Our Sunday Best

In downtown Petaluma, a small web of streets dedicated to preserving the historical hey-day of the city, a movie theater was raised, built by the “energy, passion, and commitment”(as the plaque in front of the establishment read) of seven girls almost exactly seven years ago. Since May 2005, teenagers have flocked, with dreams of greatness, to the structure that girls their age had brought about. Youth, vitality, popularity- all were signified by the community cinema and the surrounding area. Over the years, a courtyard, named Theatre Square after the reason for it's existence, has evolved.

Black wire chairs surround black wire tables, all of which are surrounded by an angular horseshoe of stores, brightly colored on the inside, uniformly painted on the outside. Each table is placed for optimum view into the shops and each shop is placed for an optimum view of the tables. At the center of it all sits a gurgling fountain, or a fountain that gurgles except in the month of December, when a huge Christmas tree resides on top of it. Busy streets full of cars, trucks, vans surround the horseshoe- which contains apartments on top- but the buildings effectively block the noise that such streets produce.

It was because of this that I was able to sit relatively peacefully, and semi-comfortably, on one of those black wire chairs eating a gelato from the “sweet shoppe”-Powell's- that was strategically in my direct line of sight. Earlier that day, I had driven on one of the busy streets that crossed the river, that divided the town into halves- Petaluma and Casa, East side and West side, old and new-and I had seen a sign on a chain link fence that read “LIVE HERE. Theatre District”; it's aura had preceded it in the photograph of a happy young couple in one of the apartments for rent. As I sat on that Sunday afternoon in the middle of January- it was the kind of day that made the citizens of Petaluma believe Spring was coming-, I was surprised at how many vehicles there were: every parking space was filled. Unlike the Friday nights that parents fear, the cars on Sunday afternoons belong to families, not the delinquents perceived to hang out downtown to all hours of the night. Even the teen who, on Fridays, loiters, gets into mischief, and is the cause of all strict parent's worries, can be seen on Sundays walking around with their dyed hair, their combat boots, their ripped tights, and their fathers, men who look as though they could be accountants.

Of course there were the three generation packs- grandparents, their young-ish children, and the young grandchildren-who are out for some fresh air and as an excuse not to sit around and have nothing to talk about. Then there were the fathers who had had their several young children thrust upon them as their wives took a “me” day. These are identified by their slightly frightened looks and their adamant refusal to their children's shout of “Candy Shop! Candy Shop! Candy Shop!” Many people were heading to the movies, but many more were stopping for candy at Powell's beforehand. From a door next to the entrance to the candy shop there was a steady stream of renters going in and out. Though the sign had shown a twenty something couple, most coming out of the building were in their late thirties; however, they were people in fancy or exercise clothing heading to normal events or the gym; no sweat pants were seen.

This strange phenomena extended not only to the residents, but to the random people walking around the area. Mothers dreaming of sleep wore high heels and skinny jeans and up-dos while chasing their young sons. Sons dreaming of candy wore little collared shirts and khakis and gelled styles while running away from their mothers. Twenty somethings dreaming of movies wore dresses and high-tops and punk half shaved hairdos while buying candy for a movie. Tweens dreaming of life wore Converse and skinny jeans and straightened hair while swinging their feet from the bench that was too high for them.

I myself was even affected by the peculiarity; I wore an outfit that I never would have been brave enough to wear to school. The only one impervious to the effect of the place was, ironically, a friend from school. Clad in jeans and a Casa Grande football T-shirt, J.R. was observing the same people I was, but surely with a different outlook. Perhaps the people walking around looked absolutely normal to him. Perhaps the ages running around together seemed commonplace. Perhaps the affect the courtyard had on everyone seemed customary. It certainly hadn't altered him. But to everyone else,-the families, the friends, me- the atmosphere was palpable, but distinctly different than any other day of the week: this was a place of youth, but not childishness; this was a place of happiness, but not immaturity; this was a place of beginnings, where one must always be ready in their Sunday best.

By: Maggie