Mr. Write's Page

When my grandmother Leila married for the second time, she chose well.

Frank NMI Byrd was a droll, pleasant, non-judgmental person who was content with his life and the people in it.

He rarely traveled far from his hometown, Suwanee, Georgia. He left no record of great accomplishments. But he was a kind and gentle guy, and everyone loved him.

We kids understood Frank intuitively. He was fun and comfortable to be around. He said and did everything right. In my eyes, he was the ideal grandfather, bloodlines be damned.

Frank was born in the Byrd family home, a large white place on the northwest edge of Suwanee. Well into adulthood, he lived there with his mother, his brother Bill, and his sister Becky.

After he married Leila, he built a small house for his new bride on land he owned across the road, 50 yards away. He lived there until he died.

Over the years, we Smiths spent our summer vacations either in Savannah, Dad’s hometown, or in Suwanee. Savannah was comfortable and satisfying; Suwanee was magical.

It was small, only about three square miles, and the population was no more than 300. The natives were colorful and fascinating. Everyone we knew seemed to be like Frank: benign and amiable of demeanor, generous and good-hearted, but at the same time, playful, whimsical, mischievous.

For years, Frank was the Suwanee Postmaster. As a little kid, I was confident that I could address a letter to Leila, Suwanee, or Rocky, Suwanee, mail it from anywhere in the U.S., and it would be delivered.

In addition to manning the Postmaster’s swivel chair, Frank drove the school bus. Except for mornings and afternoons on school days, the bus sat beneath the pine trees in his front yard.

Off the job, Frank and his pals were either hunting or talking about it. Their prey of choice: rabbits and quail.

Rabbit-hunting requires beagles. Quail-hunting requires pointers and retrievers. Frank owned plenty of them all. In his back yard was a large fenced compound, “the dog lot,“ wherein resided 20 to 25 skilled hunting dogs of various breeds.

The enclosure was built of field wire. When the occasional beagle or hound learned to climb, Frank would run a strip of barbed wire around the top. When the dog gave up his climbing habit, the barbed wire came down.

Frank for many years drove a midnight blue 1949 Ford sedan. When it died, he rolled it into the compound, removed the doors, and lined the interior with pinestraw. The Ford became the sleeping quarters of as many dogs as could fit.

On the hunt, Frank’s dogs were intently focused on the task at hand. Off duty, they were joyfully noisy and unruly — a dynamic, barking mass of eyes, noses, and wagging tails.

Some were named after Frank’s relatives and friends — Bill, Becky, Joe, Tom. Others he named extemporaneously — Belle, Sam, Shorty, Blue.

Not a single one was ill-tempered or snappish. They were devoted to Frank and, when any kids were around, delirious with joy.

Frank knew that and took advantage of it. Many mornings, we were awakened suddenly by the sound of a howling, panting pack of beagles  — always the beagles — thundering down the hall at full speed.  Frank knew how to get us out of bed.

In 1956, on one of our periodic visits, Frank took us to a hilltop not far north of Suwanee. From there, we could see the activity below of Buford Dam and Lake Sidney Lanier in the final stages of construction.

Before us, the Chattahoochee River flowed along as always, peacefully and unimpeded. Dozers and dumpers and scrapers and haulers labored noisily, digging the giant hole that would be the new lake.

As they dug, they transferred the clay upward, adding to the body of the earthen dam. From high on the hilltop, the construction equipment looked like Matchbox Toys.

In 1957, the Air Force transferred Dad to Europe. We lived in France and Germany for the next three years. When we returned to the U.S., Frank took us again to the hilltop.

By then, the new lake was at full pool. What had been a massive excavation of red clay was now a wide, calm sea.

Now that Lake Lanier was in his backyard, and the fishing was getting better every year, Frank had become a dedicated angler.

When he wasn’t rabbit-hunting.

Frank at Lake Lanier. The houndstooth tweed cap was a longtime favorite.