I REMEMBER 
Life in Savannah In The 30's & 40's...And Wendel Hester

By Harris Dalton

My father was a bridge foreman for the Seaboard Railroad, and in 1939, he was transferred from Americus, Ga. to Savannah, Ga. My train ride to our new home with my parents along with a younger sister and brother was an exciting 200-mile adventure since it was the first train ride for us kids. There was no air-conditioning on the train pulled by a coal-burning steam engine, and the smoke coming through the open windows had us looking like we were coal miners when we reached our destination

To get to Savannah, we rocketed through a narrow corridor cut through a forest of pine trees. Occasionally, we would pass through an opening and see farmers plowing in the fields or cross a bridge over a creek or river and see folks fishing down on the banks. Everyone we saw along the way stopped what they were doing and waved at the speeding train.

As a youngster coming from a sleepy South Georgia town, I was mesmerized by the beauty and activity of the large port city. And I was intimidated by the size of Richard Arnold Junior High School on Bull Street where I enrolled. It was in this strange environment that Wendel Hester saved me from a confidence meltdown. Wendel was in my class and recognized my frustration in dealing with the large student body of strangers and the complex metropolitan culture. He introduced me to his friends and helped me find my way around the school.

Wendel was two years older than me, and he explained that he was unable to attend school earlier because of a serious illness. We buddied around on the playground during recess, but I found it strange that Wendel never had time to do anything with me on Friday afternoons and Saturdays. His excuse: "I have to work for my Dad at his place in town."

He took me to that place a few times. It was Hester's Bar and Grill on Montgomery Street near the downtown Farmer's Market. The Bar and Grill consisted of one huge room on the street level and a kitchen in the basement below where fries, burgers and hot dogs were prepared for the customers.

The street-level room had a long mahogany bar running from wall to wall on the backside of the room. A chicken wire fence divided the room in half with one side reserved for blacks and the other for whites. Separate doors were labeled "Colored" and "White." Behind the bar, the bartenders had access to both sides of the room. Rickety tables and chairs sat in inch-deep sawdust on the floor to absorb spilled drinks and vomit.

The 13-year-old Wendel worked until 3 a.m. every Friday and Saturday night, but he was always present at the Epworth Methodist Church for the Sunday 11 a.m. service.

The downtown Farmer's Market on Bay Street was also a fish market where fishermen brought in their daily catches. Shrimp, mackerel, mullet, turnip greens, butter beans and squash were among the rich variety available at the huge, popular market. Fishermen and farmers would stroll the few blocks to Hester's with cash in their pockets from their sales and have a few drinks with friends and talk about their harvest.

Wendel had two older brothers who worked at the bar, but they went into the military after Pearl Harbor. The older brother gave Wendel his 1939 Buick convertible when he went into the service, and on Sunday afternoons after church, Wendel and I cruised the neighborhood until we had several girls for our trip to Tybee Beach. Those were the days, and I thought they would never end.

But in 1944, my father was transferred back to Americus, and Wendel and I lost contact for ten years. When I last saw him, he had taken over Hester's and converted it into an expensive Steak and Wine Club for Savannah's silk stocking trade.

He explained it as pure serendipity.

"The Farmer's Market moved out to the edge of town, and I lost all the old customers. I was sitting here alone one night when a couple of buddies dropped by. They had left their dates in the car because we had the reputation of being a rough place.

"When they saw there was nobody in the place, they asked if they could bring their dates in. I thought, why not? The girls were from the best families in Savannah, and they just loved the ambiance of the place, the old bar, the sawdust on the floor. And we decided that night, with more than a few drinks, to upgrade and open up the basement for dining as well. It became the place to be overnight," he told me.

And it continued to be the place to be until Wendel dropped dead of a heart attack on a street in downtown Savannah while in his early thirties. Wendel, in his short lifetime, had viewed up close and personal the seamy and the steamy side of life, and I remember him as a great friend who helped me through a difficult time in my life.

Harris Dalton is currently retired after a career in journalism, and he now lives in Waleska, Georgia.