Atlanta, Ga.
Mon., Jan. 25, 1926
As soon as we arrive here Thursday Bill called up an old friend from East Dorset, Joe Reed, the breeziest, blusteriest, most likable salesman. From unending pep he is into every civic and charitable organization in the city, knowing everyone, high and low.
Joe, apologizing for not having room for us, settled us in the home of the parents of a friend, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, typical old southern folks. The most hospitable souls in the world, they have a fund of interesting information and anecdotes, but as neither can see very well and the old lady has been ill, no one tidies up, and the house is a mess, especially because of the soot from the open soft coal grates which provide the only heat.
Although Thursday was like spring, it has been really cold ever since. In the mornings the old folks light the gas heater in the bedroom for us, bring a pitcher of hot water, get us breakfast, and at night see that a nice fire is burning in our room. Treated so much like guests we cannot retire to our room to read or do an odd job until bedtime.
After looking over the town Friday afternoon, Joe took us in his Packard coupe to his home where we dined with his pleasant wife and two cunning children. A beautiful southern belle and her homely, slap-stick fiance joined us in the evening, and a rollicking, jolly, slap-stick time was had by all.
Atlanta, a cosmopolitan bustling city, is growing rapidly like most of the south, although prices of land here are not as high as around Asheville. Joe, enthusiastic about Atlanta, talks climate incessantly, as they all do here, but we have experienced only two or three beautiful days; there is snow on the ground again this morning.
Saturday morning Bill and I again snooped around town, blowing ourselves to lunch and the movies as a one-day-early anniversary celebration. Coming out of the movies we ran into Harry Seward (he and Ethel, now passed on, spent their honeymoon at The Camp in Vermont). It was fun to have dinner and go to the movies with him, apparently contented and prosperous. Quite a movie-ing day.
The friendliness of the people is the nicest thing in the south--everyone speaks to you. Old gentlemen, particularly in the country districts, touch their hats as you pass. I had a funny experience yesterday. Earlier, when I remarked to Joe how charming this custom is, he told me it was dying out because northern women, not understanding, refused to return the bow. Soon after, while walking alone, a man in a car took off his hat to me and bowed. Not to be thought an intolerant northerner, I nodded my head slightly. He immediately stopped his car, saying, “How about a ride, kiddo?” Discretion in bowing is necessary, as in everything else, I have learned.
Sunday Joe took us for a ride before dinner at his home. I had no idea there was so much wealth here; beautiful suburbs extend for miles in every direction. In the evening we went to church with Harry Seward.