No matter where I’ve lived or worked, there is always someone (or some people) who will say things that impress upon a listener that the speaker has been around a long time. The flip side of this is that you, the listener, are a relative newcomer. Consequently, you don’t have a true understanding of how things work ‘round here: who is who; where the “locals” go; who does what. “Don’t try to bring your outsider ways here.”

The Pacific NW has had a long, tense relationship with “outsiders,” “newcomers.” Not unlike the country as a whole, while we’re a nation of immigrants, at some point, some people don’t like immigrants or at least some immigrants. Once we reach a point of tenure in our residency, we can claim to be a “local.” The longer we live in a place, we can claim things like, “I remember when…” “Long before you moved here…” “I’ve lived here long enough to see things change from….” However, how long a tenure you need before you can claim yourself a “local” is not certain. Make no mistake, however: “Local” is not the same as “Native.” The latter confers a special status, an extra cache’… a kind of vote-and-a-half.

One thing I’ve noticed where I’ve lived, which is many different places, is that many “old-timers” (maybe they’ve been here for 10 years, maybe 20) generally don’t want things to change. Or, they don’t want SOME things to change. A choice of pubs, wine bars, and coffee shops is ok. Small artsy shops run by “locals” is fine. Cute little one-of-a-kind eateries and food stores run by “locals” are cool. But, NO chains and NO Big Box Stores. And most of all: be wary and largely unwelcoming to “outsiders” who buy real estate with cash and drive up the prices so it’s unaffordable for the “locals” to live here.

When I lived in Seattle in the 1970s and 80s, this attitude was expressed succinctly by the loose-knit, semi-clandestine entity known as Lesser Seattle, proudly fronted by the inimitable Emmett Watson: “KBO” (Keep the Bastards Out). A slightly tongue-in-cheek response to the Californication of the Pacific Northwest, the anti-response to the Greater Seattle/Chamber of Commerce. Many people took the general philosophy of Lesser Seattle to heart by reinforcing to outsiders that it really DOES rain all the time here, even when the visitors had warm, sunny weather for their entire stay. In March. Or proudly displaying bumper stickers that said provincially proud things such as “Washingtonians don’t tan, they rust.” Or “Seattle Rain Festival: October to May.” In other words: If you like sun, don’t come ‘round here.

I have lived in Port Townsend for about 18 months, but that doesn’t mean I am necessarily a newcomer. My relationship with Port Townsend is complicated. Not unlike family or other love relationships. I first came to Port Townsend in the very early 1960s, when my family bought property on Discovery Bay. My cousins, sister, and I spent summers running through the woods and on the rocky beaches of the bay. When I moved from southern California (sorry, not sorry) to Seattle to go to U Dub in the early 1970s I would visit my parents and grandmother on Discovery Bay. During most of my weekend visits I would go to Port Townsend for a few hours to walk around, get something to eat, and see what was happening or what had changed.

When I finished my PhD in 1986, it was time to get a “real job” which required moving from the Pacific NW eastward. During the next 30 years as I lived in the midwest, the east coast, and England, I would come back to visit my parents. To me, it always meant a stop in PT for a burger and a beer and see what had changed from the last trip. The magnet of Port Townsend, the “End of the Road,” continued to pull.

As a homeowner, am I now a “local”? It’s probably hard to say. I know I’m not a native, but I remember Port Townsend back before many (most?) “Natives” were born, when it was boarded up, quiet, no Rose Theatre or Better Living Through Coffee, or most of the current shops, for that matter, and there was no traffic. So, while I’m outside looking in, I’m also inside looking within. Maybe in 10 years or 20, I can call myself an old timer.

Wishing you peace and happiness.