Driving Miss Daisy into a city with chickens, goats, ghosts, & guns

Somehow, it's a hoot, living in sight of skyscrapers in the middle of a mid-sized city, where folks trade chickens, not to mention goats.

Some keep bees, owls take out our tree rats, hawks hunt, and coyotes cower in our culverts, even as we continue to live among tall buildings. Someone in historic Grant Park started a gun club, where neighbors now carry concealed as all men did for centuries, and practice socially at in-town ranges; others claim this raises violent ghosts of the past. I once designed a house to be compatible with the Cabbagetown Historic Landmark District on a Pearl Street lot where both goats and chickens had dwelt for a century. I had passed it for a couple of decades and barely noticed. I recall the goats were white and the fowl were black.

Around us, new cities try to form, and old communities seek refuge within entrusted enclaves.

The other night, I meandered home through the Krog Street Tunnel  down Estoria Street in Cabbagetown, its postage stamp lots lined with postage-increase homes milled a hundred years ago but enhanced by recent newcomers. Graffiti artists made a mist in the Tunnel, a crowd reclined on the patio at 97 Estoria as usual, and the street was narrow between cars and curb, until the jog past the stone carver's place. It's a two-lane with room for one car, a careful path. No cars approached ahead or behind, so I careened along at a timid ten or twenty; as the old wooden signs used to read in C'town: "Pedestrians leave Dents" and "Speed Limit XXV". No one fired shots at me in road rage, and I waved at passersby on sidewalks — we nearly conversed.

Then, I spotted movement ahead. It wasn't a Walker ("as seen on TV" in Atlanta), it wasn't a cyclist — it was a large, dark rooster strutting in the middle of the road in front of 200 Estoria . His gaggle were safely on the sidewalk, but he chose the bold path to protect his hens. As I didn't have the requisite three feet to pass (law for cyclists, though figuring it etiquette for coq, not yet au vin), I slowed to his pace. Happily, he gave a hoot, then rejoined his flock. I continued slowly to enjoy life in the Southern Capital.

If our Grant Park Gun Club keeps growing, along with concealed carry, we must all be more polite, and presumably safer. This is not to mention the effect of beehives at backyard fences! Now, I hear that wealthy and leftist Druid Hills may want to join Atlanta — and they will be welcomed, but I wonder: would Druid Hills be happy, driving Miss Daisy into a City with our chickens, goats, ghosts, and guns?