I know a
couple who split their time between the North Bay and Twain Harte, a community in
the Sierra foothills near Sonora.
Several years ago, the husband recommended Copperopolis as a town they
enjoyed for stopovers on the drive between their two homes.
I still
don’t know if he meant the slumbering village that remains from intermittent
copper mining booms or Copperopolis Town Square, a supposedly urbanist
setting built from scratch in the middle of open grasslands a few miles from
the village.
But I was
intrigued, and more than a bit dubious, about the goal of building an urbanist community
divorced from any other development, especially in a setting remote from any large
cities and without significant local industry.
And so I
found myself in the empty Copperopolis Town Square early one Sunday morning back
in 2008. And by empty, I mean truly and
completely devoid of other human beings.
The lofts overlooking the square hadn’t yet been offered for sale. Nor was the adjoining residential yet built. Even the parking lots surrounding the eight
to ten existing buildings were empty.
Except for the hum of the occasional vehicle on the highway a short
distance north, I was alone.
But I wasn’t
without music. The town square, with a cute
but trite gazebo at one end, was wired to play music even if I was the only audience. The music of the day was 1960s pop. So my wanderings were accompanied by tunes
from the Beatles, Byrds, Monkees, and others.
It was an interesting
but disconcerting amble. The setting and
buildings were nicely done, but felt like a
movie set. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see Doc Emmett
Brown speed past in his modified DeLorean.
Ultimately,
the buildings couldn’t escape the fact that they were bogus, carefully designed
to emulate how we think a late 19th century town square should look, but built
to conform to 21st century building codes and sensibilities. Amidst a throng of people, the deceit might
have held. But standing alone as the
morning breezes off the grasslands whispered around the buildings, the fakery
was too striking to be ignored.
And then,
suddenly, I was no longer alone. A man
and his pre-teen son, in a full-size pickup towing a fishing boat, had driven into
the town center. They’d likely made a
wrong turn enroute to a nearby fishing lake and now looked completely out of
place. As the music continued to play,
the man drove down the far side of the square, crossed the bottom, and headed
back toward me and his escape.
You wouldn’t
think that a simple pickup and fishing boat would have seemed strange, but the incongruity
between the modern vehicle and the empty square was riveting.
I had the right
as a pedestrian to cross the street in front of the truck. But the truck exuded an urgency to escape. So I stayed on the curb and waved them
through. My wave seemed to make no
difference. The driver and passenger sat
still in the truck, not looking at me, at their surroundings, or at each other.
The truck slowed
to a stop next to me and then accelerated away from the square. At our closest, I’d been ten feet from the
man and his boy and yet no sign of acknowledgment had passed. It was as if I was an alien species to be to
be studiously ignored until a getaway could be completed.
Meanwhile,
the music played on. The playlist had
reached “Henry the Eighth” by Herman’s Hermits.
I'm
Henry the eighth, I am
Henry
the eighth, I am, I am
I
got married to the widow next door
She's
been married seven times before
The music completed
the absurdity of the encounter.
Earlier this
week, I revisited the Copperopolis Town Square.
The square was no longer deserted, with children playing around the
gazebo and older couples lunching at picnic tables. But neither was it teeming with people on a
midweek afternoon.
A few more
buildings had been built. Some of the
lofts seemed occupied. The gazebo still
seemed pristine. And the town hall still
loomed with majesty over the scene. But
many of the storefronts were vacant and the graded lots for the nearby
residential development remained empty.
After six years, it wasn’t much progress. Meanwhile, my traveling companion could only gaze
about in wonderment, astonished that an Iowa town square had somehow been
plopped into the California foothills.
According to
the yardsticks used by developers and their bankers, it was a failed
project. Perhaps it had a few artistic
successes, but by the measures that mattered, which mean money, it was a
disaster.
And I’m torn
on how I feel about it. On one hand, it
might have been thrilling if Californians had flocked to their version of Seaside, Florida. But on
the other hand, it’s so much better when urbanism can come to the rescue of a struggling
town such as Suisun City. Copperopolis
Town Square, sitting amidst the empty grasslands of Calaveras County, is little
more than Main Street at Disneyland without a nearby Space Mountain.
Ultimately,
perhaps all for which I can hope is that the man and his son escaped their
brush with mock urbanism unscathed and even caught a few fish.
As always,
your questions or comments will be appreciated.
Please comment below or email me.
And thanks for reading. - Dave Alden (davealden53@comcast.net)
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