City of Gold

Reliving old memories and making new ones in the storied town of Dahlonega, Georgia

- JOHN ARCHIBALD

THERE'S SHINY stuff swirling in the pan. Flecks of mica and pyrite and who knows what, but only fools and greenhorns mistake it for gold. You'll have to ignore a lot of sparkles to find what's truly valuable. Swish until the loose sediment washes away, until heavy black sand is all that's left. If you're lucky, and patient, you'll spot a yellow glint. Gold. Unmistakable. You'll know it when you see it. Dopamine will kick in, and the hair will stand up on the back of your neck. Some people really do yell, “Eureka!”

My dad was a Methodist preacher from a long line of them. He gave a sermon about gold fever once, decades ago, after our annual trip to Dahlonega, Georgia, about an hour northeast of Atlanta. It might have been about greed. It might have been about hope. It might have been about chasing shiny things.

MY KIND OF PLACE

The Dahlonega square is different now than how I knew it as a child, when my friends counted men with prospector beards as if they were Guernsey cattle in a game of cow-pasture golf. Now, there’s a yoga studio and a jerky store, a market selling only British curiosities, a peddler of vintage musical instruments, and even a “dessertery.” There’s a toy-and-game shop of a type that might, in more tiresome locales, refer to itself as a “shoppe”—maybe even an “olde” one. Young buskers strum ukuleles outside Brad Walker Pottery on this day, harmonizing to a Jason Mraz song that was popular before they were born. It’s a good spot, across from Connie’s Ice Cream & Sandwich Shop and catty-corner to The Fudge Factory, which has an aroma every bit as mesmerizing as the shimmer of gold.