Our first Thanksgiving in Atlanta was in 1968. My grandparents came for Thanksgiving. After dinner we went to watch the lighting of the tree on top of Rich’s.
Walking back to the car afterwards, my brother, sisters & myself (as well as my parents) were wondering what that God awful smell was. We were crossing a bridge over RR Tracks and my Grandma almost made it without being ID’d. But she giggled.
“That’s not the train, that’s Grandma!”
Prolly what Harry said.