Once upon a time, it was a mall, mall world

The first time I remember going to a Morrison’s Cafeteria was as a child. It was on the south side of Atlanta, near the airport.

In an awkward, adolescent display of carelessness and clumsiness, my sisters and I managed to knock over all of our orange drinks. My parents were so disgusted and embarrassed we made our way to the parking lot before we finished our meal.

The only other time I remember eating at Morrison’s was in July 1978. I can remember the day. It was the week I started my newspaper career in Macon, so I was extra careful not to spill my sweet tea in the dining room.

 My mother and brother came down from Atlanta to help me look for an apartment. That day has always stood out because it was my first trip to the Macon Mall. 

Three years ago that month, the mall had opened with considerable fanfare. On the week of the grand opening of the Macon Mall, the cafeteria had fed 17,000 customers, the largest opening week in the company’s 55-year history.

Morrisons was in the northeast corner of the mall, wedged between anchor stores Belk-Matthews and JC Penney. It was next door to the Thom McAn shoe store and across from Pinkerton TV, Mitchell Tuxedo and Macon Coin Shop.

It was the beginning of my history there. On the lower level at that end of the mall, my wife had worked at her first job – at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. Along with Baskin Robbins and Dipper Dan, it was one of the mall’s three ice cream spots. 

Farrell’s had an early 1900s theme and decor, with a player-piano. The menu was printed on a tabloid-style newspaper, and the restaurant gave free ice cream sundaes to children on their birthdays. If patrons managed to eat an entire “trough” of ice cream, they were awarded a ribbon or button that said: “I made a pig of myself at Farrell’s.’’

Perhaps no other facility has had more of an institutional impact on this city than the opening of the mall.  It forever changed the dynamics of retail shopping in Macon and Middle Georgia. With more than 100 stores on 13 acres under the same roof, it was one-stop shopping – provided you could walk from Sears to JC Penny without getting winded.

The mall drew shoppers from 31 counties and at one time employed more than 4,500 people, making it the area’s second largest employer behind nearby Robins Air Force Base.

When it opened, there was a ripple effect on established downtown stores like Davison’s, Sears, Singer and Rhodes Furniture bolted for the shiny, new climes. Meanwhile,  downtown icons like Jos. N Neel’s, Woolworth’s, Burden Smith and Thorpe & Sons held their ground in the central business district. Several businesses, including Friendman’s Jewelers, Kiralfy Goldman, Kinney Shoes, Stephen’s and Merle Norman Cosmetics, tested the water by maintaining locations in both places.

A half-century later, Macon Mall now no longer sits on the throne. By definition, it is categorized as a “dead” mall, sometimes known as a “ghost” or “zombie” mall. The classification is given in the absence of an anchor store, although mall management currently lists Burlington as an anchor.

Yes, the Golden Girl is a shell of her former self. It has been death by a thousand cuts. The mall now lists one anchor (Burlington), three apparel stores, four gift/specialty stores, four restaurants, three jewelry stores,  two health and beauty stores, one shoe store and the military recruiting offices for the Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines as among its tenants.

The demise began with the opening of nearby Eisenhower Crossing and later The Shoppes at River Crossing. The advent of on-line shopping has further moved the needle away from traditional brick-and-mortar shopping.

We can’t say we didn’t see it coming, though. For years, everyone talked about the prospects of a second “mall” in North Macon. When River Crossing cut the ribbon in 2008, conventional wisdom was that it would be a knockout punch for the old guard.

But the Macon Mall has demonstrated a strong will to live. In the beginning, there were the “Fab Four” anchor stores – Belk-Matthews, Sears, J.C. Penny and Davison’s/Macy’s.  Two more were added (Dillard’s and Parisian) in the mid-1990s. Then six was whittled to four, then pared down to three, two and one. (And, now, more like a half.)

Unlike River Crossing, where you practically have to drive from store to store, the glory days of the Macon Mall were like a Swiss army knife of shopping.

If the mall didn’t have it, you didn’t need it.

It had the first Chick-fil-A in Macon, located on the upper level above the Sears Court.  It was possible to get a baseball glove from Oschman’s and a pair of jeans from the County Seat without breaking a sweat. 

In the days before Spotify,  I used to stroll the aisles of Camelot Music and the Record Bar. When I became a published author, I had book signings at B. Dalton and Waldenbooks.

You could walk laps in the early morning before the stores opened, go see a movie at the theater, buy stamps at the post office and come home with a dog from the pet store. You could buy a piano at Georgia Music, like Greg Allman did, from the late Ernest Penley.

The mall had a drug store, dress shops, jewelry, gift shops, toy stores, music stores and sporting goods stores. You could walk in and purchase pianos, TVs, eyewear, wigs, sewing machines, luggage and get your hair styled.

You could ride the futuristic elevator or climb the escalator or watch your kids ride the carousel on the upper level of the food court. You could sit on Santa’s lap, visit the Easter Bunny, donate to the Angel Tree, watch the annual Labor Day Telethon and put some money in the kettle of a Salvation Army bell ringer. 

Need a white elephant gift? Spencer’s was calling your name. You could buy batteries at the Radio Shack, where for some reason they always asked for your phone number. You could sip on an Orange Julius or grab a Big Boy from Shoney’s. There was once a place called Grand Central Station, where you could dine in a 50-seat railroad box car.

The Atlanta Braves Caravan brought their players to the mall. Terry Kay had a book signing. Ronald Reagan once held a campaign rally there. Every Fourth of July, families would drive to the parking lot to watch the fireworks.

A renaissance, of sorts, began a few years ago with the opening of a spectacular amphitheater venue and an indoor pickleball facility – billed as the largest in the world – not far from the old Morrison’s cafeteria.

Still, it can be a strange, hollow feeling to ride past the mall now, like circling a giant, nearly empty airport hangar.

There’s a roundabout near the front entrance. There are echoes in corners where the crowds used to shop, restless ghosts behind shuttered doors.

I often think about all the crazy stuff I bought there, the friends I made there, the meals I shared and the clothes I bought that no longer fit.

It all makes me a little sad, but nevertheless grateful it’s still standing. My footprints are still there.