One of the frequent rubrics I hear about life in Sandy Springs is that we enjoy that “small town” feel. The sticking point is that there seems to be little consensus on exactly what that means.
We seem a tad schizophrenic when it comes to the way we feel about major metropolises. On one hand we presume them to be cold, impersonal and corrupting. But the excitement of those same places makes it hard to keep ’em down on the farm.
My wife Carol was born and raised in a small town — Decatur, Ala. If you come from “the wrong side of the tracks” in Decatur there literally are railroad tracks designating the boundary. One can drive anywhere one desires in about 15 minutes at the most. I don’t know if that makes life there better, but less logistical planning is involved.
There are pluses. In a small town everyone knows if you have suffered a death in the family or some other contretemps, a good thing in those times. Friends close ranks quickly. The prayers and affection of a close-knit community feel like nothing else.
But if you are involved in a fender-bender, well, bad news travels fast. By the time you get home that night you’d assume it was on CNN based on the number of people who know. And heaven forfend if you’re discovered doing something rather salty with the wrong person in the wrong motel room. Life in small-town America is not all beer and skittles.
Of course we Springsteens have that sense of pride and devotion, but being so close to several other communities means we are spread too thin for certain common denominators. In Decatur, high school football is serious business. On the day of a Friday home game, the fervor for the Red Raiders is palpable.
Here? Not so much. Friday night home games at Riverwood or North Springs are not circled in red, even by the most dyed-in-the-wool fan. Having a child on the team or in the band does not guarantee parental attendance. Plenty of good seats, sad to say, are always available.
Part of that has to do with all that is at our beck and call. Plays, concerts, museums, movies, exhibits — if you can’t find something to do in and around Atlanta you must have some very specific desires.
But I think at its core this quarry for that “small-town feel” is rooted in equal parts hope, faith and myth-making. Our politicians, it seems, all wax poetic about those tiny hamlets where no one locks their doors at night. But read the police blotters in those same municipalities and one is likely to find those same neighborhoods have a meth house or a well-organized den of iniquity.
The sooner we let go of figments and embrace the reality that life in Sandy Springs, Decatur or Los Angeles is still just life, the sooner I suspect we’ll find a full measure of that elusive serenity we’re looking for. Or as an old gent once told me: “If you ain’t where you are, you’re nowhere.”
Jim Osterman lives in Sandy Springs. Reach him at jimosterman@rocketmail.com.
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