By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
Lifestyle Columnist

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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