The Waterhole of Industry

A Watering Hole of Industry

The buildings are anything but uniform: some are brown, some are green, some are gray, some are small, and some are big. In fact, the only thing they have in common is their position on the muddy, dirty river that is known as the Petaluma. The buildings stoop along its edge, as if mesmerized by their reflections in the muddy waters. They crowd about the river, seemingly pushing each other for a space along the river’s edge, as if the river holds their destinies and their pasts in its opaque waters. The river is the watering hole of the industry and prosperity of Petaluma, bringing life and opulence to the stores and mills along its edge.

The buildings themselves look like the animals that congregate at a watering hole: there is the huge, gray grain silo with tall, steel legs that tower above the ground, from which low bellowing noises come from the tubes that extend from its body, like the sound an elephant would make, slurping from a puddle. There is the gravel plant, with its long, craning gravel elevators, built to reach high above the ground like a giraffe stretching its neck to grab some unseen morsel high in the air. There is the large, gray tugboat with large bumpers like horns, which could push anything out of its way, wading through the water like a rhinoceros trying to cool itself. There is the majestic golden Dempsey’s Restaurant, with its imposing position on the bend of the river, where it can see all and all can see it, always offering the low growl of conversation to passerby, which can become a roar worthy of a lion during dinner time. There are the large, swan-like yachts, always in groups, all perfectly white, gracefully floating at their docks, trying to ignore the chaos and sounds surrounding them. There are the brown colored, shorter, smaller, brick made shop buildings, which on their own would have been no contest to the larger competition, but are packed together like gazelles in a herd and are able to hold a place on the waterfront. There are the many colored planes, flying overhead, circling, and watching the congregation from above. And there is the noise. Humming, rumbling, creaking- the noise comes from all sides: The roar of the dining crowds, the growl of the gravel and grain plants, the thunder of car engines, the squeaking of docks, the calling of birds, and the whispers of the wind through the buildings.

The buildings thrive along the river’s edge, as the river thrives along buildings’ edge. Without the buildings, the river would look dull and depressed; without the river, the buildings would look lifeless and vapid. Without the river, the factories would have been useless with no way to transport their products out; without the factories, the river would have been meaningless, with no higher reason to exist or be used. Without the river, the stores would have looked boring and cliché, with no natural beauty about them; without the stores, the river would have been polluted and drained, with no reason not to abuse it. Without the river, the town of Petaluma would have been just another American town, with nothing to make it unique; without the town, the river would have just been another drainage pipe to the Pacific, with nothing to differentiate it from the other watersheds.

The buildings- a mixture of wood and concrete, iron and steel, cement and stucco- were built for life centered about the river. Like the herds of animals that rove the African plains, the buildings are varied in size, shape, material, and age. Like the herds of animals that rove the African plains, their survival is based upon the river, which they surround and thrive upon and fight for. It is their lifeblood, without it they are stuck in a desert of uselessness, without anything to ship away their products on and to attract tourists with and to show to diners at the restaurants and to float boats upon. No river, no buildings, no people. No matter what the style or use of the building, the gray, proud, strong elephants of grain mills, elegant swans of boats, the color and watchful birds of planes, the commanding lion of Dempsey’s, the stretching necks of the giraffes of gravel plants, the rumbling rhinoceros of the tugboat, the herd-like gazelles of waterfront shops all depend on the river for nutrients and sustainability. As the sun sets, the river glows orange, and the silhouettes of the buildings seem to drift off to sleep, becoming indefinable agglomerations on the horizon, like slumbering animals.

Griffin W.