Not long ago, saying “I live in Summerland,” would trigger a puzzled “where?” Then someone would mention the Big Yellow House. Had the restaurant then been empty and a shade of white as today, the landmark might have been the enormous LIQUOR sign looming over town. The next to dog Summerland just might be a truck-stop-sized new gas station canopy and sign.
If there were a lost and found for towns with missing identities, Summerland would be there. Surges of exploitation have repeatedly muddled the town’s character. Current make-believe descriptions include hamlet, nestled, quaint, casual, burgeoning, seaside haven, design destination, comeback community, and chic, convenient, and artsy.
Through the years, Summerland has suffered from labels like “Seventh Heaven,” “Spooksville,” “Bohemian,” “where the debris meets the sea,” “the unwanted stepchild of Santa Barbara County shoved off to the side and forgotten,” “the next Laguna Beach,” and “Baja Montecito.” In an iconic, long-exposure photo, a sleepy Summerland is pictured laid-back beside the Pacific Ocean above a stream of dazzling commuter lights and railroad tracks, with everything looking quiet and intact. Jeez!
