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THE TERMINAL HOTEL FIRE
AN EPIC TALE OF RANK DOUCHEBAGGERY
"Hey, Ort! Are you still researching the
Terminal Hotel fire?" I hear more than a hotel
ful of you ask. Yup... fact is, I've just recently
found some groovy new information on several
of the 35 victims. Now I'm gonna share a tad
of it with you.
To recapitulate (for those of you who are
in the dark about my subject matter), this
fire occurred on May 16, 1938 at the corner
of Spring and Mitchell streets in downtown
Atlanta, directly across the street from where
the Richard B. Russell Federal Building stands
now. In 1938, that spot was occupied by
Atlanta Terminal Station, a Spanish-style pas
senger depot for several of Atlanta's eight
or nine converging railroads (virtually all of
which carried passengers in those days). And,
with its position right across the street, the
Terminal Hotel, built in 1908, was the obvious
destination for many who worked on the lines
as well as tired travelers who had to catch an
early train. Its Hartsfield's Restaurant on the
first floor never closed, making an anytime
bite to eat an easy reality.
It has been determined that the fire wasn't
arson—rather that the hotel was "a disaster
waiting to happen," as my dad put it once.
The elevator shaft was an open cage, and the
open staircase (the only one) wrapped around
it. There were no fire doors, the interior was
constructed of wood on a steel frame with
brick facing, and there were no sprinklers
because the fire code did not require them.
However, there were two fire escapes.
A large exhaust fan motor in the basement
caught fire just after 3 a.m. on this fateful
Monday morning, quickly igniting paint
ing suoplies stored
nearby (the hotel was
being repainted at
the time). Within a
nonce, flames were
roaring up the eleva
tor shaft and bursting
out of the roof "like
some kind of mad volcano," as a reporter of
the day described it. Although the fire depart
ment arrived within three minutes, the street
was already full of bodies of those who had
jumped; others were standing at windows beg
ging for help. Many daring rescues were made
by firemen; most rooms of the (I think it was)
68-room, five-story hostelry were filled. If it
had not been for their rapid and heroic work,
many more lives would surely have been lost.
Okay, that's the 10-cent tour of the disas
ter. Now I get to tell you a smidgen of what
I've turned up in my recent searching online.
Fire victim William Howard Snider, a
hosiery salesman from High Point, NC, was
separated or divorced (I'm really not sure of
which) from his wife Beulah. Their son, Robert
Howard Snider, a lad of 14 (he also died),
had just completed his school year in nearby
Greensboro and came along to Atlanta with his
dad "for Ihe ride." Fve already been to Mount
Tabor Cemetery, out in the beautiful Uwharrie
Mountains west of Asheboro, NC, to their
gravesites (and noted that Beulah was not
there). I have wanted to trace each victim's
family back at least one generation just for
completeness' sake, and my knowledge of her
approached zero.
Imagine my glee when I somehow stum
bled onto a Guilford County, NC website a
whtle back and found their marriage record!
WtUiam Howard Snider married Beulah Safriet
in 1923. (I couldn't refind the site, or I'd
be more specific.) Now not only did I know
Beulah's maiden name, it was one I'd never
seen before!
Quickly I checked the 1930 census. Yup,
there they were, just the three of the Sniders,
in their little bungalow on Winston-Salem
Road on Apr. 29, 1930. Bob was born in 1924,
I thus gleaned. Then I went to the 1910 cen
sus in hopes of finding Beulah as a child of
eight or nine years. No luck, even with so odd
a last name. (Almost everyone in the United
States with that name {which is German in
origin] lives in either Davie or Iredell County,
northwest of High Point.) Then I went ahead
to 1920, where she would have been a teen
ager. I found a Robert Safriet and his wife
Alice, but no Beulah... there was, however,
a 15-year-old sister named Blondina, a name
so unmistakable that no inept census taker
was apt to mess it up. I returned to the 1910
census, looked up anyone named Blondina
in Davie County, and bingo! There she was!
Yup, Robert and Alice had a daughter in 1910
named "Bulah" who was listed as nine years
old; trouble was, their last name had been
incorrectly logged as "Saford"—a common
occurrence in census. (You gotta be a bit of a
detective to do census right, folks!) And just
for proof, as if I needed it, "Blandine" was
there, aged five. In both cases, the family
lived in Calahaln (yes, that's the correct spell
ing!) Township of Davie County.
Elsewhere, I found that Robert Safriet
had married Alice U. Stroud, daughter of
Richard and Mary, plus I located Robert as
son of Wiley Wallace Safriet and his wife Lucy
Campbell Safriet. Amazing. I didn't find their
marriage dates, but I'm not the Safriet family
genealogist, either!
I'll leave that to
someone else.
Next I went to
North Carolina death
records, and found
Robert Blackwood
Safriet, born Aug. 7,
1870 and died May 28, 1942. So, he was alive
when his former son-in-law and grandson
burned up in Atlanta; so was his wife Alice.
But more importantly, I discovered where they
are buried: Society Baptist Church Cemetery,
off U.S. 64 between Mocksville (seat of
Davie County) and Statesville (seat of Iredell
County) and apparently directly on the county
line! This explains why some family members
are listed as being buried in Davie County and
others, in the same cemetery or even in the
same plot, as being interred in Iredell County.
And I betcha Beulah is in there with them
somewhere.
My old friend Jamie Bartholomaus is brewer
at Foothills Brewing in Winston-Salem, just
25 miles up the road from Mocksville. I've
scoped out a cheap mom-and-pop motel (The
Lakewood Motel) south of town and several
eateries (Miller's Restaurant, Deno's Barbecue,
B.J.'s Country Food, and J. & J.'s Real Pit
Barbecue just for four: y'see. Mocksville is only
17 miles from Lexington, the barbecue capital
of North Carolina, so some B8Q place is bound
to be good!) that look worthy of reporting on
here. When I have the chance. I'll just motor
up there, see Jamie, drink some of his gooood
brew, and take in a bunch of Safnets in the
process.
Next time. I'll mention Luthe' A. Munn and
tell you a bit about him, but now Fm Safrieted
out. More shortly.
William Ortan Carlton
Before we begin, let's make one thing per
fectly clear: it's not about Vince Dooley.
Yes, UGA President Michael Adams exerted
extraordinary pressure on Dooley to get him to
resign as athletic director, and although after
41 years it was probably time for Dooley to
step down, he had certainly earned the right
to choose the manner of his departure. And
yes, there is ample evidence to suggest that
Adams was strongarmed into pushing Dooley
out by Columbus liquor magnate Don Leebern,
a powerful member of the Board of Regents,
after Leebern's old pal Vince refused to name
gymnastics coach Suzanne Yoculan (with
whom the married Leebern was having a well-
publicized affair) assistant athletic director.
But it's not about Vince Dooley.
And yes, Michael Adams brokered an
under-the-table deal to pay ex-head coach
Jim Donnan a severance bonus of $250,000,
a violation of NCAA rules, and specifically
ordered the deal hidden from Dooley. And yes,
upon Dooley's departure Bulldog Nation was
outraged and vocal and alumni contributions
plunged into the toilet and fans called for
Adams' resignation, if
not his actual head.
But it's not about
Vince Dooley.
This point is vitally
important because
in the wake of sev
eral investigations
into Michael Adams'
financial dealings,
expenditures of public
funds for private use,
worsening relations
with UGA faculty, and
pretty much enough
alleged malfeasance to
float boats in Sanford
Stadium, Adams has
dismissed his critics
as disgruntled Dooley
supporters and cast
himself as the hero in
an epic battle between
academics and athlet
ics for the soul of the
University of Georgia.
None of this sordid and convoluted mess
is news to those of us who've been living
in the thick of it for the past dozen years,
but for anyone who may be new in town,
or not fully up to speed, or who just gives
a good goddamn about the integrity of the
state's flagship university, there's Behind the
Hedges: Big Money and Power Politics at
the University of Georgia (NewSouth Books,
2009) by Pulitzer Prize-winning investiga
tive journalist Rich Whitt, late of the Atlanta
Journal-Constitution. Whitt takes a deep, prob
ing and uncompromising look at the Adams
administration, from the questionable hiring
of a man whose academic credentials were
featherweight at best to head a major research
institution to the schism which undocked the
UGA Foundation (the university's major fund
raising organization) from the university it
was founded to support.
It was clear from the very beginning that
as state funding for the entire university
system dwindled in the face of a worsening
economy, Adams' primary role was to be a
fundraiser and politico rather than a faculty
president, and Adams warmed to his role as
CFO and Chief Gladhander with gusto. To the
foundation's dismay as the prime source of
the president's salary, however, Adams began
drawing on foundation funds as his personal
bank account, bankrolling improvements to
his residence, an unprecedented stipend for
his wife, lavish parties for his son and stadium
box seats for his friends, and a hatf-million-
dollar condo in Buckhead for his personal use
while in Atlanta.
When the foundation cried foul, Adams
dismissed their outcry as mere fallout from
the Dooley affair. The foundation responded
by commissioning an audit of Adams' expen
ditures by the accounting firm Deloitte &
Touche. The D&T audit proved damning in
its findings but was summarily discarded by
the Board of Regents, including Leebern,
Chancellor Tom Meredith and others who
shared with Adams a common friend in Gov.
Sonny Perdue (Leebern alone contributed
$200,000 to Perdue's reelection campaign).
Many of the Regents later admitted that they
hadn't even read the D&T report, but that
didn't stop them from cutting loose the UGA
Foundation, which now operates indepen
dently but in a greatly reduced capacity. In
other words, it was
worth it to the Regents
to sever the univer
sity's ties with half a
billion dollars' worth
of philanthropy rather
than piss off Adams.
If that weren't
enough, Whitt, covers
all the low points: a
vote of no confidence
by 70 percent of the
UGA Faculty Senate,
whose salaries have
stagnated while Adams'
adds up to one of
the highest for a col
lege president in the
country, and who are
watching as Georgia's
academic rankings have
steadily dropped to
among the worst in the
Southeast. The loss of
hundreds of millions
of dollars in potential revenue from a break
through veterinary drug with potential appli
cations for human use, created by a UGA vet
school professor but sold without her knowl
edge for a fraction of its value by the Adams
folks. The Jim Harrick scandal, which made
UGA a national laughingstock. Much, much
more, and yes, the Vince Dooley imbroglio.
Whitt's book is sharp, inclusive, and
renders even the most entangled legal and
financial issues comprehensible. It should also
find its way onto the bookshelves of anyone,
regardless of location, who has an interest in
how state universities are now funded and will
be in the future.
More to the point, Behind the Hedges
should get a good airing here in Athens.
Speaking as a UGA alumnus, a member of the
community that depends on the continued
prosperity of the university to keep this town
going, and as a citizen of Georgia, I want
my neighbors to read it, here and across the
state. And I'd tike to hear some kind of answer
from all parties involved, preferably an answer
concerning their own behavior and not that
of the football fans—because it's not about
Vince Dooley, not by a long shot.
John 6 Mottles
Many daring rescues were
made by firemen; most rooms
of the (I think it was) 68-room
five-story hostelry were filled.
8 FLAGPOLE.COM APRIL 8, 2009