Athens, GA
August 4, 2023
After independence, many Americans had an instinctive aversion to hereditary titles. They’d fought a war to oust a king, and didn’t want to replace the monarch with a new aristocracy.
But whether we like it or not, every society will have its elites. It’s just a matter of who they’ll be, and how they get there.
Some will climb to the top. Others will be pulled. A few will finagle, and a handful will be placed.
After the Continental Army defeated the British, some of its brass founded an organization to commemorate the conflict.
The Society of the Cincinnati is a fraternal order founded after the war but before the peace. George Washington was among its members, and the society remains the oldest hereditary organization in the United States.
Limited to officers above certain rank, it has thirteen outposts among the states and another in France, where LaFayette, Louis XVI and Axel von Fersen represented the French contribution to the American cause.
If Washington was its most notable name, Aaron Burr was perhaps the most ignominious. The man he killed beside the Hudson was also part of this exclusive enclave.
A few years after this clique was conceived, another of its number moved to Georgia.
Abraham Baldwin was a Connecticut native and Yale graduate. He headed south at the behest of his former commanding officer, Nathaniel Greene.
Georgia governor Lyman Hall recruited Baldwin to develop a plan of education for his expanding state. Within a year, the new arrival would leave his legacy.
In 1785, Baldwin founded the University of Georgia, the first public institute of higher education in the United States. He would also become its first president.
During his tenure, Baldwin left his post to attend the Constitutional Convention, where he was one of two Georgians to sign the document attendees secretly crafted.
When he returned from Philadelphia, Baldwin helped charter the first college at his new university, and named it for the oldest member of the recent Convention.
Franklin College opened to students in 1801. For fifty years, till the Law School was launched, the name was colloquially applied to the entire university, with which it was essentially synonymous.
The first college’s Georgian architecture, and its university’s eventual canine mascot, were both inspired by Baldwin’s Yale alma mater.
The year Franklin College opened, the few huts and shacks that surrounded the school were ambitiously honored with the name of Athens.
The naming of the first college would not be the last time its hallowed moniker would grace the town. In the late 1920s, Bernard Franklin enrolled at the university, where he earned a degree in law at the height of the Depression.
My grandfather always loved his Dawgs. Fortunately, he loved his grandson more, and never begrudged my decision to attend Georgia Tech.
If anything, most football seasons he benefited by it. Every year…usually on Christmas day…my grandfather would wait for the entire family to fill the room. With everyone gathered around the tree, he’d seize the moment to extract his gift.
With a public pronouncement of another Tech defeat at the paws of Dawgs, he collected a public payment for our annual bet. My foolish wager was his perpetual annuity.
Not that Tech always lost. But, like an honest politician or chaste prostitute, our wins were rare. They seemed to return with the approximate frequency of Haley’s Comet (these days it’s more like the Transit of Venus).
And when it arrived, like a new investor making money on his first trade, victory was a trap. It ensnared its “beneficiary”, emboldening him with misplaced faith in anything but flukes. From each fleeting moment he’d anticipate a trend…about which he’d usually be conceptually correct, yet directionally wrong.
Tech wins were like a winning hand at a Vegas casino, or that one good golf shot at the end of a poor round. They were rare, and felt great in the moment. But they served mostly to prompt the gullible patsy into another season of suffering.
Yet looking back, I wouldn’t rescind a single wager.
About ten years before my grandfather died, and a couple months after my grandmother did, I took him back to the University of Georgia.
This was almost a quarter century ago. I think it was at least that long since he’d seen the campus. I assumed he wouldn’t recognize the place.
I was wrong.
While he obviously didn’t recall what he’d never seen, he remembered most everything that was here when he earned his degree.
When he was a student, the old North Campus comprised most of the school. The rectangular layout resembles a wooded version Jefferson’s Lawn at Virginia. It’s peaceful and serene, conducive to quiet contemplation or philosophic thought.
Passing from Broad Street thru the signature arch, we entered an expanse of grass bounded by stately buildings. Framing the lawn, at the far end opposite central Athens, is Franklin College.
As we approached the building that bore his name, my grandfather pointed to his right. “There’s the law school. They built that when I was here. We were the first to use it. I spent a hell of a lot of time there.”
Hirsch Hall looks the way a law school should look. The stately two two-story structure is symmetrically balanced and classically designed.
The main entrance is adorned with a stucco pediment above Doric columns, between which my grandfather walked countless times while pursuing his degree.
Up the road is another edifice erected when Hirsch Hall was built. Named for the president of the university when my grandfather was here, Sanford Stadium has since tripled its capacity.
The last few years, it’s needed every seat. The Bulldog football team has won national championships in consecutive seasons.
That gives the University of Georgia four total titles (if we graciously acknowledge a disputed one during the Second World War).
This finally ties them with Tech, which was founded a hundred years later. But we Yellow Jackets always acknowledge excellence, even in those who require an extra century to equal our accomplishments.
And we can’t deny this is a pleasant place. The stadium nestles nicely amid the rolling hills of the surrounding campus. The west end zone is open, with a spacious pavilion inviting passing pedestrians to survey the scene.
Behind them, across a narrow street, is the modern student center, from which I’m writing this note during a break in the day.
To my grandfather, this part of campus would be almost entirely unfamiliar. These buildings rose long after he left.
But he’d love the reason I’m sitting in this one. A short walk away, as I record these words, his great-grandson is registering for classes.
After seeing his children go to the University of Florida…and a grandson stoop to attend Georgia Tech…my grandfather finally has a descendant who’s a Dawg.
Classes start in a couple weeks, so we’ll return soon to help our son move in. After dinner last night, I had a little time to explore where he’ll be going.
When we finished eating, David joined other new students for some evening activities. Like most campuses in early August, this one is relatively quiet.
When the sun sets, the quads empty and the crickets come out. So do the ghosts. With a couple hours to kill, I decided to pay them a visit.
With the descent of darkness, I strolled up the hill, along the west side of north campus, and past a colonnade of cast iron lampposts leading to the university arch.
Across Broad Street, the bars of Athens were catering to local clientele, while bracing themselves for the influx this Fall.
At the edge of campus, I reversed my route and retraced my steps. Ahead of me, a solemn silhouette in the dark, was the Old College bearing the Franklin name.
As I approached, the dim light of a young night exposed the courtly dignity of the old Law School. Reviewing the columns and cornices, a few cracks were evident upon the lintels and the brick. After almost a century standing sentry, these were noble wrinkles on the face of grace.
I recalled standing there a couple decades before, admiring the building my grandfather recalled. As I thought back, I looked ahead. Where my grandfather once carved a path, my son would soon show the way.
David barely remembers the ancestor who preceded him at Georgia. But that man would be irrepressibly pleased with his wonderful great-grandson. And immensely proud.
As am I.
Like the founder of this university, they’re both members of their own hereditary club.
JD