I am honored to join the group of esteemed column writers of the Key Peninsula News. I hope you find my missives entertaining and humorous, yet reflective. Local color describes “the customs, manner of speech, dress or other typical features of a place or period that contribute to its particular character.”
My “particular character” is that I have never fit in, anywhere. Maybe it’s because of my height — six foot plus. Maybe it was my occupational choice as an electrical engineer and the setting, the U.S. Navy — always a woman in a traditionally man’s world. Maybe it’s being married to a New Zealander and watching rugby, baking pavlovas, and a fascination with grass-based farming.
I was the chief decision-maker and proverbial stick-shaker closing the $10 million contract with alfalfa in my hair. Yes, I’m one of those at the coffee stand with the gooseneck trailer full of cattle, or the one driving down the KP Highway on a farm ATV with four dogs. The random pair of muddy boots outside of the library door; yes, those are mine. My cellphone ringer is sheep baaing, which is set on extreme loud to be heard above the background of real sheep and other farm animals and often accidentally broadcast at the grocery store, an awards ceremony, important meetings, or the bank.
And while I’ve given up on ever fitting in, I find myself immersed in a community of other local characters. My idiosyncrasies are just another pixel in the complex beauty of our rural community. I am grateful.
The Pierce County Council adopted revised Comprehensive Plan updates prior to the New Year (“Pierce County Comprehensive Plan is Approved,” January 2025). New policy always includes compromise, good and bad, depending on which eye you squint, and where you focus.
One tenet limits growth in rural areas and consistently stresses preserving the rural nature. Conversations and action around agritourism code revisions are underway where similar terms are echoed: rural theme, rural environment, rural character. Collectively, this is a nod to the importance of rural “ness” in our community, but how exactly do we define it when applied locally?
Agriculture and forestry cycles define our seasons. Pink blossoms on wild, gnarled apple trees in the spring. The smell of fresh-cut hay and garden starts for summer. Pumpkins, farm tour and dahlias in the fall. Christmas tree sales and wreath-making in the winter.
Our rural nature defines our commutes; narrow roads winding over hills through verdant fields and mossy forests pierced by long, gated driveways, while loose livestock is herded to the shoulder. We know when coyotes are mating, when bears are in the blackberries, when the deer swim over from McNeil Island. We scavenge for mushrooms, huckleberries, peacefulness and solitude in our proverbial backyards. We grow things — fruit, vegetables, livestock, trees, bees and flowers — and provision our cupboards from the largess.
Rural areas provide solitude. We embrace the dark nights, stars and the moon lighting the forests and fields in the absence of streetlights. We hear the train rumble from across the Sound, the barking sea lions, the confident call of the great horned owl. Occasionally, the peacefulness is disrupted by shooting, equipment, rumbles from the Army, an outdoor celebration, coyote challenges and livestock guard dogs answering, all irksome but accepted as a part of our discrete cacophony.
Living rurally excludes convenience; shopping is limited. Retail establishments and service providers are treasures to protect and support unless we want to drive more. The internet is slow, cell phone services are marginal, and we adapt by parking on the side of the road or a boat ramp with Mount Rainier a backdrop to our conversations. Instead of sidewalks, we traverse wooded trails, beaches and parks. Historic barns covered with board and bat milled on site, roadside stands and vineyards, collapsed homesteads and hand-dug wells, feed stores and manure piles are our skyscrapers.
On the Key Peninsula, we have a unique privilege and historic legacy of using the land but also living with it, not just on it. This rural “ness” engenders a large part of our local color, our character, our community. I’m thrilled to see others appreciate and push to protect rural elements in new policy. For once, I may fit in after all.
Janice Bryant is a repurposed Navy program manager and livestock rancher. She lives in Longbranch.
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