A Gentleman of Quality
by Mike Litrel, M.D.

surgery. But Hugh and I ended up talking for thirty minutes or more — not just about his wife's surgery, but about Cherokee County, the changes in North Georgia, my family history and his... After just one conversation, we were friends.

"Mike... Ann... " Hugh said slowly, "We're gonna find you the PERFECT house... and we're gonna have lots of fun."

I soon found there was no rushing Hugh. Hugh inspected each house the way a good surgeon performs an operation — with thorough attention to detail. In New York, people talk fast, walk fast: faster is always better. But Hugh, the quintessential Southern gentleman, did not subscribe to the New York mode of conducting business. He took his time — and made certain the job was done right.

It drove me crazy.

Or at least it did at first. But then I realized this was what made him good at his work. After a while, I spent less time looking at houses and more time looking at Hugh. I wanted to find a house he approved of.

After a dozen or more, we finally found one that felt right. Hugh had Ann and me sit at the kitchen table. He opened the pantry door and ran his hand along the molding. "Mike... Ann... I want to show you something," Hugh said in his charming Southern drawl. "Someone cared when they built this house. There's only one word to describe it — Quality. Yes sir, Quality." His smile filled the room as he pointed out a myriad of subtle features that proved he had found us the house we wanted. "Always remember this..." Hugh paused for emphasis. "Quality is the most important thing."

So we bought the house Hugh found for us and have been happy with it these past four years.

Last month I received a call from Dr. Charles Cooley, Hugh's personal physician. Hugh had died unexpectedly of a heart attack, at the age of 62. Dr. Cooley, a family practitioner with Medical Associates of Georgia, was upset. Hugh had been having chest pain for several weeks but had been waiting for his annual exam the next month to tell Dr. Cooley about his symptoms.

Flowers filled the funeral home at Hugh's wake at Sosebee Funeral Home in Canton. Many mourners filled the chairs.

I met Hugh's children — Amberely, Travis, and Amanda. You could see they were in terrible pain. But there was an unusual peacefulness to their grief. "We loved our father so much, but we know he's in a better place," Amanda said after I expressed my sorrow. She reminded me to pay close attention to each moment, to appreciate God's gift of life — kind of what I'd expect Hugh to say to me. Pay attention to what you're doing and do it right.

Gail stood by her husband's casket. A bittersweet smile brightened her tears, giving her the same appearance of peace that graced her children. She rubbed Hugh's hands as he lay, "You were such a good man, Hugh, such a good man." She sobbed as we hugged. Later in my car I found myself sobbing, too, my heart filled with both grief and hope at the same time.

When I got home — to the house Hugh found for me — I paid thorough attention to Ann and my boys, and gave them each a quality hug.

For 15 years now I've lived in Georgia. I am beginning to understand the wonderful people I meet here. At the heart of every Southerner's life are close personal relationships — not just with friends and family, but also with God. As I watch my children grow up, I hope that they, too, are blessed with these wonderful relationships, and become true Southern Gentlemen — men of quality like my friends from medical school.

And my friend Hugh Wilson.

Dr. Litrel is in practice at Cherokee Women's OB/GYN in Woodstock and Canton and is a Clinical Assistant Professor at Emory University School of Medicine. He lives in Towne Lake with his wife Ann and their two sons Tyler and Joseph. (Atlantalitrels@CS.com)

Fifteen years ago when I was married in Atlanta, my friends and family from New York got their first dose of Southern hospitality. They were amazed.

"Some guy at the airport could tell I was lost, and he went 'way out of his way' to show me where to go." My childhood friend Tom D'Angelo was shaking his head. "I kept thinking 'Hey — what does this guy want from me?' "

Why do Southerners act so nice, Tom wanted to know. I had no idea. I just knew I liked it better here than in New York. So when it came time to enroll in medical school, I chose Emory University in Atlanta.

The most impressive thing about Emory wasn't the quality of the education. It was the quality of my classmates. Some of these were the most trustworthy and plain good human beings I had ever met. Many of the people who became my closest friends grew up here in Georgia — Charlie from Macon, John from Atlanta, Aravind from Vidalia.

Sometime during the first month of class, Aravind stood up at the front of the lecture hall and announced to everyone that the Vidalia Onion crop had just come in, and furthermore, that he had brought an entire sack from home if anyone wanted some.

Now, this was something new in my experience. In New York you do not stand up in front of a large group of people and start talking about onions. "More sugar than a can of Coke," Aravind continued. Frankly, I was embarrassed for him. But I took a couple onions anyway, when I thought no one was looking.

The Southerner, it seems, has an innate sense of generosity and community spirit that I had not encountered north of the Mason-Dixon line. Not in my part of New York, anyway.

So when I finished my eight years of training at Emory, my wife and I decided to stay in Georgia. I think I wanted my children to grow up to be more like my Southern friends — and maybe a little less like me.

In those eight years, however, Atlanta, with its traffic and population explosion, had grown to be more like New York. People were being rude to each other, honking, cussing, and everything. The problem was too many New Yorkers had moved down here. A couple of us was acceptable, but enough is enough, I say.

We moved to Cherokee County, which was still the way the South was supposed to be. After living here for a year, we knew for certain we wanted to stay. So I called Hugh Wilson, my real estate agent, and told him we were ready to buy a house.

I first met Hugh after performing a minor diagnostic surgery for his wife, Gail. Hugh was the type of man who shook your hand for a long while and smiled at you with genuine good will. Normally, I speak with family members five or ten minutes after a