The fabulously creative (and personal) mailboxes of Bainbridge Island

NESTLED AMONG THE solemn solidarity of old-growth cedars, cypress and Douglas fir, a fantastical medley of curiously creative mailboxes punctuates the evergreen landscape of Bainbridge Island with grassroots artistry, charm and whimsy.

Mailboxes are a thing on Bainbridge, and when your garden-variety mail receptacle is leveled up to an object of exuberant personal expression, utility makes way for the unique, and the commonplace blossoms into exotic communal flora. Highly visible and wholly unexamined, the standard flag, box and post have inspired many islanders to put their distinctive stamp on them.

From the tinkerer to the fine artist, the mailbox makers harbor a sincere wish that their quirky creations will brighten someone’s day, add levity to a morning walk or good-naturedly ruffle a few feathers. A profusion of artistic disciplines and offbeat ingenuity is represented, and the results aptly can be described as folk art.

Four Strom family mailboxes are housed in the front end (minus headlights) of a 1948 Packard Touring Sedan. (Greg Gilbert / The Seattle Times)

In a verdant island landscape where the veil between mysticism, art and nature is permeable, communing with mailboxes and postal enchantments raises no alarms. The USPS gives plenty of latitude when it comes to creativity, so long as the mailbox is approximately 45 inches off the ground and 8 feet from the curb — the rest is open to interpretation.

The creative mailboxes draw attention to aspects of people’s lives so personal, it’s astonishing they’re posted in plain sight. One homeowner chuckles over employing the cap of a spray-paint can as the improvised nose on his Pinky the Pandemic Pig mailbox, and suddenly tears up sharing how making the mailbox was a real father-daughter bonding activity during a challenging time. The heart-stories behind the mailboxes are discreetly pasted, painted, hammered and welded into their forms like love letters secreted into the false bottom drawer of a writing desk.

With the lid of a spray-paint can for a nose, Pinky the Pandemic Pig Mailbox was a father-daughter bonding activity during a challenging time. (Denise Stoughton)

Full of charisma, style and swagger, these mailboxes speak to me like an ensemble cast breaking the fourth wall of a magical interactive theater — each a bona-fide character and, as such, surely with a story to tell.

I decided to write a book highlighting their expressiveness, individuality and cultural contribution. Little did I know this decision would nearly get me arrested, set me on a path across two coasts, instigate community programming, and enfold kindred spirits near and far.

Having discovered nearly 100 examples of fabulous mailboxes on Bainbridge Island, I’ve selected some of the most exuberant as representative of what the island’s imaginators have created.

The Pterodactyl Mailbox

THE JAGGED EDGE of a broken soul often is expressed in art. This pterodactyl sculpture mailbox is representative of art as healing modality and posits the pterodactyl as alternative to the rising phoenix — like, when a phoenix isn’t nearly gnarly enough to symbolize hardships overcome.

Jeremy Loerch hammered the words “hate,” “bruised” and “broken” into metal scraps riveted onto his flying creature. “It was a dark time,” he says. “My therapist thought it’d be a good idea for me to have a creative outlet to release my inner demons.” Refocusing his anger in fashioning the pterodactyl was a therapeutic process of transference through which he allows the sculpture to own the anger instead of the anger owning him.

Working through a “dark time” through creativity, Jeremy Loerch hammered the words “hate,” “bruised” and “broken” into metal scraps on his Pterodactyl Mailbox. (Denise Stoughton)

Loerch is a Bainbridge metal artist whose original idea for the piece was a raven, but it quickly took on a life of its own and became, as he reflects, “what it was supposed to be.” Made of steel and copper — save for the body, which is a repurposed Harley Davidson motor — the winged reptile presents as somewhat intimidating at a distance, awe-inspiring up-close and gut-wrenching for anyone near enough to read its three serrated words. The creature is as complex and textured as the human hand that created it.

The Lighthouse Mailbox

NOTHING GUIDES A soul home in a storm like a lighthouse. On the precipice of turbulent seas and gale-force winds, it stands as a stalwart sentinel of safety and security. The passage of time has bestowed a romantic patina upon them.

Swept up in the romance and history of lighthouses, Malia Kelly and Derek Gallichotte envisioned a lighthouse mailbox (and a sandy beach) in their front yard. Neither lighthouse nor improvised beach seems out of place, as the couple lives across the street from the shoreline at Rich Passage. The glint in Gallichotte’s eyes reflects the setting sun as he becomes more animated in the telling of their 2018 mailbox creation story: the purchase of reference books, hours of careful research, the need for authenticity, the acquisition of a Fresnel lens. Eventually, Gallichotte entered his workshop, emerging four weeks later with the glorious Lighthouse Mailbox, ready for installation.

The miniature, historically accurate lighthouse was a joy to behold for several years, until it succumbed to high winds off Puget Sound last year. Heartbroken to find their beachside beacon toppled in the ditch like a felled tree, Kelly and Gallichotte wasted no time repairing and reinforcing her to withstand big blows. A photo depicting a beaming Gallichotte with his arms encircling Lighthouse Mailbox 2.0 (as they now call her) is captioned, “Proud papa!” Creation, joy, tragedy, resiliency, resurrection — such is the legacy of the lighthouse.

Watering Can Mailbox

IT’S TRUE: A dead plant is useful — the decaying material becomes compost for new growth. Life is cyclical. Janelle Hanrahan and Micah Strom are passionate about vintage memorabilia, classic cars and repurposing interesting old items. It’s an obsession Strom shares with his brother Aaron; father, Dick; and uncle Jim. All live on Bainbridge Island, and all have creative mailboxes that incorporate vestiges from the past. Nothing discarded, everything re-imagined, given new life, nurtured, watered.

One such rescue and rehab originated at the Monroe Auto Swap Meet, where fate intervened on behalf of a rusted-out watering can. Optimistic for a second chance, it waited battered and bruised in the shadows of preposterously bodacious classic cars whose shiny chrome and sleek paint jobs beam like 100-watt movie star smiles. Bombshell beauty is unmistakable, but it’s a practiced, sage eye that discerns a diamond in the rough, and so it was that Strom nabbed the wilted watering can for $7 and earmarked it as the crown jewel of his family’s new mailbox.

Hanrahan, Strom and daughter Opal got to work refashioning the family’s new find. Strom cut and contoured the lower portion of the can to affix atop their existing mailbox. Hanrahan and Opal took brush to box and painted its exterior brightly depicting a garden, upon which Strom affixed discarded spigots as flower heads, an inspired moment of delight. The upcycled watering can mailbox is the proud focal point of their cul-de-sac. In the upcycle of life, second acts are intrinsically more exciting than the first.

Brothers Jim and Dick Strom stand with their family’s mailboxes on Bainbridge Island. The 1948 Packard Touring Sedan housing them was discovered in an auto wrecking yard 20 years ago. (Greg Gilbert / The Seattle Times)

1948 Packard & Bob’s Big Boy Mailboxes

AMONG THE STABLE of Strom-found treasures are two iconic Bainbridge Island favorites, the 1948 Packard Mailbox and Bob’s Big Boy Mailbox companion. Both are situated on the family’s 20-acre property, purchased in 1946 by Leonard and Albertina Strom for $2,988.50 — “a reasonable price, even back then!” says their son Dick. The purchase included an unfinished house, a 1930 Ford Model A and 50 chickens. The deal was sealed on a handwritten receipt. Currently, three generations of Stroms live on the original parcel.

Dick’s son Aaron discovered the vintage 1948 Packard Touring Sedan at Jim’s Yank-A-Part Auto Wrecking in nearby Poulsbo 20 years ago — a haunting ghost of its former automotive glory. Even for classic car enthusiasts, there’s a point of extreme decrepitude that precludes restoration but ignites reimagination. For Dick and Jim Strom, the car eventually fueled an idea: a family mailbox.

The Strom family of mailboxes on Bainbridge Island. The car is the front end, minus headlights, from a 1948 Packard Touring Sedan. (Greg Gilbert / The Seattle Times)

Perhaps it was the void left by the missing headlights, or the ample cleavage of the rounded front end of the 1940s beauty. Either way, the brothers felt she was well-suited to house four mailboxes, and so with just a few modifications, she now noses out from a tangle of shrubs, a tantalizing sentinel from a romanticized American past.

The 1950s were fast and fun. Hot rods, drive-in burger joints, poodle skirts and pompadours dotted the American cultural landscape. Exemplifying the optimistic exuberance of the decade is Bob’s Big Boy, enthusiastically serving up double-decker happiness wherever the diaspora of Big Boy statues finds itself these days — including as part of a roadside mailbox vignette at the foot of Aaron and Tara Strom’s driveway.

Aaron and Tara Strom’s hot-rod mailbox comes with a side of Bob’s Big Boy, a 7-foot statue that Aaron’s parents carted atop their car all the way from Hershey, Pa. (Denise Stoughton)

In a must-have moment, the couple, who had flown to Hershey, Pa., to attend one of the world’s largest antique swap meets, decided Big Boy needed to come home to Bainbridge. The new addition to their family would not qualify as a ticketed passenger on a commercial flight, so they enlisted the help of Aaron’s parents, who’d driven to Hershey. The family strapped the 7-foot galvanized steel statue to the top of Dick and Bobbi’s Ford Explorer, and Bob’s Big Boy’s cross-country adventure began. Motorists gawked and snapped across nine states and nearly 3,000 miles.

Big Boy arrived safely, and West Port Madison Road is now serving a fast and fun nostalgic daydream of cultural innocence on a bun as companion to Aaron and Tara’s flaming mailbox.

Toby the Tubular Dog Mailbox

A LOCAL FACEBOOK group challenged people, “Tell me you’re from Bainbridge Island without telling me you’re from Bainbridge Island.” One of the funniest responses was, “If your dog goes missing, 500 people help look for it.” This spot-on characterization illustrates how island residents go overboard for their paw-pals; some even have gone postal.

Among the dog-themed mailbox owners are Shannon Orr and Melanie McAllister, who are welcomed home by two versions of their blue heeler: the tail-wagging bundle of energy who jumps on furniture, gives wet kisses and barks at the doorbell, and his tubular twin, who spends his days collecting the couple’s mail at the side of the road and greeting those who pass by on their way to Fort Ward Park. Both dogs do important work.

Toby the Tubular Dog Mailbox (left) (ha!) with Toby the actual dog on Bainbridge Island. (Shannon Orr)

Shannon and Melanie’s vision started in 2020, when they commissioned The Tube Dude from Sarasota, Fla. (former yacht builder Scott Gerber), to create a whimsical mailbox based on their beloved Toby. They emailed him a photo; the Dude shipped them a mailbox sculpture in return.

The women appreciate how well Gerber interpreted the physical characteristics of Toby through the medium of tubular metal, noting, “Just look at those big pointy ears, the dark splotch on one eye and even the spotted legs!” Toby enjoys neighborhood notoriety, and people often leave notes to say he made their day. One small girl excitedly yells, “Hi, Toby!” to the mailbox whenever she cycles by. It never gets old.

Samantha Everett kept the previous owner’s Sinking Ferry Mailbox (he’d had it with his boring old mailbox and his ferry commute) when she moved to this Azalea Avenue home on Bainbridge Island. (Denise Stoughton)

The Sinking Ferry Mailbox

NECESSITY, PLEASURE, FUN and even folly define the network of ferryboats traversing the Puget Sound. In April, the Seattle-bound ferry Walla Walla ran aground in Rich Passage with roughly 600 passengers aboard and came to a full stop off the shore of Steve and Rochelle Rabago’s waterfront home. The couple was out of town (imagine their surprise upon seeing their security camera footage showing the large vessel overshadowing their patio).

More routinely, ticket purchase includes uneventful transport, occasional whale sightings and views of the area’s natural beauty, but the ferry is not always a direct route to happiness.

It’s not a mailbox, and it’s not sinking, but the Walla Walla ferry (shown here in April after running aground off Bainbridge Island) and others in the fleet helped inspire a mailbox of its own: The Sinking Ferry Mailbox. (Kori Abbott)

One resident’s relationship with the ferry was troubled. A man living on Azalea Avenue took exception to a pair of seemingly unrelated items upon moving into his new island home: his boring mailbox and his ferry commute. As an engineer who worked as a carpenter during college, he drew up blueprints and built his mailbox magnum opus: The Sinking Ferry. He made copies of the blueprints to sell, but today The Sinking Ferry is still one of a kind, and the once-disgruntled commuter moved back to the mainland. Samantha Everett is the current custodian of the vessel and has no plans of removing it — she works from home.

Mailbox as Connection

OUR LIVES ARE a gallery of interlocking stories told through many media. Consider the creative mailboxes as attendant storytellers, reflecting the cultural life of a community.

On the surface, handmade mailboxes prevail as folk art and storyteller, but more deeply, I unearthed a wrung-out melancholy for the days when handwritten letters coursed through the postal system like heartbeats. Those who lament the casual carelessness of today’s electronic communication view the mailbox as a painful reminder and, perhaps, a hopeful whisper. Reminiscing about exchanging correspondence with grandparents, parents and lovers, they recall envelopes containing photos, locks of hair, pressed flowers or other small mementos. Their sorrow is palpable.

Bainbridge Island artist Sandy Haight formed an unexpected emotional connection with her neighborhood mailboxes during the pandemic. She typically paints emotive floralscapes that hover sensually between realism and abstraction, but during quarantine, she painted mailboxes. “Mailboxes were evidence that people were still at the other end of the driveway,” she says. One of her canvases shows a cluster of mailboxes titled “We’re in this Together.”

Kindred Spirit Mailbox

THE VALUE OF personal connection is measured one journal entry at a time through an infinite whorl of notebooks passing through the famed mailbox Kindred Spirit. With its companion bench and flagpole, they are the only whispers of human existence on an otherwise-uninhabited island off the shore of North Carolina. Imagined into being by Claudia Sailor and Frank Nesmith, it’s a contemplative place that invites visitors to write their thoughts, wishes, dreams and prayers for safekeeping in a communal mailbox. Secret helpers remove filled journals and leave new ones, along with pens and pencils, a routine that has endured for more than four decades.

Visiting the Kindred Spirit Mailbox proved magical and transformative for me; I worked with the local parks department to install a Kindred Spirit Mailbox on Bainbridge Island in May. I placed the first journal inside and wrote the first entry, along with a brief instruction on the inside cover flap so people who happen upon it know what to do … who knows what will happen next?

My mailboxing journey has been a delight. It’s gathered interesting people together in celebration; taken me across two coasts; and, in one slight misstep, almost got me arrested for suspected mail theft.

After my car was mistakenly reported by an island resident as the car of a suspected thief, I was pulled over by two police officers. I launched into my explanation, hoping they’d believe the unlikely story that I’m writing a book about the quirky mailboxes of Bainbridge Island. They did.

Denise Stoughton takes a selfie with the Bainbridge Island officers who for a minute there thought she was a mail thief. (Denise Stoughton)

By the time backup arrived, the case was closed, and one officer explained the situation to another: “She’s writing a book about the quirky mailboxes of Bainbridge Island.” That officer responded, “This is the most Bainbridge thing to happen to me on duty in three months!”

SeattleTimes, 2023