By the Editors
A walk through Athens begins as a civic habit and becomes an argument about memory, property, shade, and who gets to tell a town where it is going.
On the July mornings when the heat arrives before the paper, Pulaski Street seems to lift itself from sleep one porch at a time. A dog announces the mail truck. Someone waters a fern with the grim duty of a juror. At the corner, where the sidewalk buckles around an oak older than most deeds, Athens offers its usual bargain: nothing here is straight, but nearly everything remembers.
