My

grandfather would be shocked to know the western part of

the county, then regarded as a wild frontier populated by

rough and tumble folks partial to whiskey and fighting,

has turned into Peachtree City and is populated by

sophisticated immigrants who look down on Fayetteville

and environs. AJC

Columnist Jim Minter, Sept. 1999

Dear Jim,

Last time I wrote a column about something I read in the

big city paper, all heck broke loose and my own editor

got on my case something awful. I hope this'll be less

controversial.

I could

take the attitude that your remarks hint at an

inferiority complex, but in the spirit of tomorrow's

holiday I want to take a gentler tone. Perhaps I can

address your comments and express gratitude in one swell

foop, as they say. As one of the immigrants populating

Peachtree City, I can speak only for myself, of course,

to say that I do not look down on Fayetteville and

environs. Never have; never will.

I am so

grateful for my own semi-rural roots that the only way I

look at Fayetteville may be with envy. I covet the sense

of community that exists where nearly everyone is distant

kin, where on Sunday mornings they walk past generations

of forebears in the churchyard, and where they learned

how things "used to be" from stories at

grandpap's knee.

It may

surprise you to know that there are people living here

- yes, here in Peachtree City - who very

carefully chose to live in this county, and not merely

because of Peachtree City. Let me tell you what brought

us to Fayette County. (I suspect that when you say

"Fayetteville and environs" you are referring

to your entire native county.) In the late 1960s, some

ugly things began happening in the South Jersey suburbs

where we were raising our three little girls. (Yes,

raising. Southerners rear children; we raised ours.)

Racial

tensions were running high, population density was

intolerable, urban areas had deteriorated. We longed for

a simpler life for our kids, in a milder climate, where

they could play outdoors safely, and where they could

still get good educations. When Dave's company announced

it was building a plant in Georgia, we pushed for the

transfer, and found ourselves house-hunting in the

Atlanta area. Even in 1971, it was apparent that a

commute from the north side of Atlanta - where, we

were assured, the better homes were found - to

Fairburn was out of the question.

When we

asked about south side housing, we were told it was

inferior, except in Peachtree City which, they said, we

could not afford. To make a long story short, we came, we

saw, we contracted. We found a vibrant young town that

resembled the state parks we used to take our kids

camping in. We discovered we could build a nicer house

(with lake privileges!) than we had expected to buy used.

And the school system came well-recommended.

Best of

all, it was not in Fulton County. Our reasoning was that

no county gerrymandered all over the map like Fulton

would provide adequate services to its farthest reaches.

That judgment call proved valid. And not only did we

calculate accurately that Fayette County would be more

responsive to its residents, we saw that we could become

part of the fabric of a community still in the process of

being woven.

Almost

immediately, we began exploring our surroundings, and

fell in love with the soft textures of the countryside

around us, with deeply rooted residents, with the ease

with which people here - black and white -

lived together. I don't think we were naive. Of course

things are not always as they appear on the surface, but

I contend that Southerners' inbred courtesy helped pad

the sharp edges of change (courtesy that you may argue is

taught by parents who rear, not raise, their children).

I am also

convinced that the differences between North and South

relate more to the differences between city folk and

country folk. That's where my rural upbringing came in

handy. Really, Jim, if there is occasional ill will

between folks east and west of Whitewater Creek, those in

30214 need to accept some of the blame. You saw the

developers of Peachtree City come in here with a

wild-eyed scheme to build a city from scratch, and it

must have appeared to you that they were not only crazy

but very rich.

Huge

amounts of money were indeed poured into 15,000 acres of

farmed-out cotton land, and more followed as airline

employees and corporate honchos sought homes on the

airport side of Atlanta. Local resentment was bound to

follow.

The fact

that most newcomers are woefully indifferent to the

county in which they live doesn't help at all. We've

known people who have lived here for a dozen years and

have never visited Brooks or Senoia, and go only where

the interstates go. They are the poorer for never having

learned the back roads and cemeteries and shoals and

dogtrots of Fayette, Coweta, Merriwether and Spalding.

Believe it

or not, there are those of us who watched with broken

hearts as Fayette's lovely courthouse blazed on an Easter

night. Who witnessed aghast the demolition of the Burks

Hotel for a parking lot. Who applaud wholeheartedly

today's downtown renovations.

You had

every right to resent what money and strangers did to

your bucolic county - but it was bound to happen

eventually, albeit more slowly. The Peachtree City folks

are the ones I can't make out, those wanting to lock the

door behind themselves now that they're here.

Well, Jim,

you used the adjective "sophisticated." Maybe

you didn't mean me after all. Although we've met

infrequently, I know I haven't fooled you into thinking

me sophisticated. Couldn't help where I was born, any

more than you could.

But I'd be

proud to call Fayetteville my ancestral home. Living here

is high on my Thanksgiving list.

Sincerely,

Sallie

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