I drove deeper and deeper into the hardcore, 1 percenter, mansion zone. The weather was unsettled, with a menacing slate gray sky on one side and a blue sky with fluffy cumulus clouds on the other. The houses became larger, and the curbs more manicured. On one side of the street, a wrought iron arch covered a granite driveway. It sported a shield and lions and crossed swords. On the other side, a cluster of blue and white and yellow and pink balloons adorned a mailbox. That marked my spot.
We were celebrating a 90th birthday. I did not expect to know many people beyond the honored nonagenarian matriarch and grandmother of four. I did think they would mostly be members of the 1 percent. That is defined as households with annual incomes of $383,001 and above, an oddly specific amount, but hey, math.
At first I clung to my sister, until the guest of honor told us to stop. Then I worked the room.
I met warm, smart, thoughtful, accomplished women. One entered in sensible shoes, which she caught under an oriental rug. I squared off, ready to break her fall. My rescue impulse led us to chat.
This lady, a generation above me, earned a law degree, practiced law at a silk stocking firm, and raised five, count them, five children. I mention the generations because they used to not welcome the ladies in law schools and law firms. She pioneered—and she did not tell me any of that. Humble.
Her friends told me. One said I would not believe how many community boards she serves on, and how much charitable work she does. In her 80s, she is working for her community.
She and I talked about the value of conserving green spaces and how people from both parties agree that they want parks and public land. We talked about the great landscape architect Frederick Law Olmstead, and about the parks he designed for Atlanta. We talked books. Her green eyes shone with a kindly intelligence.
