By Sherri Smith Brown

When I was twelve, my Aunt Madeleine gave me a copy of Gone With the Wind for Christmas. I had seen the movie the previous summer, and when she told me that there was a book—that I could actually curl up in my own room and read to my heart’s content about Scarlett, Rhett, the Civil War and Tara—I was beside myself with amazement and anticipation. And then I got it and saw that there were hundreds of pages that I could pour over—passages describing the red clay countryside, the march from Resaca to Atlanta, Rhett and Scarlett fleeing Atlanta’s flames and the billowy, green-flowered muslin dress Scarlett wore to the barbeque.

During all my teenage summers, my family headed out of Indiana for Daytona Beach, Florida, each time passing through Atlanta, where I would peer from the car window at the skyline, dominated by the blue Hyatt dome, as we maneuvered our way through the construction and detours of the new interstate highway. Was there a trace of the railroad depot or Aunt Pittypat’s house? Would I catch a glimpse of a sign with an arrow pointing to Tara? (more…)