I can’t remember the last time I danced, but I sure do remember the first time. In 1962 I was in 7th grade at Sarah Rawson Smith Elementary in Buckhead. That year there was a courageous attempt by the principal, Mrs. Cannon, to get the boys and girls to actually talk to each other. The rumor had spread among the boys that the girls had “cooties,” whatever that was. I’m not sure what the girls thought the boys had, probably “cooties.” Mrs. Cannon finally had enough and decided to undertake aggressive action to tear down the gender wall. Under the guise of a series of friday night square dances, the great social experiment was held in the school auditorium. In preparation for the first of these momentous occasions I liberally anointed my hair with a gallon or two of Vitalis. My mom then cemented my pompadour in place with a freezing fog of her hair spray. Sometimes she had to use quite a bit to bring my cowlick under control. Dad then drove me over to the school where I desperately searched for my buddies; I did not want to enter the battle zone alone.
Up on the stage every week would be 4 or 5 semi-pro square dancers. In preparation for their first number they would be strutting and preening all over the stage and you could tell they were most proud of their appearance. Boy, were they ever dolled up. Now some of you may never have witnessed this throw-back to an earlier time. Allow me to provide proper education. The ladies would be wearing starched petticoats that levitated horizontally a good three feet on all sides. Gravity had no effect whatsoever on their clothing. Their male partners would be adorned in some strange clothing that could only be described as formal western wear with mother of pearl buttons and oversized collars. Giant metal heel and toe plates were bolted onto their shoes. It looked like they were wearing horse shoes and when they started clogging around it sounded like a plane was crashing into the building. One member of the group was known as the “caller” and it was his job to shout out dance instructions in a sing-songy manner. It was all “swing your partner” and “do-si-do” mixed with strange chants, incantations, and mantras. I was terrified the first time I witnessed the spectacle with all the swirling, stomping, and shouting. My senses quickly became overloaded with the vibrations that seemed to be assaulting me from every possible direction.
At some point our teachers, who had become the chaperones for this ugly event, would try and get the boys to choose a dance partner. Marvin Jackson, Jack Pritchard, Mark Berglund, Keith Jacobs, and I would press ourselves against the walls in a futile attempt to hide. Some of us would even pretend to be asleep. Eventually a teacher would corral me, and I would be led across the wide dance floor like a cow being led to slaughter. As I approached the opposite wall I could tell the girls were bunching up and trying to hide behind each other in an attempt find safety in numbers. I summoned all my courage and managed to blurt out, “Would you care to dance” to a classmate Cathy Stanfield. Thankfully I did not faint and even imagined I was able to produce a certain Cary Grant swagger as we took our place on the dance floor.
It was Zero Hour. My first dance and I’m pretty sure I was trembling as a river of sweat poured off me and drenched my clothes. Suddenly the music began, and the stomping commenced.
Without knowing what was happening I suddenly found myself being swung and do-si-doed all over the place. I was shocked to discover I was actually having fun. I managed a clap or two at the appropriate time and before I knew it the dance was over, but not before Cathy and I concluded with a most elegant “promenade left.” I can’t remember if I was polite enough to thank her for the dance before I sprinted back to the safety of the boy’s side. For me, the ice was broken, and I now counted myself among the dancers of the world. Each week that spring of 1962 I looked forward to the friday night square dances. The couldn’t keep me off the floor as I shook a leg and cut the rug with the queens of 7th grade; Mary Crockett, Linda Mason, Carol Norvell, Lois Stovall, Pam Milner, Billie Ann Mankin, Susan Mathis and any other girl I could corner.
The next step up in my dance life appeared in the form of the teen dance parties at the Bagley Park Recreation Center. That’s where we really cut loose. What could be better than a fast dance to the classic Jan and Dean tune “Surf City” only to have that followed by a slow dance by the Righteous Brothers and “You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling”? My God, those were the days. It just can’t get any better. Soon I learned the swishing motion of the Twist and then the more complex and nuanced Peppermint Twist. Next it was The Pony, The Swim, The Loco-motion, and yes, even Mashed Potatoes. I learned all the steps but drew the line at the bizarre movements of The Freddie. Now somewhere along the line– I guess it was at Dykes High School over by Chastain Park– I began to believe that dancing was not cool. I don’t know how that idea came to me, but high school is usually all about image management and I guess dancing didn’t fit the image I was trying to create. My loss.
It has been a long long time since I found myself on a dance floor. Maybe once or twice at a birthday party or a wedding years ago I ambled out on the floor and took a whirl. Not sure what happened, maybe in those early years I did a lifetime of dancing and the cup had simply run dry. Maybe I need someone to shout out “promenade your partner” so my body will start to shake and shimmy and I’ll stand up and take to the dance floor once again. Hell, I might even give The Freddie a try.
They say the angels are always dancing and cavorting up there among the clouds. No telling what happens once you pass those pearly gates. I sure hope to find out one fine day. I guess it might be something like those early square dances. Just grab a partner and cut a rug. Seems like a pretty fine way to spend eternity.
Jim Tate
Author, Buckhead Tales
jimtate@charter.net
In the 1800s the area we know as Buckhead was transitioning from dense woodland populated by Creek Native Americans to a community of families who first built vacation homes here and later relocated to the area, opening businesses and schools. In 1838 businessman Henry Irby bought 202.5 acres of lush, rolling hills around the intersection of Piedmont, Peachtree and Roswell Roads for $650. Legend has it a buck was shot and killed, its head mounted on a tree near the store. People then referred to the area as Buck’s Head which has evolved into Buckhead.
Many believe that Irby himself shot the buck, but the Buckhead Heritage Society has announced that they have found and will showcase the original weapon that killed that infamous buck. The gun is property of the Whitley family and the accompanying story posits that it was either Mr. or Mrs. Whitley that fired the shot and hung the head, earning the area its name.
The Whitley family moved to Buckhead from North Carolina in the 1830s and lived near the intersection of Peachtree and West Paces Ferry Rd. Years later the couple bought 40 acres in an area known as ‘Upper Vinings’ and built a small cabin. As roads began to encroach and new building developments flooded the once wild land the building was relocated to a friend’s backyard where it resides to this day. The gun is said to have been on display above the fireplace in that cabin ever since.
The Buckhead Heritage Society will feature this artifact during their Mansions, Gardens and Ghosts: Buckhead Hidden History Tour on April 28.
In the heart of Buckhead Village, The Shops Buckhead Atlanta represents 300,000 square feet of prime retail space, office buildings, and two luxury apartment towers. Painstakingly assembled over many years, stumbling through the Great Recession, and surviving more than one botched renaming, it appears a new chapter is about to begin. Jamestown purchased this important piece of the Buckhead Village for an undisclosed amount last week and has so far declined to comment.
With more than 50 luxury retailers such as Jimmy Choo, Dior, and Hermes, the development was intended to be a mecca for high end shopping in Buckhead. Foot traffic has been less than anticipated since the complex’s inception, and high rents on par with mega-retail outlets such as Lenox Square have raised questions about the viability of the Shops’ business model. Visitors to the Shops will have probably noticed a distinct lack of shoppers along the quiet, cobblestone roads winding through the property.
This is where Jamestown steps in. Founded in 1983, Jamestown is an investment and management company dedicated to creating income-producing real estate in America. Locals will be most familiar with Jamestown’s nearby projects like Westside Provisions District and Ponce City Market. Jamestown also developed the massive Chelsea Market in NYC which they sold to Google last year for $1 billion. These ventures which incorporate existing structures and embrace a communal, walkable atmosphere have been immensely successful. They boast flex space that’s meant for eating, shopping, and socializing and facilitate access to existing walking paths and the BeltLine.
Jamestown declined to comment on the purchase so it is difficult to predict just what changes are in store for the Shops, but we expect they will use their tenant relationships and depth of experience to implement major improvements. As someone who frequents and enjoys Jamestown’s other Atlanta venues, I can only hope that we will see some of their winning concepts implemented to bring new life to this important section of the Buckhead Village.
Possible Changes We May Soon See At The Shops Buckhead Atlanta
While the details are as yet unknown, we eagerly await the results of this purchase and the forthcoming Jamestown development. This feels like a positive next step as the Buckhead Village matures into a dense walkable area.
The weather was perfect on the morning of Saturday, March 23, 2019. Birds sang in the flowering trees and children laughed as they played on the playgrounds that surround the epic Cathedral of St. Philip. The grounds, elevated from the busy Peachtree Road below, offer ideal settings for the popular Peachtree Road Farmers Market. Under a clear blue sky shoppers visited booths of local makers, craftsmen, and farmers. Musician Celia Rae Benz played guitar and sang while children drew with chalk on the asphalt nearby. Walking around the circular market with totes full of fresh produce and local goods, some visitors pushed strollers and others were joined by their leashed pups who eagerly greeted one another and scavenged for dropped food on the ground.
The Peachtree Road Farmers Market was started in 2007 and has been a mainstay in the community every year since, growing in popularity and becoming one of the largest producer-only farmers markets in the state. The market takes place every Saturday morning from March to mid-December, moving inside the cathedral in the case of bad weather. It allows no re-selling, meaning the vendors must either produce or make their goods themselves which promotes the farm-to-table atmosphere of the market. Cooking demonstrations and live music performances provide entertainment and education all while supporting local makers.
One of the last undeveloped parcels in the Buckhead Financial District is destined to become the site of a 3 acre, 44 story high rise. TIER REIT of Dallas has paired up with Regent Partners and Baston-Cook Development Company to develop 3354 Peachtree Road. The building will house approximately 560,000 square feet of Class A office space, around 60 luxury condominiums, and a separate tower at 3356 Peachtree Road with 300 luxury multi-family units.
In the past decade only one Class A office tower has been built in the area, and the developers feel the site and plans are bound to be a success. “This is a critically important site for Buckhead, and with TIER we have an excellent opportunity to create an iconic mixed-use tower in the South’s most dynamic submarket,” said David Allman, Chairman of Regent Partners in a press release on March 4.
The development is expected to get underway in the fourth quarter of this year and to be completed sometime in 2022. The massive speculative development will cost around $400 million to complete and the developers hope to capitalize on the site’s proximity to GA-400, Path 400, MARTA, and its Peachtree Road address to entice young professionals and companies who value the walkability of the area. Designed by architect Smallwood, Reynolds, Stewart, Stewart, the building will be crafted to complement a proposed park over GA-400 spearheaded by the Buckhead Community Improvement District.
At the tender age of five I entered public school and was dutifully enrolled in kindergarten. For the next eight years I attended Sarah Rawson Smith Elementary. Nestled on Old Ivy Road in the Buckhead woods it would become the site of many significant events in my early life. None was perhaps greater than what happened to me on my first day of class in 1956.
Even now, over 60 years later, the events of that day remain burned into my memory. Tightly I held mom’s hand as we stepped through the door of my first classroom. I was momentarily blinded by sunlight reflecting off the shiny linoleum floor. I could faintly see the far wall composed of wooden shelves where I would learn to stash my mid-morning snack and coat. The wall to the right held a bank of windows that looked out to the playground and the magnolia trees beyond. I soon became aware the room was full of chaos. Children, many of them crying their eyes out, were being left for the first time in their lives in a room full of strangers. Parents would peel their weeping child off their necks and then sprint down the hallway, across the parking lot and out to their cars to speed away. I can’t blame them, after all, they had been waiting for years for this day to arrive. Not sure what to make of the situation, I kept looking around at all the strangers, many of whom would become lifelong friends. Suddenly, I heard a voice from behind, “You must be one of my new students.” I turned and there she was, my first teacher, Miss Chipperfield. I was transfixed. Surely she was an angel. I heard about these creatures but hadn’t imagined they actually existed. But here she was, on the Earth, walking among the mortals.
The spell she cast over me never wavered. During that wonderful year whenever she happened to look my way I heard the sound of far off bells. I’m pretty sure her feet never touched the ground. She seemed to glide effortlessly around the room. Week after week and month after month I was in the presence of this goddess. Was I the only one who noticed that a soft haze always surrounded her? She was my angel. My Earth Angel.
Now at some point that year my parents got some wild idea that they needed to get to know my teacher. I have no idea where they came up with such a bizarre concept. School was school, home was home, and the twain should never meet. One Friday afternoon my mother broke the shocking news to me, the Divine Miss Chipperfield was coming for dinner. I went into immediate shock and took to my bed claiming appendicitis. Nothing I could do could delay the inevitable. Early that evening I heard the doorbell ring and then her soft voice in the living room. I tried to pretend I was sleeping even when dad came into the room to give me one of those “we can do it easy or we can do it hard” talks. This was becoming a major crisis. How could he not know that my worlds were colliding? Home Jimmy could not possibly coexist with School Jimmy. One of us must surely die.
I dragged myself to the dinner table and lapsed into a catatonic state. I fell mute and kept silently counting the green beans on my plate. After 10 or 15 years the ordeal was over, and she was gone. What did she think of me now? The next Monday morning she was as cheerful as ever and told me she enjoyed dinner at my house. Thankfully there were no other students within earshot to hear of the episode. I bore my shame in silence. What could she possibly think of me now that she had actually been exposed to my boring life in a boring house with boring parents?
I only saw her outside of class one time. She was at the Northside Pharmacy up on Peachtree Street and was buying a jar of Dippity Do. Now some of you may not be aware of the magical ability of this hair treatment. Used by women of the time to create a waterfall of curls it was only matched by the male counterpart, Butch Wax. Even though I now knew one of her beauty secrets her allure was not diminished in my eyes. She was an angel upon the earth. My Earth Angel.
Now, a few of my male friends have confided to me that in their youth they had an Earth Angel. I don’t know if it goes the other way. Do young girls have a male Earth Angel? I hope they have that chance to encounter someone who takes them away to a place of grace, astonishment, and timelessness. Life shouldn’t be only about lists, politics, and mortgages. I’m thinking we need those Earth Angles to carve out an open space within each of us where wonderment may dwell. Some place that can take us away from the harshness of the daily grind. Blessed are the Earth Angels.
Where is she now, my Earth Angel? She must be in her late 80s or maybe her 90s. Maybe she has gone to the Great Classroom in the Sky. I don’t know. If she is still walking the path of this world I doubt if she would remember a 5-year-old boy who adored her over 60 years ago. He sure remembers her.
Jim Tate
Author, Buckhead Tales
jimtate@charter.net
On Saturday, March 9, the Atlanta REALTORS® Association (ARA) held their 60th annual Top Producers Gala at the Marriott Marquis in downtown Atlanta. Around 1,200 agents and their spouses, dressed to the nines, were in attendance in the grand, expansive ballroom. Blue and purple lights swirled across the paneled ceiling, the room bustling with activity and chatter. Presenters DeAnn Golden, REALTOR®, and ARA President Elect Jennifer Pino greeted the crowd and announced winners of various awards merited by sales volume, units sold, and number of years involved with the ARA. At the very end of the night the anticipation was high as they announced the last and most elite category, the individual Top Producers.
Buckhead REALTOR® Ben Hirsh was awarded first place for individual sales by volume with 2018 sales of $79.3M, coming in a whopping $15M more than the next closest competitor. An email from the ARA congratulating 2018 winners later confirmed the significance of Ben’s achievement; “The recognition of Ben Hirsh as the highest Individual Volume Top Producer also represents the highest level of production in that category in ARA history: $79.3M in 2018!”
“I am humbled and re-committed to providing my clients with highly personalized service and the most creative marketing possible,” said Ben Hirsh.
This prestigious award places Ben Hirsh in good company among notable past recipients such as Sam Massell Jr. who was a charter member and recipient of one of the first awards handed out in 1959 when he was an active REALTORⓇ. Massell later went on to become the Mayor of Atlanta and remains an active member of the Buckhead community today at 92.
After 15 years of living and working within the community, Ben has been recognized for his tireless work ethic and passion for Buckhead, culminating in this win at the 2019 ARA Gala. He was also awarded Realtor Magazine’s 30 Under 30 Top Real Estate Agents in North America, interviewed on NPR, Bloomberg News, CNBC, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Atlanta Business Chronicle, the 500 Most Powerful Leaders in Atlanta by Atlanta Magazine, and has been featured on the cover of Realtor Magazine.
“Real estate is my calling, my passion, and hopefully the same thing I will be doing 30 years from now.”
A colorful mural peeks out through a sea of cars and shoppers moving in and out of businesses in Powers Ferry Square at Roswell Road and Powers Ferry Road. The wall between Pigtails & Crewcuts and Sabot has been transformed by bright teardrop shapes, contrasting with the dull grey sky above. Sitting on a metal bench in front of the mural is Buckhead Murals co-owner Lenia Castro, the sleeves of her black leather jacket smudged with paint.
Lenia and her husband Ernesto Torres moved to Atlanta from
Developments in modern technology in the last half century have made it possible to generate signs and decorations digitally before printing them in large scale, which in turn caused a sharp decline in the popularity of the traditions of sign painting. More recently, however, American culture has become reinvested in manual work prompting a renewed appreciation for authentic hand-painted signs and murals.
Businesses and buildings of all sorts need signs, both to advertise the companies and organizations within and to convey essential information such as directions, hours of operation, and safety precautions. Hand-painted versions of these seemingly mundane signs offer an artistic touch and can last longer than stickers and other commonly used materials.
By maintaining good relationships with their community and their willingness to travel for work Buckhead Murals stays busy year-round. Lenia usually conceptualizes the art and sketches the outline before Ernesto steps in to add paint. Lenia explained that the team has to be accountable for the quality of their work and comfortable with criticism from clients as their job is to convey the client’s vision, not their own. “You are their hands,” she said.
“Murals give you the idea that nothing is too big,” Lenia continued. Buckhead Murals thrives on challenging projects that require unique solutions, giving them an advantage and reputation in the community as a team that can handle complicated projects, such as their recent work for Delta. Large scale figurative works above escalators, murals that rise a whopping 10 stories, working with unusual materials such as cloth awnings, and being up high on scaffolding and lifts are all challenges that the team regularly undertake.
Installing murals is often done in the public eye and as such draws interest from many passers-by who may have never seen a mural in process before. “Art opens more doors than it closes,” said Lenia. “People say hello, and always I take the time to explain it to them, you know, not just put on headphones and be antisocial. Because that’s part of the fun – that people can understand what we are doing.”
“It was total immersion for me, for us,” said Lenia, noting that the challenges of running a business were compounded by their language barrier. “Even when we didn’t know how to speak English or the basics all the clients tried to understand us and find work for us,” Lenia continued. “We are so grateful to Atlanta.”
The couple were welcomed by the community and the business has thrived thanks to the team’s tireless work, vision, and artistic talent. Though the business often requires for them to travel to various cities throughout the country the couple consider Atlanta their home. “Always you miss home,” Lenia added, “and the weather!” Painting murals frequently requires being outside for many hours at a time, something that’s not feasible for much of the year in places like New York City.
These days Buckhead Murals works can be spotted in neighborhoods and businesses all around the city and even out in smaller towns such as Buena Vista. Keep your eyes peeled for hand-painted signs at the next sporting event, restaurant, or retail shop you visit and you might be surprised just how prevalent this resurrected art form has become.
Dear Reader, I don’t know how to write this story. I’ve been trying for 2 months but I just start and stop, start and stop. Just can’t seem to get my head around it all. As soon as I get a paragraph down on my paper it seems so clueless. I guess that’s really it, I’m just clueless about all of this. Don’t really know what I’m talking about since I’m so close to it. I’ve decided to just throw it all out there and hope I’m not judged too harshly for my fragmented thoughts from a throne of privilege. This is a ragged story and I don’t know how to clean it up. I just don’t know how. Can’t tell the whole story, but I can tell some of it. Here goes.
My dad died 4 years ago. He was driving a golf cart through the retirement community where he lived in Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina. I’m pretty sure he got the brake pedal mixed up with the accelerator and before you could blink an eye he had crashed into a wooden fence. He told me he was swerving to avoid a child but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t true. All kinds of bruises and a broken leg put him in the hospital. He was gone to the Great Beyond within a week. My mom cursed that golf cart every day until she died a year later. I was there with her the last few days. She told me not to cry, that we would see each other again. That made me cry even harder. I don’t believe in a “life after,” but I sure hope it turns out to be true. I would like to be with her again. I miss her.
After what my dad used to call “the Second Death” I ended up with boxes of scrapbooks and assorted documents they had saved over the years. It was a full year before I could bring myself to open those crates and start sorting through things. There were marriage certificates, college diplomas, elementary school transcripts, notes, letters, newspaper clippings and really just about everything they thought was worth saving over 70 years of marriage. I would pick up each item and try to decide whether to keep it or throw it away. Some of them brought up memories which would lead to a weird sadness and sometimes tears. I was looking at the flotsam of their life, which was my life also. The 1950s, the ‘60s, the ‘70s. 15 trips to England. There were cassette tapes, scribbled inquiries, and notes for their innumerable visits to psychics here and abroad. I’ll get into all my mom’s psychic life in another chapter.
I would usually bog down after 2 or 3 hours of deep diving into the past, emotionally drained. It might be another 3 or 4 weeks before I would venture again into that dark well of the past. During one of the sessions, I spied a folded program, like the kind they hand out at weddings and funerals. I pulled it out, turned it over, and saw the picture of Cora Duncan. It was from her memorial service.
From the time of my birth and for the next 20 years I only knew a small handful of people that weren’t white. Anyone that wasn’t white was The Other. From kindergarten through 7th grade at Sarah Rawson Smith Elementary and then on to Dykes High I was never in a classroom that was not 100% white. Lily White was the term used back then. Wieuca Road Baptist Church, which we attended three times a week, was also 100% white. I asked my dad, a deacon, about it once and he tried to explain it to me. “They probably wouldn’t feel comfortable” was his explanation. Dad was a good man, you might call even call him a straight arrow. Pretty much all the people at my church and my school were good people. But our bubble was only rarely pierced by Those People. We heard stories about Them but didn’t know any. Nobody was burning crosses on lawns and the Klan was no longer riding free in Atlanta in the ‘60s. They had moved out to the rural areas by then, but the unspoken rules were clearly understood by everyone. You of different pigment just don’t fit in with church or our school. You would probably feel better if you kept with your own kind.
I never thought too much about it, I just accepted the way things were. It had always been that way for a long long time. Mind you, from 1963–1968 I was in high school while the country was being rocked by the great upheaval of the Civil Rights Movement. Freedom Riders, dead children in a Birmingham church, Malcolm X slain, Edmund Pettus Bridge, Martin Luther King dead, sit-ins, fire hoses, attack dogs, riots, murders, shallow graves, the Klan. None of this affected my day to day life. It was just something I saw on the news. Now I wonder what my parents thought. They certainly believed in equality but when it got right down to it that didn’t help too much. Equality was one thing, equity was quite another.
OK, let’s cut to the chase and get back to Cora Duncan. She was our maid and must have been in her 50s. She came to our house every Friday for over 10 years. I don’t really know where she lived, only that it was on the other side of downtown Atlanta. We lived out in Buckhead so there is no telling how early she had to get up to catch the bus. My mom would pick her up at 8:30 in the morning at the Big Apple supermarket at the corner of Powers Ferry and Roswell Road.
When they got to our house Cora would change clothes, putting on a gray work dress she asked mom to buy for her. I don’t know her cleaning routine but when I got home from school at 3:30 she was down to the ironing. The ironing board would be set up in the TV room and she would iron my dad’s shirts while she watched her soap operas. She could handle that iron like it was a magic wand. Sometimes I would sit there just to hear the hiss of the steam coming off that hot metal. We called her “Cora,” never “Mrs. Duncan.” White women were called Mrs. This or Ms. That. Cora, and I bet all the others who came to work on our side of town, were always referred to by their first names only. I guess that was one of those unwritten rules.
Cora worked for 3 or 4 white families in North Atlanta every week. She told us we were the nicest family she worked for. That made us feel really good about ourselves. We prided ourselves about being one of the good families that treated our help so well. I guess she might have told that to all her employers, if I were her I sure would have. No telling what cultural backflips she had to do to skate through the White World. Dad always said my mom and Cora had a “special relationship.” Not so sure how special it was for Cora. For decades I clung to the solace that they had been able to transcend race. All that talk of specialness in the midst of what was actually going down seems a little self-serving now. It did make us feel better about the situation so you can add that to the list of privileges we enjoyed. The privilege of not having to feel guilty or responsible.
I had a passing knowledge of all the help that populated my friends’ houses. There was Ellie Mae, Trudy, and Grace. We never knew any of their male family members, but I know they had husbands, brothers, and sons. My buddy Mark had a lady who came to his mom’s house three times a week. She had a son in prison and Mark would give her old Fish & Stream magazines to take to him in the pokey. I remember her acting all appreciative and thankful. We felt pretty good about ourselves for being such good boys. The male membership of Those People did not even get first names. It was nicknames only; Snowball, Shug, Peanut, Rat. I never met them, but we knew what to call them.
I have no idea what Cora’s life was like, but she knew all about mine. Never saw her house, never met her children. I knew nothing of where she was born or raised. I do know she was a devout member of her church. She was dignified in a way I had never seen before. I’m sure she knew things that no one else in my life knew.
These days I have more life regret not about things I did but rather what I didn’t do. If I could climb into a time machine I would go back to a Friday afternoon in 1967. I would walk in the back door at my parent’s house on Millbrook Drive and listen for that iron hissing in the TV room. Rounding the corner, she would be standing there, Mrs. Duncan. I would sit my little white butt on that Corinthian leather couch, shut up, and maybe learn something.
Jim Tate
Author, Buckhead Tales
jimtate@charter.net
On the morning of Thursday, February 28 visitors straggled in through the front doors of Maggiano’s on Peachtree Street. They shook the rain off their jackets and umbrellas and made their way up the stairs to a large, wood-paneled banquet hall lit by the warm glow of chandeliers. The guests milled about and greeted one another, chatting as they loaded up plates with breakfast foods and filled their cups with hot coffee. Before long the Buckhead Business Association Empowerment Breakfast was called to order and everyone found their seats. Some remarks and general business later, former Atlanta mayor Sam Massell approached the podium and addressed the crowd.
An Atlanta native, Massell grew up attending Druid Hills High School, the University of Georgia, Emory University, and was drafted into the United States Air Force in the 1940s. He was the city’s 53rd mayor and served from 1970 to 1974, during which his administration established MARTA, the Omni Coliseum, and Woodruff Park. He was the first Jewish mayor in Atlanta’s history and pioneered minority opportunity in local government, such as appointing the first woman to the Atlanta City Council. His lifetime spent in Atlanta spans four long careers that include public office, association management, commercial real estate, and the tourism industry.
Massell discussed the growing density of the Buckhead skyline, the potential of a park over GA 400, the crime rate, and the 133% increase in apartment units in the last 7 years which he hopes will house millenials who may choose bikes and walking over commuting in cars.
When acting as president of the National League of cities, Massell spent a lot of time traveling to and observing other major urban cities and the way they handled inevitable issues like crime, traffic patterns, and real estate. “I was proud of Atlanta every time I went to another city,” he reflected.
“I told you a little history because as a senior, I’ve lived it,” explained Massell.“Mostly what I want to do now is to explain why the state of the community is so positive. It is because – ladies and gentlemen – it is because of you here in this room and others like you throughout our community. You individuals, and your supporting organizations with which you are affiliated, and those of you representing related news outlets, you are the influence, you are the power, you are the leadership that brings our success about. I’ve paid my dues along with you.”
Now 91 and a half years old, Massell was asked what he hoped to see for Buckhead’s future. “I won’t be here” he quipped, eliciting a chuckle from the crowd. “I’ve seen steady, sound growth throughout my lifetime, and I think that’s very healthy.”
“This is the greatest community, there’s nothing like it. I’ve got a love affair with it. Thank you.”
The spirit of Buckhead heads forward. This is the way it has been, and perhaps this is the way it will always be. The spirit of Buckhead points forward. You see it in the way we work, and you see it in the way we play. The reach is always extending further. The search is for excellence and beauty and grace and vibrancy.
We are a community of individuals. We are diverse, we are dynamic, and we are discerning. We are builders. We are connected to one another with a common bond. A common dream. A common quest. Pointing life in one direction. Forward.
