It is February 1, 2024, what would have been Mom’s 98th birthday. Today, I cede this space to the person who inspired me first, and inspires me still. In today’s post, Mom writes about one of the homes she lived in when she was growing up. The Scott Hotel is still standing, and is a source of continuing fascination.
Most towns have a street called Broadway, wider than the rest, wider than Main or any of the tree- or number-named streets. The name itself makes one expect it to be wider and more important than most — and in the early life of most cities, it was. In Lexington, Transylvania, the first college west of the Alleghenies, and the Opera House, where the Barrymores and others performed, were built on Broadway.
So when my uncle wanted to build a hotel by the railroad, he built it across Broadway from the Southern Depot. More than 20 trains a day passed that way and all but the fastest stopped to deposit or pick up passengers. Some wanted meals, some lodging for a night or even longer.
None of my friends at St. Peter’s School lived in a hotel. But I did. It was my Daddy’s hotel, started by his uncle John Scott, and the street beside it was called Scott Street. It was a small hotel, three floors and about 20 or 25 rooms. The Southern Railroad ran right beside it, and the impressive yellow brick Southern Station was right across the street.
One of the rooms on the second floor had been turned into our playroom. We kept our toys there and played all sorts of games. Several times we put on plays there, hanging a sheet and pretending it was a velvet curtain. We practiced hard and then we had to find an audience. We would go down to the lobby and ask some of the regulars to attend: Cigarette Charley and Pink-Eyed Whitey.
Mom’s writings don’t always have a natural conclusion. This one, like so many, leaves me wanting more.
