probably 25 boats out on the bay, sitting quietly at anchor.

Occasionally the sound of laughter or popping of champagne corks comes faintly toward you, but nothing too obnoxious.

Then comes the first burst of color, the BOOM of powder, and the echo of it all ricocheting off the mountains.

Explosion after explosion, reflected on the water, in our eyes, in our hearts.

Now THAT, my friends, is how to spend the Fourth of July.

Happy Birthday, America.

Oh, the irony! 23 years after my summer in Thailand, my husband went to Bangkok for a few days…and took these next shots! Needless to say, the hotel across the river had a way bigger fireworks budget than the US embassy…

The Most Surreal Moment of my Life

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My sister has brought me to see the new library. I am in the town where I grew up, Eastsound, Orcas Island, Washington. The old library, where I knew every nook and cranny, where I came for story time, for puppet shows, for the Library Fair, is closed; has become a real estate office, or insurance, or some other such place where the stories they weave are more fiction than fact but no one ever admits it.

We walk into the new building and it smells of paint and printing, and, inexplicably in this modern time, paste. (Perhaps that’s all just in my mind.) It holds the old books, housed on new, honey-colored shelves, but not the old feelings. Nor do I find the marble statue of David…complete with fig leaves. I never looked at that thing without blushing.

I wonder, is new always better than old? Is large always better than small? Well, in the case of books, more is better than less, this I must admit. But it feels, somehow, wrong. As if I don’t belong here. As if I am a tourist. I remember, suddenly, the bumper sticker, popular in this tourist town when I was a child, “I’m not a TOURIST, I live here.” I was never quite sure why a person would want to advertise this. Now I understand better. To live here is to belong. Sadly, I no longer do.

Eastsound bay...not too far from the new library.


I wander around, admiring the lay-out, the picture windows, the local author’s section. “Will I ever be shelved in that section?” I wonder, I long. I see the children’s section and am drawn to the books I love best. I see the bean-bag chairs, the colorful painted walls, the smiling stuffed Madelines, Pooh Bears, and chubby ducks, packaged together with their corresponding books, hanging from convenient racks.

I run my hand along a shelf, randomly grab a volume – with a title I do not recognize – and heft it in my hand. Clearly, this book was carted over from the former building. No brilliant illustration graces its linen cover, no plastic dust jacket is folded and taped with precise and crinkly splendor, to protect it from greasy fingers, little brothers. I open the book, compelled.

There, in affirmation of its age, is a cream-colored pocket, complete with card, proving its pre-computer derivation. I pull out the card, intrigued by this reminder of what libraries used to be: written proof of a person’s interests. It has not been checked out very often; only half a dozen names grace its lines. The most recent date is some 10 years previous, the oldest more like 20. I glance at the names, some penciled in childish printing, some in a mother’s neater cursive. Suddenly, my heart skips a beat as my eyes take in the second name on the list, just one certain scribbled name: Gretchen Wendt.

Here, I, on the road to independence, was allowed to sign my name, was allowed to leave my mark, the proof of my existence. Frozen in a moment of time that I have long since forgotten, this card holds a story. Here, where I have never been…and yet I have.

Me - probably not too far off from the time when I check out that book.

P.S. -
In case you’re wondering, no, I am not on the island right now – this incident happened some 15 years ago…but I’ve never before been able to write about it to my satisfaction. Today, writing in the present-tense, I could.

Shoeless or Not, This Kid Ticks me Off

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I am not impressed.

Colton Harris-Moore, otherwise known as The Barefoot Bandit, age 20, who notoriously stole planes, broke into homes and stores, and thumbed his nose at the authorities, was sentenced today to a mere 6 ½ years in prison.

He did all that in my hometown.

Eastsound, WA, is a beautiful, idyllic, safe place to live. It is impossible to go to the grocery store without seeing people you know. It is quiet. It is peaceful. Many people who live there have been there all their lives. Truth is, it’s a hard place to leave.

Eastsound, Washington


All that tranquility was broken by the audacious Harris-Moore. He hid out on Orcas Island for weeks, sneaking into homes, stealing food and lap tops (not to mention the airplane) and evading local and federal police.

He also stole something else. Peace of mind.

It’s more than just the nights that locals were kept up by police helicopters flying overhead, search lights blazing, seeking out the elusive kid. It’s more than just my sister’s good friends (and many others) having their property stolen, their homes entered illegally. And it’s more than the things he helped himself to from local stores, leaving behind his trademark bare feet chalked out helpfully for all to see.

It’s the fact that, as a thief and a liar, he stole something that can never be returned: the belief that one is safe in one’s own home, in one’s quiet, picturesque town. No, he did not physically hurt people, and that’s a good thing, but he hurt something that cannot be touched, cannot be measured.

Tranquility cannot be replaced with money earned in a Hollywood movie. Lost faith can never be compensated for, no matter how many guilty pleas a guy gives.

Harris-Moore says he is sorry. He says he has big plans – legal plans – for his future when he gets out of prison, perhaps as soon as 4 ½ years from now. He also says he’ll repay those he stole from with money earned from a film about him, the screenplay for which has already been written.

I hope that he won’t ever have to experience some mean kid stealing those dreams for no reason other than he felt like it.