A Little City Finds Its Voice
A couple of weeks ago, the Buellton City Council voted 3 to 2 to stop a sphere of influence study that might have been the first step to a dramatic expansion and urbanization of the area. It was defeated by a slim margin, to be sure, but the proposal precipitated an unprecedented outpouring of emotion and public testimony. Hundreds of concerned residents of Buellton and neighbors throughout the Santa Ynez Valley circulated petitions, organized a citizens’ action group (Buellton is Our Town), and spoke out with unexpected passion in defense of their community.
Buellton? I’d always thought of it as the plain-looking girl who stays home and does the chores while her more attractive sisters – Los Olivos, Ballard, Solvang, and Santa Ynez – go out strolling in pretty frocks. Buellton is where you buy gas and horse feed, pick up a few basic groceries, rent a tractor or a jackhammer, have your car repaired, and grab a burrito on the way home.
It comes by this reputation honestly. By 1875 Buellton’s founder, a successful farmer and businessman named Rufus Thomas Buell, was already running Buell Ranch as a self-sufficient town complete with general store, schoolhouse, blacksmith shop, and bunkhouses. His brother-in-law, William Budd (pictured above), later opened the first official post office and is credited with naming the town Buellton in 1920. Buellton’s location as a crossroads in the area rendered it increasingly important as the automobile grew in popularity. Gas stations, motels, and restaurants were built to accommodate travelers, and in the years immediately following World War II, Buellton proudly dubbed itself “Servicetown, U.S.A.”
So I wasn’t too far off the mark when I categorized Buellton as a stop for fuel, supplies, and services. But all this talk about expansion and development got me to thinking about what really is at risk here. Why are people up in arms? Is this one of those knee-jerk anti-growth reactions, or is there truly something special about Buellton? When I began to review my own everyday experiences here, I was surprised how many fond images immediately came to mind. There’s Pattibakes, for example, a little bakery where you can meet a friend for coffee or quiche and always find parking right in front -- you just have to know where it is. There’s Rolling Hills Nursery, where Rocky used to lend us statues for school plays, no questions asked, even helping me to get them into my car. There’s Todd Pipe and Valley Tool Rental and building supply places that are oh so thankfully not Home Depot, and the Humane Society where we got our own sweet dog twelve years ago. When you go to the movies in Buellton, you run into so many acquaintances that the experience of sitting in the theater before the show occasionally takes on the feeling of being in someone’s living room, with friendly conversation in the air -- now THAT certainly doesn’t happen everywhere. There’s an ease in dealings around here that we just take for granted, and a pleasant sense of being someone.
Buellton is a place where weathered old ranch hands in dungarees and boots climb out of their pick-ups in the Albertson’s parking lot, bales of feed and cattle dogs in the truck beds. It’s where post office clerks patiently help you tape up your package more securely and no one is rushing you and people actually smile and chat, and there are horse ranches, vineyards, and hazy mountains in view. Grown-up former students make coffee drinks at the Roasted Bean where photographs by a local grad are displayed on the wall and there’s a sign in the window for a rodeo queen. For a short time there were morning lessons with Alejandro in the back of Pea Soup Anderson, when I tried to teach English (and learned a bit of Spanish) over orange juice and toast. And once — true story — an old cowboy took my hand and waltzed me about in a parking lot only because it was a bright New Year’s morning and that seemed a nice way to start the year.
That’s a lot right there. But I wanted more. I sent an email to Buellton is Our Town’s Joan Hartmann, and I asked her the question I had asked myself, “What makes Buellton special?” She sent me a handful of examples right off the top of her head:
“I love Gracian’s feed store and the pellet stove where people gather round on cool winter days,” she wrote, “and how good-looking fellows carry heavy things out to our car with a smile, and I always check out the bulletin board to see what's new. I love Tonio’s where Rosie works and will take time to share her grandmother's molé recipe and give you her phone number in case you have any trouble when making it. My husband and I are especially fond of the small but wonderful Buellton City Library where in a day or two they can obtain any book for you. And I love the fact that places like Todd Pipe are not open 24/7 but actually close early on Saturdays. And I love biking on Santa Rosa Road. I am big believer that we are all shaped by landscape--that's why it’s so key to protect it.”
She kept coming up with additional examples and sent me a second email: ““My friend Laurie and I have grown fond of a particular pair of old bulls that live on the hillside. Laurie stops and communes with them every day--a kind of meditation-- and people pause to inquire what she is doing. ”
“Then there’s the woman who owns the trailer yard and keeps a bull she has raised since it was orphaned. And Ron Dale, an old timer who can tell you how the Hitching Post, his wife's family home, was brought up and rebuilt, board by board, from Orange County. And there’s Ramon Bacerra's arena at Buell Ranch, where many a community event has been held, from school fund-raisers to memorial services. Ramon often performs, demonstrating a never-before-seen set of skills with these horses. Charlotte Bredahl, an Olympic dressage bronze medalist, often performs too, and as she takes the ring you know right off why she is a champion. And it’s like being on the set of an old-time movie. There's always great food, and it’s really funky but has a nowhere-else-on-earth kind of atmosphere -- and probably my favorite thing about Buellton."
“I just went to history museum in Santa Ynez,” Joan continued, “and saw a room I hadn't seen before that talked a bit about each town's history. You know, everyone loved the Buells! I wonder if something of that family character continues to emanate out into the town.”
She added one more intriguing afterthought: “Buellton is déclassé. It has kind of a reverse chic.”
It’s true. And we love that. There is something genuine and unpretentious about the place. It’s real people working, kids riding their bikes to school, agriculture and commerce on a small rural scale -- a human scale.
And how quickly we can lose it.
The work will be ongoing. Meetings are already in progress to develop a clearer picture of the essential Buellton and acceptable visions for the future. This is taking place against the backdrop of a Santa Ynez Valley Community Plan that has been in the works for more than seven years, and a new Baseline Report on the Valley that the Santa Barbara Supervisors are calling for, perhaps to look at where to place all the housing units that the rest of Santa Barbara doesn’t want. Change is inevitable, but Buellton is a community that has decided to play an active role in guiding that change.
In the meantime, as Judi Stauffer wrote, “The citizens of Buellton and their neighbors throughout the Santa Ynez Valley have spoken out loudly and clearly about the kind of community they value…and it’s magical to behold.”
The city held a barbecue in the park last Saturday, and I stopped by for an hour or so. There were hot dogs and tri-tip sandwiches, buckets of icy drinks, and various booths with products, crafts, and information set up around a wide expanse of green grass. Ladies from the Chamber of Commerce gave out candy and brochures, a pair of high school boys sold raffle tickets, kids ascended a rock-climbing wall, and a local band played “Back in the U.S.S.R.” I spoke to Buellton’s postmaster Holly Sierra and browsed through a collection of photos from the archives of local historian Curt Cragg, and I watched as a white-haired lady had her face painted by a teenaged girl, demonstrating that not even a yellow sun on the cheek can diminish natural elegance. It was a grand celebration.