That Book You Have to Write

There are books you write and tuck away. Practice books. Those with no current market appeal. Then there are the books you have to write...and...rewrite...until they are published.

LAST SUMMER IN EDEN, set in the mountain resort town Bethlehem, NH, in 1929, is the story I need to tell. The main character is Dorothy Brooks, 17, a young singer and member of the invisible class serving wealthy visitors. EDEN has flappers and bootlegging and theater and music and tender first love. And lots of pretty dresses. Has a decade ever had so many gorgeous clothes? Sequins, silks, beads, and embroidery--oh my.

Through her new friendship with a New York summer girl, Dorothy enjoys her foray into the resort's naughty fun. She wins a leading role in a romantic farce, where she must perform opposite the man who broke her heart. While fending him off, she falls for a new man--someone not quite "suitable," according to society's standards. She must make a choice, one that will define the rest of her life.

Bethlehem is beautiful and quirky, even now when most of the 30 hotels are gone. Eclectic cottages line the streets and there is an art deco theater, one of the last standing.  The air is still fresh and the views magnificent.

I used to walk the quiet streets on sweet summer nights, wishing I could get into a time machine and go back to...oh, 1929, maybe...  

Imagine standing in front of the Sinclair, a
four-story hotel that once filled a city block. Inside, a jazz band is wailing away. A flapper
and her companion slip out to the wide porch for a cigarette and a swig from a flask. They stand close together by the rail, shoulders touching as they flirt and laugh.

Below them, late night walkers throng the sidewalks. A surprisingly diverse crowd. Flashy, well-dressed Cubans. Proper Episcopalians in black tie and evening dress. Clusters of young men and women cruising the street, vying to see and be seen. And, strolling quietly, careful not to attract attention, an Orthodox Jewish family.

Bethlehem's pivotal role in New England tourism was colored by two serious issues: anti-Semitism and bootlegging. It's an ugly truth that religious bigotry was rife in New England hotels and vacation areas--not just in Bethlehem. It was never overt, but ads that state "Christian clientele" and "select clientele"are code for "no Jews welcome." The '20s were the time of a great shift for tourism, as motor touring rose and the hotel vacation went out of style. The formerly unwanted visitors saved the town during the Depression and World War II, when many other resorts shuddered to a whimpering demise. Bethlehem became a Jewish resort.

The booming hotel trade and proximity to Canada also meant a whole lot of illicit drinking going on. The town librarian told me how her father brewed beer and distributed it in a truck with fabric flaps so they could ditch the load when necessary. Accounts of car chases and shootings filled the local weekly. One elderly resident told me was also illegal gambling in the hotels. But with the amount of money that flowed into town, the hotels were left alone. In one hotel nearby, the spectacular Mount Washington Hotel, you can have a drink in the former underground speakeasy, the Cave.

LAST SUMMER IN EDEN explores that fascinating pivotal moment when old and new met, just before the jarring crash of 1929 and the end of the glorious Jazz Age. 

Ghosts of resorts past...

 

                                                                                           Old summer resorts fascinate me. Their shabby remnants speak of a more innocent, romantic, whimsical time.  A time when vacationers spent week after luxurious week enjoying leisure activities, robust meals and a giddy social scene.  Often set in spectacular but primitive and rugged landscapes, grand hotels provided surprisingly sophisticated and up to date accommodations. 

My adopted hometown in New Hampshire is one such place. At the beginning of the 1900s, no less than thirty hotels graced its main thoroughfares. The population swelled by thousands in season, when the railroad brought visitors from Boston and New York and beyond. The contrast between isolated mountain village in winter and gala resort, with bootleggers and jazz bands and Presidents and movie stars, in summer, was staggering.  

I've been pining to explore our new home, so when I read about a Georgia resort ghost town, Tallulah Falls, I decided we had to go. Today was perfect: sunny with peak fall foliage. 

In my research, I learned Tallulah Falls has not only lost its resort status, but the natural attraction that was its draw has been permanently changed.  The Tallulah River starts in North Carolina and ends 47 miles later in Habersham County, near South Carolina. Near the end of its run, it cuts through the two-mile Tallulah Gorge, which has 1000- foot walls in places. Six waterfalls drop a total of five hundred feet through the gorge. 

Called the "Niagra of the South," it drew visitors since the early 1800s.  With the advent of a rail line, almost twenty hotels and boarding houses sprang up around the gorge. Visitors could ride or fish by day, dance or play cards at night. 

But progress was soon to put an end to this halcyon period. In 1913, after a battle with environmentalists, the Georgia Railway and Power Company built a huge hydroelectric dam to supply Atlanta's streetcars.  Confederate General Longstreet's widow, Helen Dortch Longstreet, was a leader in this, one of Georgia's first conservation movements. A member of the Progressive Party and a proponent of women's rights, Helen also ran for governor in 1950 as a write-in candidate. 

Another blow was dealt to the resort when a 1921 fire wiped out hotels, stores and homes. Most were never rebuilt. 

The dam diverts most of the water from the falls and they are a mere trickle but for selected "release days" each year. Unfortunately, today wasn't one of them, so we contented ourselves with an aerial view of the gorge from Tallulah Point. This little diversion from the main road hosts two quirky tourist traps, one thriving; the other for sale. Two wild and crazy fools crossed the gorge at this point on tightropes, a Professor Leon in 1883 and Karl Wallenda in 1970. 

The area sees more visitors since the 1993 creation of a state park encompassing the several lakes formed by the dam. Tallulah Falls, population 164, bravely hangs on, proud of its beauty and heritage, hopeful that travelers streaming past to Asheville or Atlanta will stop and experience a sweeter time gone by. 

Living near Bunnyville...

We live near a quirky little hamlet, Rabbittown, in East Hall County. Although it's a blink and you'll miss it type of place, the large statue of a rabbit ensures that you don't. We've fondly dubbed it "Bunnyville." 

The one-block business area surprisingly has most of the amenities--gas stations, package store, southern-style cafe, pizza, library and a medical center. The package store says "buy beer, it's cheaper than gas." Although I did get almost five gallons for my $10 today. Wow. Maybe we'll actually drive somewhere.

Today was my first time voting in Georgia, and I was sent to the Bunnyville library for the privilege. Even in this small outpost, Georgia uses a surprisingly high tech system. No curtains and pencil-marked ballots here. 

When I walked in, thankfully during a slow period, I was greeted by a nice gentleman who directed me to two older ladies behind a table. They checked my license and had me fill out a form with name and address. They carefully compared the license and my form. (p.s. I have taken out my driver's license here more times in a week than I did in a year in New Hampshire)

Then I was handed off to Ruby, resplendent in 1920s hair waves and satin blouse, who checked my license and form against a computer screen.  It took Ruby a minute as she looked up my last name wrong. (A constant down here) Then I went on to the next dear soul, wearing her Sunday hat, who took my form and issued me a yellow key card. 

After a few minutes fiddling around and realizing the card stayed in the machine (no swiping), I quickly voted on the touch screen. Some progressive community development and land preservation warrants on the ballot, I was glad to see. Many of the county officials ran unopposed. Maybe they can't get anyone to run. I can understand that after my own brief and painful foray into town government. 

I handed in my yellow card, was given a peach sticker (sweet) and bid a kind farewell by all.

The whole thing was fast, under ten minutes, but a much more intensive process than Bethlehem, NH, where you check in, get your ballot, mark it and check out. 

My next goal is to find out where the name Rabbittown came from...coffee, catfish and hush puppies at the cafe, anyone?