The California Influx: Seekers of Solace

ALL-SHOOK-UP CALIFORNIANS SETTLE IN Prescott

Text by Melanie Lee Johnston Photographs by Richard Maack You get anywhere in town in 10 minutes," he says. "When they first arrive from L.A., they get freeway withdrawal and want to get everywhere faster." As usual he makes a down-toearth Prescottonian point: "There's no place that's that important to get to."

City council member Nancy Holaday, fresh off the trail from riding her quarter horse Rusty, could be a cover model for Handsome Women of the West, if there were such a magazine. Californians aren't shy about becoming involved in the political process, she says. "Unfortunately they tend to want things their way. They'll say, 'In California we did it this way.' That burns you." Her inference being, if things worked so well over there, what are you doing here?

A woman clearly at home in her Wranglers, she's feeling rising pressure to drop the denim and become more fashion forward, a misstep she's not about to take. "This is the West," she says, rolling her eyes. "As long as I'm clean, don't hassle me."

That they can even bump into council members and city officials at the local coffee shop and hassle them about roads or dress codes thrills Californians. "The beautiful thing about this place is everybody is so accessible," says Paul Britton, now a board member of the Prescott Fine Arts Association. "You could live in L.A. County for 25 years and never get through all the layers of government. Here I can say, 'Hey, Mayor, can I talk to you for a minute?' without going through a rigorous pledgeship."

Most locals welcome this kind of wideeyed willingness to pitch in. "I'm a friend of the Californian," says Budge Ruffner, a writer and local legend whose family has lived in the area for more than 125 years. "I think they've been a great addition to the community. Since they've come, we have a lot more cultural activities and better support for the arts."

But Ruffner does have one complaint. "The only time I get unhappy with the Californian is when he comes here and starts driving like the natives, who are not aware that they can't go down the street and make a U-turn in the middle of the block anymore without at least signalling the fact that they are going to do so."

If the No. 1 topic among transplanted Californians is the travails of traffic or how the decadesold roads can tear up the tranny on a sports car, coming in a close second is the challenge of making a living.

The Prescott Chamber of Commerce hangs out a garlic clove every time they see a newcomer arriving to ask about job prospects. If the chamber ever adopted a motto for newcomers, instead of "E Pluribus Unum" it would surely be "U Bringamus Asmuchcashimus Asyoucanimus."

In a service economy like Prescott's, it seems the greatest service you can provide is bringing your own job with you.

Joel Hiller, copresident of Prescott College (his title is one clue that this is a liberal-minded liberal arts school), says the newcomers who succeed are those who are entrepreneurial or of independent means. "They've chosen Prescott as a place to live, but their job doesn't tie them here," he says. "As technology and transportation improve, people are coming and going to places like Prescott more freely."

Sandy Kenyon knows how hard it can be to make a living here. After 12 years with CNN, most recently as a Hollywood correspondent, Kenyon was looking for nights in versus nights out, peace and quiet and wide-open spaces. When he watched the Steve McQueen movie Junior Bonner, he found himself paying more attention to the movie's Prescott setting than its plot. "Downtown Prescott has the feel of a Hollywood backlot," Kenyon says. "You look at the courthouse, and you expect Judge Hardy and his son, Andy, to pop out at any moment."

So Kenyon said good-bye to Hollywood, brought living expenses for 18 months, and moved to Prescott. "The best advice I ever got was 'bring money with you,'" he says. "This is a place everybody wants to be so there is plenty of labor and not much industry."

After volunteering at the local high school, where he taught television production, Kenyon spent two years hosting a daily talk show on local station KQNA. He called in favors from his friends around the world so Prescott could experience firsthand reports from Bosnia and in-person interviews with well-known actors, such as Kirstie Alley. But the show became too costly for the station to produce, and Kenyon was recently cut loose.

He's philosophical about his plight. "If you could live in a setting as idyllic as this, with the warmth of the people, and make a living that would be heaven on Earth." He's rooting around for other opportunities, hoping to hang onto the little apartment for One look at Prescott was all it took for Californians Susan and Jon Hoaglund to know they'd found the place they wanted to be. Now settled in a Victorian house on Mt. Vernon Avenue, they run a long-stay hotel called Chapel Suites.

which competition was so fierce he felt he had to "audition" to be chosen as the tenant. "There are no bargains here," he says.

Especially not in real estate. While $250,000 may not equate to much of a house in California, it could once get you a nice big piece of Prescott. Then folks like the Californians came, their pockets full of profits they had to protect from capital gains taxes. Some were known to snap up houses at the asking price, using the questionable negotiating ploy: "I'll take it." So prices rose to meet demand, and now the average house price is about $150,000, out of reach for some Prescott families. (And don't even think of looking at a Victorian if you have less than $300,000 to spend.) Higher housing prices and the increasing real estate taxes everyone pays on higher-valued houses make Californians a natural target for the tsk, tsking of long-time homeowners like Bill Vallely who bought his home 40 years ago for $8,000 and now pays taxes on a property value of $100,000.

With 12 grandchildren in town, he's not likely to cash in and whisk Joan, his wife of forever, off to Aruba. No, he's going to stay right here in his 900-square-foot bungalow and pay $200 more every year in taxes, probably filing a protest with the city annually until somebody does something.

Sorry for the problems that may follow in their wake, Californians are nonetheless gleeful to share space with the sturdy stock of folks who've enjoyed the simple life for generations.

Their jaws still drop at the integrity of the place. Like the time the Breitenbachs and the Hoaglunds set up their lawn chairs along the Fourth of July parade route hours before the event and went home to host a brunch. When they returned, their chairs had not been moved and no one was sitting in them. And as their small group started singing "Happy Birthday" to Susan Hoaglund, both sides of the street joined in until roughly 500 strangers were harmonizing in unison. Or the time the Hoaglunds rolled up their sleeves to help 100 other volunteers beautify the town's historic cemetery before its first organized Memorial Day service. "I don't know if I've been through as moving an experience in a group like that in a long, long time," Jon Hoaglund says. "The flag waving, the gun salutes, the singing, the cavalry on their horses. It was real hokey small-town stuff. Boy, was I impressed."