Mr. Write's Page

We Smiths are Southern clean to the bone, but not your stereotypical Southerners.

As far back as I can peer, the Smiths in my immediate family line have been just average folks — no plantation-style aristocrats, no hillbilly/ridge-runner/redneck types.

Some of our relatives, on the other hand, have been genuine country folks who come close to matching the latter stereotype.

When I was elementary-school age, we got our dose of country when we visited my great aunt and great uncle, Mattie and Tom Brewton, at their South Georgia farm.

I remember Aunt Mattie and Uncle Tom as perennially 60-ish. They lived in the southwest corner of Bulloch County, along the Canoochee River. Their place was extremely remote — a half-hour drive from the nearest pavement down a bumpy, rutted dirt road.

Aunt Mattie was my mom’s aunt, my grandmother Leila’s sister. She and Tom had no children. They lived in a large, two-story house with neither electricity nor indoor plumbing.

Lighting was by oil lamp. The refrigerator was an icebox — a lead-lined wooden box that held a couple of blocks of ice purchased periodically at the commercial icehouse in Claxton.

Aunt Mattie cooked on a cast-iron, wood-burning stove. A hand pump in the kitchen provided the running water.

The outhouse, a two-seater, stood a modest distance from the main house at the edge of the woods. Inside, hanging at the ready on a nail, was an old Sears catalog.

Mattie and Tom grew their own vegetables. They raised chickens, pigs, and cows for meat, milk, and eggs. They had a mule and a plow.

Most of the domestic duties were handled by Aunt Mattie. Uncle Tom’s attention was on his tobacco crop.

He had acres and acres of the stuff, as well as numerous barns and buildings for storage and drying. For a country fella, Tom was quite successful and prosperous.

Living with Mattie and Tom were Tom’s two unmarried brothers, Dick and Ben, who worked there as farmhands.

All three men were World War I veterans. The attic was full of wonderful treasures they brought back from Europe: rifles, lugers, bayonets, uniforms, and a couple of German pickelhaube helmets — the kind with the spike on top.

Ben had lost his left arm above the elbow in the war, but seemed perfectly capable of doing his share of the work. He never seemed very concerned about his disability and wasn’t shy about the stump.

The house, the outhouse, the barns, the outbuildings — all were unpainted, weathered wood. All the roofs were wood shingles.

Aunt Mattie’s yard was tastefully adorned with shrubs and flowers, but she had no lawn. The yard was bare dirt, which she swept daily with a broom.

All of that — the gloomy old house, the animals, the people, the life they lived, Ben’s stump — was mesmerizing to my brother and me. A trip to see Aunt Mattie and Uncle Tom was an amazing adventure in an enchanted place.

Uncle Tom took us for long rides in a mule-drawn wagon. Dick and Ben took us down to the Canoochee to fish. We tagged along and watched as the men tended to the tobacco and other crops.

We bathed in a large clawfoot tub, using water heated on the woodstove. The mattresses we slept on, hand-made by Aunt Mattie, were stuffed with chicken feathers.

Aunt Mattie fed us lavish and amazingly delicious meals, prepared with fresh, all-natural stuff. Every meal was a feast.

Aunt Mattie’s fried chicken was especially magnificent, exceeded in excellence only by that prepared by her sister Leila. Mattie was good, but Leila was a legend.

Of the many platters of fried chicken Aunt Mattie served us, one is especially memorable.

Usually, when the time was right, Aunt Mattie would chase down a couple of hens, wring their necks, and commence to cleaning them on the spot. Five minutes later, the chickens would be in the pan and frying away.

But one day, Aunt Mattie didn’t have to run down our dinner. My dog Pudgy did it for her.

Pudgy was a happy, gentle, easy-going little mutt who had zero experience with country life. The first and only time we took him to Aunt Mattie’s house, he got out of the car and went insane.

It was astonishing to watch. When he hopped out of the vehicle, the pigs and chickens scattered in a great flurry. Pudgy looked back and forth, startled.

Then, something in his reptilian brain awoke and took command. Usually, Pudgy had little interest in cats, squirrels, or other small critters, but a voice in his head told him to pursue the fleeing prey, and he did.

For 30 seconds, Aunt Mattie’s front yard was pandemonium — a churning mass of pigs, chickens, people, and one dog, all running and screaming in a wild, chaotic ballet. Sand and feathers filled the air.

Pudgy ran like the wind and showed attack skills no one knew he possessed. It was an impressive, albeit bloody, performance.

It ended abruptly when someone caught up with Pudgy and tackled him. Immediately, Pudgy relaxed. He was his old self again.

The aftermath of his rampage was grim. Three hens were dead. One piglet retreated toward the barn, squealing, with teeth marks on his haunch. The people sat on the front steps, huffing from the exertion.

“Well,” Aunt Mattie declared calmly, “I guess I’ll fry us some chicken for dinner.”

Pudgy spent the rest of that visit in the front yard, restrained by a rope.

The chickens and pigs kept a respectful distance.

Aunt Mattie, Mom, me, and Uncle Tom.

My dog Pudgy, mighty hunter, slayer of fowl.

“City Dog,” a statue in Colorado dedicated to hunters who heed the voices.