Columbus has come a long way since the 1940s. When I shut my eyes and think back, I can recall a town of around 30,000 people, that is if you don’t count Fort Benning. In those days, the late Forties, Columbus was insular, difficult to reach and difficult to get out of once you were here, the sort of small town that motorists whizzed past on U.S. 27 on their way from the Midwest to Miami.

We were so out of it that locals were always hopping on the Central of Georgia’s Man O’ War to go to Atlanta to shop. The usual destination was Rich’s Department Store, the Dear Store of Celestine Sibley’s book. I remember how much my mother, grandmother and aunts liked to go. When they couldn’t find anybody to keep my sister and brother and me, they would drag us along, although I am certain they would much rather have had the day to themselves. Most of the time we would go up on the early morning train, shop all day, and come back on the afternoon train. Sometimes we stayed overnight at the Henry Grady Hotel.

The Man O’ War was something to see, a stainless steel streamliner with what I remember as art deco interiors in all the cars. Although there wasn’t really much to see out of the windows on the run to and from Atlanta—just more of Georgia—the sensation of speed and the rocking motion of the train as it pounded over the tracks was excitement enough for a boy of 9 or 10.

But the train ride was nothing compared to the arrival atAtlanta’s Terminal Station, a truly cavernous building alive with the sounds of hissing steam and the crashing coupling and uncoupling of the big trains in the yards. Terminal Station was the firstman-made structure I had ever been in that was larger than the Muscogee County Courthouse.Outside, it resembled nothing somuch as an Italian palace, with two enormous towers and enough ornate decorations to make my sister gasp in admiration. Not only that, but in front of the station was a bronze statue of Samuel Spenser, the first president of Southern Railway, and asmymother repeatedly explained to us children every time we made the trip, a native of Columbus. And rich.

We walked to Rich’s fromthe station withme already whining about wanting to ride the trolley cars. In a block it seemed like we passed more people than lived in Columbus. But unlike in Columbus, they ignored us, walked right by without speaking, as if we didn’t exist.Grandmother, who thought any place north of Pine Mountain was enemy territory, explained that some of the people we passed were probably Yankees, most of whom were spotted and carried infectious diseases.

Once inside Rich’s, which was even larger than Terminal Station, mother inevitably pointed us toward the escalators, all the time warning us children not to get our toes caught in the magicalmetal carpet that whisked us smoothly up toward heaven, which was, if I remember correctly, Rich’s second floor. Here such a cornucopia of fashionable merchandise opened to our sight that it was like being transported to Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. Hundreds, indeed thousands of shoppers, some of whom probably were Yankees, moiled about among the wares, their arms stacked with purchases and their eyes burning with shopper’s lust, spreading God knows what kind of disease.

Then, after several hours wandering the aisles between racks of dresses and coats and ladies undergarments with a diabolical appearance, during which I discovered that my mother was famous—several of the sales women actually addressed her by name—it was on to the Magnolia Room, where the women ordered something that resembled chicken salad, only it had grapes and nuts in it and grossed us children out.

For some reason, grandmother, a sort of Julia Child of Southern cooking, always ordered the Magnolia Room’s chilled boiled custard for dessert. I don’t know why because when it arrived she proceeded to dissect rather than eat it, commenting critically and loudly on every grain of sugar or infinitesimal fragment of milk curd she detected until half the diners in the restaurant had fallen silent and were starring in our direction.

Then more shopping until we children became fretful and began to stamp our feet and tug on our mother’s skirt and threaten to throw full-fledged fits. With any luck we would get to ride on a trolley car and walk down the concrete canyon that was Peachtree Street, window shopping. I was fascinated by the tall buildings, which, if you bent over backwards and looked up long enough, all seemed to be falling on you. My mother and aunts, still excited at being in the big city, chirped like birds. Grandmother, bored with the shopping, stared intently at every passer by in hopes of spotting Rhett Butler or Aunt Pitty Pat. Eventually, after buying more goodies, including a box of luscious pastries at the Virginia Something Or Other Tea Room, allegedly for the men folk back home, we would stagger back toward Terminal Station, our feet aching and our arms loaded with plunder.

I don’t remember much about the trip home because I usually fell asleep the instant we found our seats on the Man O’War. I may have just been dreaming, but it does seem to me that sometimes the women had a toddy or two on the way back to Columbus. There are days now when all those times seem like dreams to me.

To see this story complete with photos, pick up the latest issue of Columbus and the Valley at a retail outlet near you, or click here to subscribe online so you’ll never miss a word.

Phone: 706-324-6214
E-mail: contactus@columbusandthevalley.com