I’m a Savannahian

I’m a Savannahian, born and raised.

True, when school let out in the Spring, our family headed across the river into South Carolina and Bluffton and our heart’s delight, the Maye River.

But come September, tanned and towheaded, we headed back to town and all of the challenges it offered.

Savannah is a seaport.

And like cities whose back doors face authoritarian state capitals, Savannah never accepted controls from Atlanta, from Georgian rules and regulations. She faced the sea, the mighty Atlantic Ocean, and reached out to and connected with the world beyond.

At a pinch, Savannahians would admit to being from Georgia just as Charlestonians, her neighbors to the north, expected you to understand they were a different, more superior folk than those South Carolinians up country.

During World War II, and even before in the 1930s, Savannah was known for her nightclubs and restaurants, her hospitality, her free, and easy way of life. Slot machines, and horse racing machines and punch cards were everywhere.

While the rest of Georgia subjected to liquor license laws, Savannah ignored any such requirement. If you were old enough to drive a car, you were considered old enough to be responsible for your actions. Not that anyone ever asked to see your driver’s license. Bars opened and closed at the convenience of the owner; customers restricted only by their own personal moral code. Ginger ale or club soda and lime, straight shot of bourbon, or a vodka martini. Your decision.

That’s not to say there were no unwritten social etiquettes.

There were.

A shopping trip downtown meant hat, gloves and when no nylon stockings were available during WWII, you smeared on Max Factor leg makeup and used an eyebrow pencil to draw a seam line up the back.

Men walked on the curb side of the street, a remembrance of days when the sword hand must remain free to protect fair damsel and doffed their hat as a welcoming gesture and never ever wore a hat indoors. On a bus or train or wherever no man or boy sat while a woman stood.

And we partied at home with teas and receptions and wienie roasts, at skating rinks and swimming pools celebrating a friend’s birthday. We went to the movies, cowboy movies at the Odeon, burlesque with showgirls in sparkly nearly nude costumes and mile-high headdresses, comedians and a victim being cut in two, all on stage before the news and movie were shown at the Bijou Theater on Broughton Street. In 1940, Mama and I took a lunch with us to see the lengthy Gone With The Wind at the Lucas.

With our dates, we swatted mosquitos at the Victory Drive-In movie in the summertime and steamed the windows in winter.

We lunched at the Pink House and Morrison’s Cafeteria, sipped cherry ice cream sodas at the Theater Soda Shop, and root beer in frosted mugs at the Triple X; ice cream, that was so rich it wasn’t uncommon to find small chunks of butter, at Leopold’s out on Gwinnett Street and sat in metal chairs at small marble-topped tables eating cool cool rainbow sherbet at Cheeseman’s downtown on the Telfair Museum Square.

We dined and danced and delighted in all Savannah offered.

In the basement of the DeSoto Hotel next to the Turkish Baths was the Sapphire Room, with a band, lead singer and dance floor. Not as ritzy as Remler’s out on Victory Drive with its multiple levels and shaded table lamps and 13-piece orchestras or as cozy as Harris’s with its booths that could be curtained off for privacy or as raunchy as the Rice Mill out in the Conservancy on Highway 17 or as rough as Cleve Ellis’s in Thunderbolt and Bamboo Gardens across from the Union Camp Paper Mill.

But in the 1940s, in those troubled war times, Savannah with its multiple entertainment venues, offered escape to thousands of shipyard workers, military personnel, and local citizenry.

No, I didn’t forget the bars, but at age 16 we were more interested in the music and dancing and like as not we of the female gender ordered a Coca-Cola. No one in our crowd smoked. Well, there was Frances T.

We were the children raised in the depression, tough times. Our parents worked hard and long.

But they played hard, too.

So did we.

Yes.

Savannahians do that.

Annelore Harrell’s journey is a tapestry woven with fascinating experiences and extraordinary accomplishments. Even at 92 in 2025, Annelore’s energy and zest for life continue to inspire. Annelore Harrell’s story is a testament to living with passion, resilience, and an unquenchable thirst for adventure.