I grew up in the deep south, a small town called Hawkinsville, GA, population 3500. Probably the best thing I have ever eaten in my life is the BBQ we had on special occasions on our farm. I know, you can get BBQ everyday. Yes, I have been to those famous BBQ joints in Memphis and those in North Carolina. Not impressed; it's all about the sauce and good BBQ needs little sauce. My dad employed an old man named Clayton since I was a child until he died a few years ago. Great BBQ is an art, like the glass blowers in Murano, Italy or a small farmer in France making cheese. There is no recipe, just talent and experience.
We have a big "pit" on our farm just for barbecuing a whole hog. Being an animal lover, I would never look at the poor animal but would convince myself he had a good life because I probably petted and kissed him at some point in our acquaintance. Clayton would come over at dusk and set up his camp. He would build a fire, drink some cheap beer and tend to the hog all night. He would baste him, turn him until the sun came up.