Whiling Away at the Dry Creek General Store

There’s nothing quite like a Sunday. It has that certain something that sets it apart from any other time of the week. It offers a respite from the hustle of day-to-day; it’s salve for the tired soul. As author Joseph Roth put it, “On Sundays the world is as bright and empty as a balloon.” At the Dry Creek General Store, just west of Healdsburg, nestled between the rolling hills and vineyards of Dry Creek Valley, they’ve perfected the art of whiling away a Sunday afternoon. Established in 1881 as a former stagecoach stop, the old farm store, with its patio running the length of its long white front, sedates the senses into a state of languid recollection in the short time it takes to walk from the car to the front steps. From the screen doors to the stores' rustic design, the region’s homesteading heritage is readily apparent. Various wares, from table sets and kitchen tools to local honey and handmade fragranced soaps, are set out on shelves and tabletops amongst large flower arrangements, snacks and stacks of country living books. Wine country knickknacks hang on small displays and oils and vinegars and bottles of wine fill the shelves along the wall. The best sandwiches you ever "saw"! That’s the claim painted on the old two-person saw that hangs from the ceiling behind the deli counter. The large crowd of people waiting for their orders bodes well for the claim. Having to find out for myself, I make my way to the counter and order a BLT from the board. The kid takes my name and gives me my ticket. I stand in line to pay.

I decide to walk over to the adjoining bar and order a pint while I wait for my sandwich.

The walls and ceiling of the barroom are crowded with vintage beer signs, stuffed deer heads, and antique ranch and farm equipment. They have beer on tap. That's what I'm after. I order an IPA. The room is small and bright and with its slow country charm seems plucked from another era.

I drink some of my beer and listen with amusement as the three other men sidled up to the bar debate the best way to prepare an oyster. Each man's way is different. It's a spirited debate.

Hearing my name in the deli, I pay for my beer, pick up my sandwich and get down to the business of sinking into one of the broad-backed chairs on the patio. I find an open seat and unwrap the BLT. With its juicy tomato and thick-cut bacon, it proves well worth the wait. I scarf the sandwich down. I’m into some serious eating. I follow the sandwich with some of the beer and lean far back in my seat. No one here seems in a hurry. People drink and talk with a leisurely lilt around the picnic tables out front. Dogs lie on their sides behind the benches, bathing in the sun. Even the hawk on the line above the vineyard across the street seems to be biding its time. I stretch out my legs and take another slow drink of my beer. I can hear the wind crackle through the now bare vines. The fronds of the palm tree sway. And on the long white patio of The Dry Creek General Store, as I sit in bucolic bliss, I gaze out over the sun-bright valley and am confronted with the peculiarly pleasant sensation of having no place to be. The rest of the week feels far away.