The Art of Southern Charm

Introduction

One day, my son, Whitney Sudler-Smith, called to tell me he was producing a reality television show for the Bravo Network and that he wanted me to appear on it. This new project, called Southern Charm, sounded like great fun. He explained that the series would chronicle the lives, loves, comedies, dramas, and did-she/he-really-do-that social and sexual misadventures of Whitney and his very attractive friends in beautiful Charleston, South Carolina, our adopted hometown.

Whitney wanted me to appear as myself—a woman (and mother) of a certain age who would be very different from the show’s cast of young revelers and reprobates, including captivating it-girl Cameran Eubanks, perpetually boyish Shep Rose, easygoing Craig Conover, sunny Landon Clements, and the on-again, off-again couple everyone came to love/hate, former South Carolina state treasurer Thomas Ravenel and Kathryn Calhoun Dennis. Mom, it will take five minutes of your time, Whitney promised persuasively.

I decided to do it. Like most mothers, I cannot say no to my son, and I doubted that I would be on camera long enough to make much of an impression. After all, I was just Whitney’s mother. What did I know about throwing shade, having a showmance, or delivering a bitchslap—all staple moves in the world of reality television? I figured I had nothing to lose, and that I could be myself, speak my mind, and have fun with it.

With the help of my butler, Michael (the majordomo[1] of domestic affairs in my house for the past thirteen years), I showed the Charmers my way of doing things (which, naturally, I thought was the better way)—from mixing a perfect martini, to hosting a party, to dressing for a ball, to discussing the results of a paternity test at the dinner table (actually, don’t try this at home!). In short order, I was surprised to find that I had become a den mother (hopefully a glamorous one) for the cast, and a lifestyle muse for the ever-growing community of Southern Charm viewers.

That five minutes Whitney promised at the outset has turned into four sensational seasons, with Southern Charm becoming one of the most popular shows on Bravo. I mean, at my age, I’d thought I’d be sitting on my chaise, eating bonbons, and reading trashy novels, or possibly looking for a new husband—all worthy pursuits. Instead, Whitney has me working constantly. It seems that I’m always preparing, shooting, or publicizing and promoting another Southern Charm season.

However, my time on the show—and especially my engaged relationship with its fans—has reaffirmed something I’ve always known. Southern charm is more than the title of a TV show. It is a way of life that celebrates hospitality, good times, best manners, and great fun. I am a Southerner. I was born in Florida, grew up in Virginia, and subsequently lived in Washington, DC, and New York, so I know firsthand that the differences between North and South are based on more than geography: they are different states of mind.

Northerners, let’s remember, started out as Puritans in pursuit of religious freedom, so they were not famous for their high spirits or hijinks—while the people who settled the South descended from fun-loving courtiers and cavaliers, the playmates of kings. For them, entertaining and the pursuit of pleasure was practically a full-time job. They loved riding, shooting, drinking, playing cards, dancing, listening to music, and socializing. They were all about wine, women, and song. Actually, that pretty much describes the Southerners I know today.

If you are born and raised in the South, as I was, it gets into your blood. Even if you are not a true Southerner, you can appreciate the art of Southern charm. I didn’t invent it (no, I’m not that old): the South has a long and legendary history of politesse.[2] Fifteen-year-old George Washington, a fellow Virginian, was so concerned about being a proper Southern gentleman that he kept a list of rules in his journal. Cleanse not your teeth with the Table Cloth Napkin Fork or Knife, Kill no Vermin as Fleas, lice ticks…in the Sight of Others and bedew no man’s face with Spittle, are just a few of the everyday manners the father-to-be of our country deemed important.

These days we may not have to worry about fleas, lice, or spitting, but minding your manners in the twenty-first century can be a lot trickier than it was when Washington was a young man. Thanks to the show, I’ve discovered that all sorts of people—from Real Housewives aficionados to fashionistas at Vogue, from grandmothers to millennials, and everyone in between—want to know how to behave. Anyone who knows me, whether on the show or in real life, understands that I love to serve up advice on the rocks and with a twist. I like to have a good time and, more importantly, I want the people around me to have an even better one. Learn the rules so you can bend—and even break—them, is my philosophy. Then, let the fun begin!

I want to tell you my story and share my secrets. So, darlin’, put on your caftan, prepare your dressing drink (recipes for my favorites to follow), and settle into your most comfortable chair, preferably with a warm pug nearby. You want to have a lovely life, and I’m going to show you how. Together, we will explore The Art of Southern Charm.

Welcome to the party!

[1] Majordomo: The head steward or butler in the household of a sovereign or great noble.

[2] Politesse: formal politeness or etiquette

Becoming Patricia

My Southern roots are strong. During the Civil War my paternal grandfather, Frank Edgar Dey, enlisted as a private in the Confederate Army when he was sixteen years old and moved up in the ranks to become a brigadier general. He was captured four times, including at the Battle of Vicksburg in 1863, and was wounded while fighting against General Sherman at New Hope. My grandmother was born in Alabama and she and my grandfather were married at her family plantation. When they had children of their own, they raised them deep in the heart of Texas.

My paternal grandfather, General Frank E. Dey, in his Confederate uniform.

My father, Walter Pettus Dey, was a brilliant and urbane young man who graduated from both the University of Alabama and Tulane University Medical School. He was a surgeon/soldier of fortune and a captain in the Navy, who traveled the world as a diplomat and a medical inspector to the Far East under President Franklin Roosevelt. He spoke several languages and his work took him to many faraway locations, such as China and Japan, where he had wonderful adventures that sounded as if they belonged in a storybook. On one memorable trip, he fought pirates from a gunboat on the Yangtze River. On another, he befriended Vajiravudh, the last king of Siam.

Father was handsome, charming, intelligent, and well read, and these attributes made him quite the catch. He had been engaged several times, but his career and travels always came first…until he met my mother. His vagabond days ended at a cotillion in Richmond, Virginia. The sight of Frances Pearl Sudler, a beautiful Yankee from Philadelphia, turned this confirmed bachelor into an ardent suitor. At the age of fifty-eight, my father married my thirty-year-old mother (she was a divorcée, something that was considered so scandalous at the time that I didn’t find out until I was in my forties). Apparently my father’s very Southern sister could handle the divorcée part, but she never recovered from the shock of having a Yankee in the family. The couple settled in Richmond, although they traveled frequently.

Father and Mother.

My parents spent a lot of time in Florida and I was born there in 1941. They called me Madelyn Patricia, but I always preferred my middle name, because it sounded less formal. By all accounts I was a good little girl. I remember being spanked and sent to my room once, and that was for tilting my chair backward at the dinner table and chipping the sideboard behind me. That seems to have been the extent of my flirtation with juvenile delinquency. I played with my dog, Happy, and my cat, Fluffy, and I rode my horse, the Grey Ghost. The big drama of my childhood was that I fell off my horse and broke my hip when I was only four years old and had to wear an enormous body cast that, in photographs, looked like a medieval torture device.

My dog, Happy, and my horse, Grey Ghost.

Our home was beautiful and serene. There was never an argument, not even a raised voice. My parents were well matched, although their different backgrounds made for an interesting mix of parenting.

My mother was very cultivated. She spoke French, read extensively, played the piano beautifully, and excelled at embroidery and needlepoint. She was a delicate woman who frequently had what they used to call the vapors, meaning she would take to her bed.

My father, on the other hand, was my best companion and playmate. Other fathers went to work, but mine had retired soon after I was born, so he was around all the time and always ready for another adventure. He took me places and told me colorful stories about his travels.

LEFT: Our Family in Florida. RIGHT: Happy times with my father.

I credit him with inspiring my life-long love of Southern history and literature, of all things Southern, in fact. When my father and I went to our local Episcopal church I was thrilled to sit in Robert E. Lee’s pew. On special occasions, we traveled to George Washington’s Mount Vernon to picnic on the lawn. I was in a choral group that sang Christmas carols for the last of the Confederate widows. Living in Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy, we were always conscious of the past and our family’s connection to it.

My mother may have been a Yankee, but she quickly embraced all the Southern charm essentials and imparted them to me. Southern women were strong in how they dealt with life’s vicissitudes,[1] but they did so in a calm, gentle way—hence the term steel magnolia. Femininity was always emphasized. Women never left the house without being perfectly groomed, with clothes and hair in place and, if you were old enough, a light swipe of lipstick for a pop of color. My mother never once owned a pair of slacks and always wore stockings and heels.

Men were gentlemen. They opened doors for ladies, stood up when they entered the room, pulled out their chairs at the table, and walked between them and the street to protect them from traffic. It all sounds so quaint in light of today’s more liberated social climate, but they were lovely times. Manners, which were so important to everyone, were passed down from generation to generation, and the goal was to be gracious and hospitable.

I attended Marymount, a Roman Catholic day school for girls located on the beautiful Paxton estate in Richmond. I had to wear a dowdy uniform (picture me in that), and I studied with strict French nuns who taught us French, Latin, Greek, algebra, literature, penmanship, and social graces. Every day at four we gathered for goûter, the French version of afternoon tea that included pretend cocktails made of juice or tea. It was a lovely ritual that taught us a lot about comportment. We learned what to wear, how to pour, and the proper way to hold a cup or a glass.

My Marymount graduation. I’m 2nd from right. Who wore it better?

The nuns also emphasized the after-school don’ts that were so important in the conservative 1950s—no drinking, no smoking, no riding in cars with boys, and no public displays of affection…ever. I wonder what they would have thought of the Kardashians? I was extremely jealous of my friends at public school because they seemed to have more freedom—and infinitely more fun—than I did. Those strict nuns kept me on the straight and narrow, which was probably a good thing. Subsequently, for high school, I went to a Quaker boarding school in the Midwest, and by the time I was a senior I knew something about having a good time. I wasn’t fast, as they used to say, but I had six darling beaux and one particularly charming admirer who owned a convertible and a plane!

The fifties were the last golden years—a more innocent time, when we didn’t take drugs, we didn’t smoke or drink, and we did things in a group. We loved to dance and found it exciting to go to cotillions and parties. In a way, I think we had more fun because innocent pleasures weren’t boring to us.

My beloved father died when I was eighteen and my mother and I found it difficult to stay in Richmond without him. We sailed to Europe on a beautiful ocean liner, the Queen Mary, and went on a classic grand tour for a year. When we returned, we settled in Washington, DC—north of where we used to live, but still close to the South—so I could attend George Washington University, and I jumped headfirst into my new life as a coed.

One night, at a party in Washington, a friend introduced me to Lon Smith, a good-looking, mature (well, five years older than me) man, who was the head of Dun & Bradstreet, a very important job for someone twenty-five years old. It was pretty close to love at first sight, because three months later we were married. When you’re Southern and in your twenties, marriage is a top priority. My mother asked if I wanted a big wedding or a check, and I gave the right answer. I had been a bridesmaid at so many weddings that I was happy to do mine differently. We had a small ceremony, attended by our immediate families, and the blushing bride wore a short peach dress and a hat with