Old-Home Time

They say you can't go home again. They are wrong. You can, but only if you're willing to accept altered memories, a few losses and the strangers who inhabit your home now.

I went home to Bainbridge Island recently, motivated by David Guterson's lyrical novel, "Snow Falling on Cedars," set on a Puget Sound island much like Bainbridge, where Guterson lives. Next month, the movie premieres. Read the book, see the film, but most important, hop a ferry and visit the real thing.

Much has changed since I grew up on the island, when it was a backwater, not a bedroom community. Still, they can't quite subdivide its magic, pave over its power.

Although almost everything around here was "discovered" by Captain George Vancouver (who did happen upon Bainbridge in 1792), the island had a long history before the British came along. It's believed that the island served as hunting grounds for Chief Kitsap, and it was home to the Suquamish Indians for centuries.

By the 19th century the island was booming with the largest sawmill in the world, located at Port Blakely. Cars crossed the Sound via ferry for the first time in the '20s, the Agate Pass Bridge was built in 1950, and now the 48-square-mile island has close to 19,500 residents.

Isolated island life

Geologically, Bainbridge stands alone, and so must the people who live there. Islanders breathe grand isolation every day. It fills their cells and souls. Even if you leave, as I did, you can't shed it any more than you can shuck your own skin.

So I crossed Elliott Bay, stepped off the ferry and looked around. It was familiar all right, but in a strange way, the way my hand would feel attached to another body. I was glad to see they kept the original movie theater at Lynwood Center, with its Tudor facade. Mr. Nolte, the theater owner, used to patrol the aisles with a flashlight, pointing it at any kid throwing, spitting or necking, which was, at one time or another, all of us. I saw "Psycho" there. I snuck out of the house with my best friend, Karla, to sit in the theater's back row with boys. When we tried to sneak back home, the headlights of my mother's car snapped on, pinning us to the sidewalk like a couple of dumb deer.

Most of all, I remember our house.

People call it the Gazzam house, built in 1905 by Colonel Warren Gazzam. Made of rocks from the beach and timber from long-gone forests, the house is one of the oldest on the island. It's huge, 40 rooms (including closets; I counted). With other older island homes, it opens for a holiday art tour the first weekend in December. Visiting these homes offers a rare glimpse into living history. The story continues, just under new ownership.

Years ago I researched the Gazzam place and discovered a funny coincidence. Ruth Gazzam was 9 years old when her family finished the house and moved in, the same age I was when my family came in the '50s. Separated in time, but not in kinship, Ruth and I found a playmate in the big, old house, a place to dream by a window. I dream of the house still.

An artistic history

Thirty years after leaving, I peeked through the window of the front door, held my breath and knocked. Kathe Fraga opened it, welcoming both my history and me. She's an artist, as my mother was, and understands the drama of living there. We walked through the halls, the rooms. Out of the corner of my eye I saw myself drawing at the dining room table. My big brother checked the growth of his beard for the hundredth time in a bathroom mirror. By the fireplace, my honor-roll sister perfected the trill of an "r" as she learned French.

Kathe led me to the buffet table. Built for the house, it fills an entire wall. She opened the top drawer and pushed aside her tea cups. "Do you recognize this?"

I looked in. My mother's handwriting. Unmistakable. Names were written on the bottom of the drawer, and telephone numbers with the island's old prefix, Viking 2. These were my mother's friends, gone now, as she is. She didn't know that their names would be preserved by a woman she would never meet, that her long scrawl would become a memorial of pencil on pine.

We climbed the steps to the attic. I found the corner by the window where I went as a girl, pretending to be a French Resistance fighter. With my father's binoculars, I used to scan the beach for Nazis.

After leaving the house, I visited other places on the island that held great memories for me. There's Fay Bainbridge State Park on the northeast edge. With a long, flat beach lined with giant logs, the park offers sweeping views of Seattle, stunning at night. Just to the north is "The Spit," a little finger of land with beach homes on both sides. It feels safe here. Walking along its single, one-lane street, I heard nothing but seagulls and the wash of waves. It was like being back in the 1950s.

On the beach, two boys skipped rocks. I couldn't tell you why - they dressed just like kids in Seattle - but they were definitely not from the city. Maybe it was because they both skipped rocks so well.

"What's the secret?" I asked. The older one told me, "The heavier they are, the better they are," then sent a stone hopping half a dozen times across the lagoon.

I found the Bainbridge Frog, a fat rock near Port Madison painted a garish green with big red lips. And I took a tour of the Bloedel Reserve, a place of such peace and beauty, 150 acres of calm, it deserves at least a day of anyone's life.

Back at the ferry dock, the boat emptied itself of islanders. Soon they'd all be home, inhaling their splendid isolation.

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If you go

Washington State Ferries sail daily from Seattle's Pier 51 to Bainbridge Island. For fare and schedule information, call 800-843-3779 or 206-464-6400. Web site: http://www.wsdot.wa.gov/ferries. Crossing time is 35 minutes.

Christmas in the Country: Tour historic Bainbridge Island homes, including the Gazzam house, and view regional arts and crafts the first weekend in December. Free pony rides for kids on Saturday and Sunday at one of the tour stops - the Countryman Stables. Pick up a map at the Bainbridge Island Chamber of Commerce visitors' booth next to the ferry landing. For more information, including how to get maps and a list of the tour homes, studios and artists, call Sharon Soames at 206-842-6883. Hours: Friday, Dec. 3, noon-7 p.m.; Saturday, Dec. 4, 10 a.m.-5 p.m.; Sunday, Dec. 5, noon-5 p.m. Fay Bainbridge State Park: From Highway 305 near the northern end of Bainbridge Island, follow signs to the park, located on the northeast shore. Camping is closed for the winter but there are ample day-use facilities including kitchen shelters, a boat launch, picnic tables, stoves and fire rings. Washington State Parks information: 800-233-0321. Web site: http://www.parks.wa.gov/

Bloedel Reserve is at 7571 N.E. Dolphin Drive. Once the home of the Bloedel family, this 150-acre reserve features a reflecting pond, meadows, Japanese garden, and wildlife habitat. Reservations required. Call 206-842-7631. Open Wednesday through Sunday, 10 a.m.-4 p.m. Closed on federal holidays. Admission: $6; $4 for those 65 and older and children 5 to 12. Children younger than 5 admitted free.