One of
Perry’s most widely known landmarks is the New Perry Hotel. In the years we spent out
of the South, from east coast to west, we always ran into someone that said, “....
Perry, Georgia, I remember going though there on the way to Florida as a kid, we would
stop and eat at the New Perry Hotel.” Sometimes they would remember staying the
night, but they always remembered “eating there”.
In my charmed and golden days of youth. the 1950s and 60s, upon obtaining the much coveted
“valid Georgia Driving License”, teenagers would often pool their financial
resources, purchase 50 cents worth of gasoline and just “drive around town”.
Today they call it “crusin” and it is banned in many places. Of course in 1960
and in a town of five thousand there were not enough teenagers with access to a car to
make “drivin” a nuisance.
Sunday afternoons were then for teenagers, a lazy, boring period between morning church
and B.T.U. or M.Y.F. Not everyone had a television and for those that did programming was
sparse; it was like, .. well, the Washington Redskins or nothing. So, starting Saturday
morning, negotiations began for the use of the family sedan on Sunday afternoon. The one
that succeeded in this delicate negotiation, then became that afternoon’s chauffeur
for as many as could cram into the rolling “fun-house". The local Dairy Queen
was the ultimate destination, with Hwy. 41 being the “cruise strip”.
I always wanted to cruise by the New Perry Hotel and look for ‘yankee’ tags. Now
some might interpret this as a bit mischievous but in that era it was merely a way to pass
a Sunday afternoon; heaven forbid, one open a text book and do any homework before 8:00
Sunday night. What was the intent if one might actually run into one of the “infamous
Yankees”? Some might expect Southern capriciousness or even viciousness, if they were
to believe the content of many screen plays and movies....Deliverance comes to
mind. But no, upon encountering a “yankee”, my intent was to turn on the
“Southern charm” and give them a memory of real Southern hospitality that they
could take back up “nawth” with them.
The actual face to face meeting with these northern folk only happened on rare occasion; I
mostly became acquainted with the back end of their car. I do remember one “close
encounter”. I was asked, in that high pitched, northern staccato which I strained to
understand, directions to Atlanta. Now just having obtained the coveted and long awaited
“valid Georgia Drivers License” and seeing as how my “muther”
wouldn’t allow me to venture outside the city limits of Perry, I was not the best
source from which this northern brethren could have sought such advice. But I was happy to
have a chance to actually talk to one of these objects of Sunday afternoon entertainment
and as best I could gave directions. My “best”, I later discovered, had fallen a
bit short....I had sent the unknowing traveler in the direction of Macon County. I figure
somewhere in Marshallville another Sunday afternoon thrill seeker corrected my mistake.
This all reminds me of one of my favorite Southern stories which I believe was related in
Spencer B. King’s book Sound of Drums. A northern college professor doing
research on the War of Northern Aggression was traveling through rural Georgia. It was
getting late in the day and he was pressed to return to Atlanta in time for a lecture he
was to deliver that night. He became lost on Georgia’s back roads and stopped for
directions at a roadside fruit stand. Attending the stand was a very old but kindly
looking gentleman in overalls, a fedora and with a “chaw of tobaccy”. The
traveler asked in that northern twang for the way to Atlanta. Before answering the
professors inquiry, the old gentleman looked over at the traveler’s automobile and
spied the Illinois license plate. He slowly turned his head, did the necessary spitting
and then looked back at the stranger and said, “Reckon Sherman could find it in
‘64, so can you”; he then turned and set back down by the peanut pot.
Now back to the New Perry Hotel. While a senior at PHS, Class of 1965, I dated a
“college man”. He and a buddy or two would often hitchhike from Middle Georgia
College, in Cochran on Wednesday afternoon, attend Wednesday prayer meeting with a group
of us Baptist kids, and then hitchhike back. Unfortunately one Wednesday night, they
failed to find a ride back. It was cold and misty, so they decided to stay over at the New
Perry Hotel and hopefully find a ride to Cochran in time to make their first morning
class. Their plan worked great. The two young fellows awoke early and found a man going to
Hawkinsville who offered them a ride; and in the greatest Southern tradition, when
learning of their plight took them all the way to Cochran. The story seems to have had a
happy ending; however there was the matter of the check for $9.50 that was written to the
New Perry Hotel. The young man had a whole lot of “splaining” to do when his
father later that month looked over the young man’s checking account ( yes, fathers
did that then)! I married the fellow 33 years ago and we always remember this story when
we visit the hotel.
I only remember eating at “the hotel” a couple of times as a child. These where
usually momentous occasions, requiring one’s “Sunday best”. This I
didn’t mind as long as it didn’t include the dreadful “hat”; to this
day I have a love-hate relationship with hats. Hummm, hummm, the fried chicken was always
my favorite; and of course everyone knows that fried chicken just screams for turnip
greens. Top it off with pecan pie and you have yourself one fine Southern dining
experience. But the one thing that I have never, ever understood is the “UN-SWEETENED
Iced Tea” which I have always considered “yankee tea”. It is almost an
abomination in the South not to have “SWEET Tea”. Well I guess the Good Lord
knew what he was doing, sweet tea would make the New Perry Hotel just too close to heaven.
©Terrelle M. Walker
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