471 Spring St. — a house that has been in my family since 1915. I last came to Macon three and a half years ago, and for this New York boy, an injection of Southern hospitality never gets old. Just walking into this house you get a sense of history, a sense of family. There’s hardly any wall space between pictures, and small knicknacks and keepsakes cover all shelves and table tops. My father lived here as a small child, and is buried in a cemetary not more than 2 minutes from Spring Street. Macon may be an unfamiliar and culturaly different city, but to deny the affect it has on my heart would truly criminal.
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