Funny you should mention Atlanta, Catspaw. When Caroline and I were on our way back to Atlanta from the "grits" visit to Lumpkin, we were with a gentle and studious young sociologist from Macon. He was working with a group of Amish folk somewhere in mid-state. He thoughtfully arranged for us to visit with them on a Wednesday evening when they would be having a hymn-sing in one of their homes. We were transported into an earlier century that night. Throughout the house, in every room on the lower floor, benches had been placed in rows. People arrived, all dressed in their dark colored, old-style garments, greeted us warmly, and soon every seat in the house was filled and the singing began. Someone would start a hymn, unaccompanied, and all would immediately join in, singing from memory, most of them, although the gentleman next to me had a hymnbook that he would open quickly, find the right page, and hand to me. The hymns were all sung in German, so I did little more than hum along, although my wife, linguist that she is, followed the German quite well. It was a magic evening, a musical and social experience never to be forgotten.

Late that night we drove into Atlanta, and looked for an all-night diner. Found one, sat down in a booth in the back, still in a quiet reverie, each re-living the somber beauty of the earlier part of the evening. Suddenly, a blowsy, bee-hive hair-do'd, dishwater-blond waitress flounced back to our booth, chewing loudly on her bubblegum, and began to swipe at the table-top with a dirty wet rag. On her arm was a large and lurid tatoo. "What'll ya have?" We ordered. She left. Our friend looked up and softly observed, "I think I'm suffering from culture shock."

And so were we.

Sandy