My Papaw Kitts, known as “Runt,” was a fox hunter. He was my mom’s dad and the oldest of ten kids. His real name was Samuel Ernest Kitts, otherwise known as “S.E.” or just “Runt” Kitts. He had a brother, William Cloyd Kitts, known as “Poss” Kitts, who also shared this love of fox hunting – east Tennessee style.

The hunt usually consisted of one or more people, the more the better, and any number of dogs and folding chairs to match the number of people -- but often a stump, rock, or even just the ground would make do. And of course, they always built a fire to sit around and listen to the dogs bark as they chased the fox. There were several different places around the town of Luttrell, in Union County, TN, that had become known as good fox hideouts for these hunts to take place.

There was a core group of men consisting of my Papaw, Uncle Poss, Jack DeVault, Glen Beeler, Odell Rosenbaum, and sometimes Jack’s brother, Cliff, who made up the bunch that I sometimes got to hunt with. Now keep in mind that there was never a gun involved, and the fox was never killed or even seen, for that matter. The hunters rarely ever got up out of their chairs – they just sat and listened to the dogs bark and argue over whose dog was leading the pack. No one ever knew for sure which one was leading, but the sounds that echoed through the hills sure gave a reason for them to rib and gouge one another over whose dog was best that night.

On one particular hunt, Papaw took my younger brother, Wynn, and one of his baseball teammates from school, Daryl Hobby, and myself. We went to meet Uncle Poss at “the Shack,” in a little suburb of Luttrell called Keystown, all of which sits at the base of Clinch Mountain. The Shack was situated on Keystown Road in a pasture field of Jack DeVault’s farm. It sat on a little rise, which produced prime listening capabilities for hearing their dogs run and bark. It was a little wooden building with cracks in it big enough to throw a good-sized house cat through if it weren’t for the cardboard tacked up on the inside walls to keep the wind out. It had a door and benches built all the way around the inside walls, and a big 55-gallon barrel stove that sat right smack-dab in the middle of the dirt floor. That was it. That was “the Shack.”

When it was chilly or sometimes downright cold, us kids would build a fire in that stove hot enough to make it glow red, and then curl up on one of those benches with our coat for a pillow and nod off to sleep. Every now and then, one of those men would come in and check to see if we were okay, but we didn’t care if they did or not – we were warm and safe and snoozing away.

Anyway, on this particular night we decided to go to Keystown but not use the Shack. We just sat out under some small trees in a draw or small valley just down the hill from it. We built a small fire inside a ring of rocks we had rounded up from close by. The night was clear, and you could see every star in the sky. That type of night made for excellent hearing of the dogs. Me, Papaw, and Uncle Poss were in our chairs we had brought while Wynn and Daryl were sitting or lying stretched out on a nearby log when -- IT HAPPENED.

Papaw always had some big yarn to tell, and this night was no different. He had on his favorite, little, cheap, vinyl-soled, lace-up shoes that he wore all the time with his feet propped up on a rock next to the fire. Wynn, Daryl, and I were all caught up in the big tale Papaw was spinning when Uncle Poss, whom we thought had nodded off to sleep with his chin resting in his hand, propped himself up on the arm of his chair and spoke in his slow, southern drawl unexcited and matter-of-factly . . .

“Runt . . .ye shew’s on faarr.”

Of course, it wasn’t, but from where Papaw was lookin’ down on it, and the smoke was comin’ off of his hot vinyl sole, he couldn’t really tell. He looked down and saw the smoke and jumped up about two feet out of his chair and did what looked like a Keystown version of Michael Jackson’s moon walk. We all laughed so hard the tears poured from our eyes, and I thought Daryl was going to roll off that log he was stretched out on.

There were all types of discussions that took place around those fires, everything from the best type of dog food to the President in the White House. I think a lot of the world’s political problems might have been solved if our leaders could have taken some of the advice offered around those fires.

Another episode that took place at "The Shack" on another night was pretty comical. The dogs were out in hot pursuit of the fox and having quite a "race" as they called it. Jack was just certain that his dog, "Ole Hank" he called him, was out in front burnin’ it up right on that ole fox's tail. As the race went on, every time Jack heard, what he thought was Ole Hank, he would holler about how far he was out in front of all the other dogs. Of course, some of the others claimed it to be their dog instead. Jack would have his part of it. "Boys, now that's Ole Hank if I ever heered emm."

After a little while of this braggin, Papaw got up and went to his truck to get the stuff to start cooking bacon and eggs. When he rounded the end of his truck, he tripped over Ole Hank lyin’ there in the shadow away from the fire. When Papaw saw which dog it was, he hollered back to the fire, "Hey Jack, you sure Ole Hank is leading that race?” "You'er dadgum tootin’ he is. Can’t you hear eem?" Jack shouted back. Then Papaw said, "Well, who's this?” as he lead Ole Hank out of the shadow by his collar. Papaw said that dog had been laying there quite a while because he was sound asleep when he tripped over him. Jack just stood up, folded his chair, come over and took Ole Hank by the collar and they both disappeared off into the night toward his house not to be seen or heard from the rest of the night.

Sadly, that type of fox hunting has all but vanished including the Shack, which has since burned down. Most of those good men have passed on. I know of no one who participates in that sport now -- I don’t even know of anyone who has any foxhound dogs. And believe it or not, one of those men went to his grave still believing that mankind HAD NOT been to the moon. He insisted those films had been taken out in a desert somewhere.

My Papaw was not that person, but Runt was a small man with a HUGE personality. He was maybe 5-foot nothin’ and 120 pounds soakin’ wet, but he was much bigger in my eyes. I’m told I may have gotten some of my personality from him. I remember him always laughing and having a good time – I enjoy doing that, too.

I miss him dearly.