No one answered our knock. Brian Smith turned the knob and we stepped into the quiet living room. Quiet voices drifted from the kitchen. And smells, fried quail, beans, cabbage and pecan pie.

Bessie sat on a stool in front of the kitchen sink and GeorgeAnn leaned against the counter, shredding walnuts for the cookies.

We stacked luggage in the front room and retired to the porch. Smith claimed a rocking chair, selected a cigar and uncorked a bottle of amber liquid.

“I was born for this,” he said, and pointed his cigar at the sunset. No doubt of that.

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