Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
CHAPTER 8
I DROVE THROUGH bright early-morning sunshine. Here and there the road plunged into
dense pine forests and led past collections of holiday cabins in the woods. Atlanta was only
an hour's drive to the north and the people hereabouts were clearly trying to cash in on
that proximity. I passed through a little town called Pine Mountain, which seemed to have
everything you could want in an inland resort. It was attractive and had nice shops. The
only thing it lacked was a mountain, which was a bit of a disappointment considering its
name.IhadintentionallychosenthisroutebecausePineMountainconjureduptomysimple
mind a vision of clean air, craggy precipices, scented forests and tumbling streams-the sort
of place where you might bump into John-Boy Walton. Still, who could blame the locals if
they stretched the truth a little in the pursuit of a dollar? You could hardly expect people to
drive miles out of their way to visit something called Pine Flat-Place.
The countryside became gradually more hilly, though obstinately uncraggy, before the road
madeagentledescentintoWarmSprings.ForyearsIhadbeenharboringanurgetogothere.
I'm not sure why. I knew nothing about the place except that Franklin Roosevelt had died
there. In the Register and Tribune
Building in Des Moines the main corridor was lined with historic front pages which I found
strangely absorbing when I was small. one of them said PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT DIES
AT WARM SPRINGS and I thought even then that it sounded like such a nice place to pass
away.
In any event, Warm Springs was a nice place. There was just a main street, with an old hotel
on one side and row of shops on the other, but they had been nicely restored as expensive
bou tiques and gift shops for visitors from Atlanta. It was all patently artificial-there was
even outdoor Muzak, if you can stand itbut I quite liked it.
I drove out to the Little White House, about two miles outside town. The parking lot was
almost empty, except for an old bus from which a load of senior citizens were disembark-
ing. The bus was from the Calvary Baptist Church in some place like Firecracker, Georgia,
or Bareassed, Alabama. The old people were noisy and excited, like schoolchildren, and
pushed in front of me at the ticket booth, little realizing that I wouldn't hesitate to give an
old person a shove, especially a Baptist. Why is it, I wondered, that old people are always
so self-centered and excitable? But I just smiled benignly and stood back, comforted by the
thought that soon they would be dead.
