Atlanta comes to call

It may come as a surprise to you that America’s most successful planned city has never been written up in the region’s prestigious urban glossy, Atlanta Magazine.

Take heart. It looks like we’ll make the big time early next year when Paige Williams’ piece about Peachtree City will publish.

Paige called me from the library one Saturday morning last month and asked if I could show her around. The librarians suggested that I had been around longer than anybody else and must know something about the place.

A couple of years ago an old college friend visited for the first time and we did the same golf cart tour. Jackie was flabbergasted. She lives in South Jersey where people just don’t make eye contact, or if that’s unavoidable, certainly don’t speak to each other.

Yet everywhere we went here, people called me by name, strangers spoke, and many struck up conversations even when I wasn’t sure who they were.

“Community!” Jackie crowed. “This is community. I didn’t even know it still existed.”

To which I replied, “Well, this is Peachtree City, after all. I think friendliness was part of the plan.”

I’ve held to that belief despite what happened while Paige was here.

We met at the McDonald’s at Peachtree Crossing. Dave came along, having offered to drive the golf cart for us, affording us better pointing of fingers and sweeping of arms.

Dave probably wouldn’t have come along if he’d realized the golf cart was gas instead of electric. Paige rented it on the owner’s recommendation, for maximum distance, but none of us realized how noisy a gas engine can be. I, the designated tour director, was almost hoarse by the time we were done.

I’ve always thought of the center of Peachtree City being roughly at City Hall. I can tell you what was where and how long it had been there. When we first arrived and chanced to catch builder Jay Brogdon at the old City Hall, it was his pleasant demeanor that helped us decide we wanted to be part of this new town ourselves.

From where the fountains bump and grind on the plaza, one can begin to gesture at the “firsts.” The first City Hall was right here, and the first police station, the first library, the first hotel over there across Flat Creek, the first medical facility down by the lake.

Lake Peachtree itself, and Flat Creek Club, were here before we got here, the earliest of the magnets built to attract a certain type of population. (Read, “slightly upper middle class.”)

From there around to the picnic park, then past the first two churches to build after the city incorporated, and the first two paved streets, Hip Pocket and Pebblestump, where we first lived. By a stroke of luck, as we threaded our way through this neighborhood, we found Geri Cowan and son Mark raking leaves. We chatted awhile, and Paige took with her contact numbers to reach Joel when he came home from his latest venture.

More gesticulating, and there’s the new pedestrian bridge – the old one was the new one when two of our kids were going to the only school in town, Peachtree City Elementary. Passing Aberdeen Village Center, we described how it seemed like forever before a grocery store of any size at all was completed there.

It occurred to me later that this triangle anchored the city for many years, both physically and socially: the school, the lake, and the club atop the hill.

I remember having lunch at the club in the 1970s, and pointing out to a visitor that there were several dozen homes below us, nearly invisible among the trees.

Things have changed in the ’hoods. Now it’s the trees that are invisible.

And that’s not all.

As we turned right, out of the back of Aberdeen Village Center, past the first dentist’s office, Dave inadvertently stayed on the street instead of crossing to the cart path, to turn left toward the club. We didn’t realize a car had pulled up behind us until we made the turn and he beeped his horn.

Accustomed to friendly beeps, we waved. He rolled down his window and shouted: “Hey! You’re supposed to keep golf carts on the path, stupid. You must not know anything about Peachtree City. That’s the law here. I should call the police.”

Had we not had Paige in the passenger’s seat, I assure you Dave’s answer would have been more, mmm, colorful. Instead, I heard him say sheepishly, “Sorry, didn’t realize we were holding you up.”

I was stunned – whether more by the motorist’s rudeness or Dave’s civility, I’m not sure which – and thought, “Well, so much for my loving depiction of Peachtree City.”

I was relieved he didn’t go on and add his favorite remark, “Must be a Yankee,” since Paige told us she had recently relocated to Atlanta from New York City.

As we wrapped up the tour and parted, I apologized again for the motorist. Paige waved it off, and told me a “fact-checker” would be calling to verify the accuracy of her copy.

She seems a smart lady, but I’ll not rest easy until her story is out and I discover she has a broad vein of kindness within her muse.