On the west side of the 22nd floor of the J.W. Marriott in the Buckhead district of Atlanta, I stand at an expansive window that frames a view of a downtown showcasing imposing skyscrapers, tall and erect, at daybreak.
At first light, I can see the train tracks, which accommodate both MARTA coaches and freight trains, which rumble along at different speeds but inspire an idle mind.
I have always had an affection for trains and still would like to ride a freight train from Denver to Salt Lake, just to enjoy the solitude and the humming of the diesel engines while inhaling the picturesque glory of nature and the majesty of the landscape.
As I saw that dream journey in my mind’s eye, the television set in my room flashed the news there was another murder in a city once known as “too busy to hate.”
All the while, I am thinking about the Second Amendment right to keep and bear arms. When that amendment was authored, things were quite different. The country did not have an organized militia, and you truly needed a weapon to protect yourself and your family. Just as importantly, you needed a gun to kill your supper.
I thought of all the good things I have enjoyed over the years in Atlanta. The first flashback was to the summer of 1960, when I worked with the Associated Press, whose offices were then located in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution building on Forsyth Street.
That turned out to be one of the most valuable summers of my life. I was an eager, wet-behind-the-ears college student among seasoned newsmen who were self-taught, war veterans, caustic, and cynical.
Many were Georgia Tech aficionados, Tech being the only game in town in those pre-Falcon and Braves days. They did like Georgia’s classy uniforms, however, bright red jerseys over sparkling silver britches.
I had a friend who rented an apartment on Orme Circle, just off Monroe Drive. The landlady was a nice widow who was happy to let me pay the same rent my roommate paid, about $25 a month.
There was no lock on the door to our basement quarters, but we never felt unsafe. The centerpiece of Atlanta’s public transportation then was the old trolley system. When I had to work the afternoon and night shift, I drove my ’50 Ford to the office, where there usually was parking space in the old Terminal Station complex, near the AP offices in the AJC building.
I learned a lot from that assignment, which had me rewriting stories from the Atlanta papers for the AP regional wire. There was a lot of Civil Rights activity at that time.
The biggest international news that summer, though, was the start of the trial in Moscow of U.S. U-2 pilot Francis Gary Powers. His plane had been shot down on May 1, and he was being tried in a Soviet court. Just as the trial began in August, I was instructed to call his wife, who was living in Milledgeville then. The AP wanted a quote from her.
I don’t recall how I got her number, but I did reach her by phone. She refused to say much of anything. She had been advised not to talk “to the press,” and I wrote a meaningless story that certainly was not a scoop.
My mother was unfamiliar with the abbreviation of the Associated Press, AP, and took to telling her friends I was working with the A and P. One day, I said, “Mama, please, I am a journalist. I’m not in Atlanta toting groceries.”
Later, I spent three summers in Atlanta, managing publicity for the Coaches All-Star Game. Our headquarters was in the new and classy Hyatt Regency with the bubble elevators. The Braves had made their move to Atlanta, and I had access to press credentials, which led to a memorable scene when the Dodgers came to town.
Sandy Koufax was in his peak years, and in the locker room following a victory over the Braves, he was kibitzing with manager Walter Alston.
Soon thereafter, Pete Rozelle tapped Rankin Smith as the owner of the new NFL franchise, the Falcons. Atlanta’s Airport was on its way to becoming the biggest in the world, and the AJC announced a new business was coming to town almost every day.
Drive about the city today, and you will see development in every section of town. It remains a vibrant city, and for all the depressing headlines in the news, it ranks 25th in crime among U.S. cities. Still, I wouldn’t sleep in a basement apartment with no lock on the door these days.
To be honest, I wouldn’t do that in any city anywhere.