Carlton

Carlton is a sleepy little community nestled into countryside so glorious in its simplicity and gentle in its glamour that I affectionately call it “God’s back yard”. Majestic oaks tower over rolling fields of green in what is truly the heartland. Carlton is a town where the daily humdrum is noticeably slower than in surrounding cities. The only sounds to break the steady drone of children playing in the park, dogs barking at passers-by, and neighbors calling out to one another are the heavy roars of truck engines on the highway that cuts through downtown, or the occasional startling wail of the fire siren that can be clearly heard miles out of town. Over all the little houses (for there are no great houses here) there looms the old feed mill, like a dull beacon and somber sentinel. This is a town that revolves around the lives that begin, end, and are made here. The very people that complain about this characteristic are also the ones most disturbed by the advent of the wine industry. Twenty years ago, Californians discovered this beautiful little vale and a mass exodus began. Along with their money and bad driving habits, they brought grapes. Wineries have sprouted and spread like vines through the whole valley, and every community has changed because of it. Carltonians hate change, even if it is for the better. Main Street once displayed a downtrodden mill town that had seen better days. Now the old buildings have been restored to their former glory, the road has been repaved, the sidewalks widened and smoothed, and people come from far away to look at it. I was told last week that we were mentioned in the National Geographic. Nonetheless, there is very little that can disturb the steady pace of this village. Cowboy boots are still the preferred footwear for all generations. The little, smoky corner bar is still there, standing inconspicuously between tasting rooms. If you look far enough down almost every street, you will eventually come to a cultivated field. It is still considered rude to not greet a person you pass on the street. It is now not uncommon (though still slightly uncomfortable) for me to encounter a former classmate supporting a swollen belly, or holding the hand of a little tyke. The streets of Carlton beg to be meandered through, if one is prepared to encounter both quaint, welcoming homes, and houses that have not been properly cared for in many years. It is a town best enjoyed on a warm, nearly summer evening, just at sundown. I expect to never find a match for it in my life.