by Mary Ann Mayo

“I want you to know that I’ve always used my head for more than holding up my hair,” Angelina declared, having told me how she escaped near decapitation on a run-away horse that was determined to barrel through a barn door never built for a mounted rider. Without the aid of a bridle or saddle she gripped the horse’s mane while tightening her legs around its flanks and with the ease of a practiced Indian warrior slipped to the raging horse’s side, a move that saved that head to be used for many another day.  At 90, there is not much Angelina doesn’t recall about her years in Dry Creek, her work at the Healdsburg Food Pantry, or what is going on politically not only nationally but in the chambers of Healdsburg City Hall. 

What brought you to Dry Creek?  Are you a long time resident or a 'newbie', a part-timer or currently packing boxes to escalate your move to ‘paradise’ permanently? 

Share your story….

As for the Mayos, you might say my husband and I are “old-timers” with connections to the original settlers of the valley.  After all, his great grandfather built the house located at 4146 Dry Creek Road in 1885, just 1 ½ miles from our property.  You might say that, but it wouldn’t be true.  The fact is, when we moved here in 1992 we had never heard of relatives most appropriately named, ‘ Sonoma and Albert Burnham’ and assumed Dry Creek was just a road.  What we did know was that an article in Newsweek said Healdsburg was a great small town and a perfect place to retire.  A few inquires and several visits convinced us Newsweek had it right. 

Just a hop, skip, and a jump from the exit to our home off Dry Creek, bulldozers, trucks, and a slew of workers are playing in a lot of newly graded dirt. One cannot help but speculate. A new vineyard? A cut-across to West Dry Creek? A new weekender home with an intimidating but artfully designed gate? It doesn't look good. I may not be a native but I've lived here long enough to recognize I have 'protectionitis', an inevitable condition after being exposed to one too many mornings when fog wraps its way around the hills, the sun shimmers through golden leaves late on a Fall day or rouses one's retina with the intensity of new green in the Spring. Or, in the words of my alarmist husband, "Is this the end of Dry Creek as we know it? Could it be — a SUBDIVISION?