AJC > Sandy Springs > Blog > Archives > 2005 > September
September 2005
Jaywalking makes Roswell Road more dangerous
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
When my parents bought their home in Sandy Springs in 1962, Roswell Road was not yet the road into the seventh-circle of hell.
There was no Perimeter, and once you drove north on Roswell Road past Abernathy you were headed into country.
At the intersection of Roswell and Johnson Ferry was a small grocery store with an old wooden screen door that pulled shut with a spring attached, a cooler full of RC Colas buried in chipped ice and hardwood floors.
It was a simpler time in this great and God-fearing little hamlet, and navigating the road was no big deal.
Now dealing with Roswell Road is right up there with putting your head between your legs and running backward into a brick wall. It’s a stretch of asphalt cursed by traffic lights that seem as though they were timed to create gridlock. The days of drivers with a “live-and-let-liveâ€? attitude has been replaced by “get out of my way or die.â€? Not to mention liberal use of the middle finger.
And now we have another phenomenon to stress over, that being the new breed of jaywalkers. These aren’t the people who make a made dash against the light on occasion; these are people who don’t grasp that their bones are no match for a car fender. Or don’t care.
These people look for an opening and stroll out into the middle of the road, planting their feet on the center line, waiting for traffic on the other side to ease up enough for them to saunter on by, even though there is a crosswalk a block away.
Even worse are the groups who pull this stunt. But the ones who scare me the most are the parents who have a baby in their arms and a toddler by the hand while they make their way across the road.
Add to the danger presented by jaywalking pedestrians are the legions of SUV-driving, cigarette-smoking, cell-phone talking, Starbucks-drinking drivers who are attempting to set new land-speed records as they motor from one place to another.
I don’t know if the police really do have quotas to meet in terms of writing tickets, but an ambitious officer could walk from Johnson Ferry down to the Perimeter and write enough citations to keep traffic courts open 24/7.
I have a buddy who lives in New York City, where the least-trod sections of street are the crosswalks. As he’d dart across the busy Manhattan avenues he’d always tell me: “Remember, according to the law the pedestrian always has the right of way.â€? Like that phrase offered some magical field of protection.
There’s not much comfort to be found in the intensive care unit at Northside Hospital and hearing your doctor say: “Both your legs are broken, your pelvis was crushed, you have five cracked ribs, a punctured lung and a fractured skull.
“Thank God you had the right of way.�
Open letter to Sandy Springs political hopefuls
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Later this year, the long-suffering electorate of Sandy Springs will choose our first mayor and city council. You folks will be remembered as the first office-holders.
You’ll be like the first kid who makes it outside on a snow day. You’ll leave the first set of footprints as you blaze the trail that others will follow.
So based on watching local government operate, let me offer a few suggestions:
Stay away from all the irrelevant hot-button issues. I really don’t care what color you are, what sex you are, what sex appeals to you, what church you attend (or don’t) or your opinion on same-sex marriage, flag burning, the war in Iraq, the Supreme Court or who we blame for Katrina.
I’m not wild about the strip clubs, adult bookstores and the massage parlor on Roswell Road, but anyone who tries to convince you that these need dealing with immediately has an agenda that is not good for a fledgling city. Taxes, police and fire protection, infrastructure — that will keep you busy enough.
Resist the urge to build a fancy city hall. We don’t need it. More to the point, there are so many other things we need, let’s put having a bright and shiny new building down the list. Like 10 years down the list. There are more than enough existing structures that can be retrofitted, which will set a marvelous example of fiscal prudence.
It seems when folks are running for office, they’re just one of the people. And when they get in office, they put all manner of hurdles between themselves and “the people.â€? I don’t care what you’re elected title is, keep a listed direct-dial phone number, set up an e-mail address, establish regular offices hours and don’t staff things out. You’re a small-town elected official, not the president.
Speaking of access to your constituents, it would be a good idea not to have a door on the room you get together in. That way you’re not tempted to have closed-door meetings and hide from us. And don’t use that “executive sessionâ€? excuse to meet out of sight, either. Rule of thumb - if you’re working, you’re getting paid from our taxes. As such, it is our business.
Groups of elected folks like to get together at “conferences.â€? Ideas are swapped, information is shared and they sometimes yield great benefits. However, these “conferencesâ€? often take place on tropical islands, near casinos or at plush golf resorts. If you are headed to a “conferenceâ€? and have to pack sunscreen, your lucky golf towel or your new club-hopping outfit, you aren’t spending our tax dollars wisely. Take a vacation on your own dime.
Make your campaign an example of dignity and integrity. Show us how you’re ready to lead. Behave. Remember the wise admonition of Thumper’s mother - if you can’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all.
Everyone remembers the first. First kiss. First day of school. First man to walk on the moon. You have one chance to be remembered as the elected officials who paved the way for the future of our city. Or who acted like a bunch of self-serving baggy-pantsed clowns.
It’s your call on what course you pursue, but we get to decide if you make it.
See you in December.
When a son goes off to college
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
My heart hurt.
Two weeks ago I took my son Zach — lock, stock and I-Pod — to Indiana University. This didn’t exactly sneak up on me.
Before his junior year at Riverwood, our mailbox filled up with direct-mail pieces for colleges and universities. Before his senior year, we sat with his school counselor to see what courses he had taken and what he would need to be considered by the schools on his list.
Then came the visits. Georgia Tech was an early favorite, but fell by the wayside. Then he visited Vanderbilt, Duke and Wake Forest and eliminated the latter two.
I took him to my alma mater, Georgia Southern University, but it didn’t show well. The last two schools would be Indiana and Georgia.
He and I made the trip to Bloomington, Ind., last April and he all but moved into the dorm that day. With apologies to Uga, he decided not to even visit Georgia.
I guess I could say that I didn’t have much time to prepare for him to leave home, but that would be a lie. For most parents, the 18-year clock on the kid leaving starts the moment they’re born. One of the first things a new parent is asked is whether they have started a college fund.
Done properly, parenting is about getting them ready to step out into the world. And 18 years should be plenty of time to prepare. Heck, we got a man on the moon in less than a decade.
But there I was, standing in his dorm room three weeks ago as the afternoon shadows were creeping in. There were no more boxes to move, no more forgotten items to fetch from Target and I had a 10-hour drive ahead. All that was left was good-bye.
But how do you put 18 years of love and caring and concern into a few sentences? All summer I thought about what I wanted to say; how proud I was of the young man he had become, how I wished good things for this next chapter in his life, how ready I felt he was to move along.
I told him all those things, and that I loved him. Then I took the crucifix from around my neck and put it around his. I hugged him tight one last time. And then my heart started to ache.
Our children belong to us, but they don’t.
Do home and heart matter anymore?
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Nothing is forever, as the good folks who built the Berlin Wall can attest.
Yet, I think we all harbor a sense that the home we grew up in will always be there, if only for us to drive by years later to point out to the kids and grandkids.
And if that is the case, those who grew up in Sandy Springs might consider getting some pictures of the family homestead pretty soon. Our ancestral digs are beginning to have the shelf-life of cottage cheese left in the sun.
I am fortunate to own the home we moved into in 1962 when I was six. The house itself has only been around since 1958. It is like many in old Sandy Springs, (which I define as anything circa 1965, give or take.)
Like most homes from that era it is three-bedrooms/two baths with a basement. It is a ranch-style house, maybe meant to evoke the image of the Ponderosa, though that is nowhere close to reality.
These were homes built well before the era of the massive master bedroom, bathrooms with more square footage than a two-car garage and a kitchen that would get Emeril aroused.
Those old Sandy Springs homes now are buildings with targets painted on them by builders coveting the land they sit on.
One only has to look along Johnson Ferry between Bonnie Lane and Long Island, or along Heards Drive, or along Riverside Drive to see mansions sitting where modest homes used to reside. When once it was our homes and their location that were prized, now it is simply the location of the dirt.
Indeed, there are rumors of real estate executives crunching the numbers to see what it will cost to buy a block of houses so they bulldoze the buildings and erect buildings with seven-figure price tags. One estimate I heard kicked around was around $400,000 per acre.
Try to explain that one to the grandkids.
Not to mention the uncomfortable contrast it brings to a neighborhood, when a $6-million manse is within a stand-up double of a $300,000 split-level.
“See the tricked-out Hummer next to that hot tub? That’s where Gramps used to play catch with his daddy before we grossed close to half a mil.”
A developer may not be able to place monetary value on our memories, but they sure can price ‘em out of the market.
