“Rose & Cotton, Your Legacies Will Always Make A Difference!”
I made a painful mistake recently – one made apparent one morning last week. This particular misdeed was not the first of its kind. Not by a long-shot.
You see, I’ve had a lifelong pattern of procrastination. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow. It has, unfortunately, marked me, and I’ve had to deal with the sad consequences.
What happened last week is the same type of important thing (to me) I meant to do for years, that went undone. Years ago, I so intended to pay a visit to my aging former housekeeper – our family’s maid, as they were called back in the day. I grew up in a time where numerous white families employed black females to clean, do laundry, and various other household chores. If you’ve seen the movie or read the book, The Help, you get it.
Rose was a prominent part of my childhood. She was in our home five days a week, from 8-5, and often later. Not only did she clean, she cooked our dinners, baked desserts, and, most impactful for me, spent time with me each afternoon after school.
She helped me with my Weekly Reader homework, taught me card games, played outside with me, and quietly sang or hummed Supremes songs, which I still do to this day. And all of this nannying, or, in a way, parenting, was done after a full day of housework.
I felt such a close bond. She seemed like family. Then, one day, she just wasn’t there anymore. And at 65, I still don’t know why. I’m sure I must have asked, but I have no memory of why she moved on from her long-time stint with the Wilsons.
So I decided to find her. In my late 50s, while still living in my hometown of Lakeland, Florida, I Googled Rose’s name – Rosetta Norris. I found that she was still living in Lakeland, and was now approaching 90. I was determined to visit her, and thank her, and let her know what she meant to that little boy on Maxwell Street. I even wanted to apologize for the racism prevalent during her lifetime.
So I put, “Visit Rose” on my digital task list. It carried over day after day and year after year. And then, one day, her obituary appeared in our local newspaper. Procrastination had struck again, and, this time, I was left deeply saddened by my omission.
I was heartbroken for not prioritizing speaking my heart to her.
And what happened last week hit just as hard. I received a phone call, informing me that Cotton Berrier had passed away.
You see, back on August 29, 2023 (to-do entry dates are displayed), I typed on that same digital task list – “Write To Cotton.”
Cotton, as he was known since childhood, was Harry A. Berrier, the founding PGA Golf Professional at Gatlinburg Golf Course, where he served for 44 years. If you Google him, you will see as many accolades as you could imagine for a person’s lifetime of achievements.
Not only was he an icon in our community, he was known throughout the golfing world – affirmed by his membership in the national PGA Hall of Fame. Personally, he was one of my Dad’s closest friends, having played countless rounds of golf together and sharing so much of life with each other. Even though we were living in Florida, our families became friends. Already, my respect and awe of Cotton was impactful almost beyond adequate words.
This type of widespread love and respect for him was so apparent, as a large gallery stood in a steady rain – huddled under an array of FootJoy, Titleist, Callaway and other large golf umbrellas — to bid him farewell at his graveside service, before appropriately re-convening on the first tee of “his” golf course, to hear testimony after testimony of his impact on lives.
And there, on my iphone tucked inside my rain-soaked sport coat, displayed on my to-do list, was that task, “Write To Cotton.” Another well-intended task that will now go undone.
Why was I even thinking of writing a letter to him? What would I have said? Well, lots.
I would tell him that what he created and ran ranks among the most meaningful “places of comfort” for me as a child. You see, my family vacationed in Gatlinburg multiple times each year, for all of my childhood and teenage years. And Gatlinburg Golf Course was a primary hang-out place for me.
Every single time I walked in the pro shop door, Cotton would acknowledge me by name. And he wouldn’t just speak – he wanted to know how I was doing and what I’d been up to in life. He would engage 11-year-old Steve in conversation. And he would walk out to the first tee and offer encouragement after my drive.
So much of those experiences are etched in my memory. Even today, I can remember the specific smell of the men’s locker room – not a bad smell, but definitely distinctive. I can picture the exact layout of the original clubhouse – including the grill/café, where Ray cooked the best hamburgers and hand-cut French fries in the county.
I can remember the booths lined up down the grill room wall, where, after a round, I would settle in, across from my daily playing partner, Mr. Bolton. Bob Bolton was a retired gentleman who walked the course most every day, carrying his own bag. For those of you not familiar with the course’s mountainous terrain, trust me on this – you’d rather hike Mount LeConte than carry your bag for 18 holes there.
But this old guy – who actually was probably my age today – and teenaged Steve would tee off and head straight down the steep hill off the first hole’s tee box.
After the round, in that booth, every time, Mr. Bolton would say in a sing-songy voice, “I’m gonna have one more beer, and then I’m gonna get outta here…” Even my kids know that oft-quoted slogan.
The whole place was enchanting to me, from about the age of 8, until I was driving myself there in high school. The pro shop staffed by Gary and Sam, the locker room, the grill, the practice putting green, the now-long-gone swimming pool…all of it.
Somehow, even then I knew Cotton was the pure magic of the place — a larger-than-life figure who crafted mountain golf into an other-worldly experience. He ran an operation that was certainly the envy of so many other golf properties.
But it was the person of Cotton Berrier I held in awe.
I felt seen and known. I felt cared for. I felt special, having done nothing to deserve it. Yes, this kid and then teen occasionally making an appearance at his course throughout each year. I could only hope to one day possess the character traits I witnessed in him. His kindness, curiosity, cheerfulness, humor, respect, his high standards, and his consistency in living out these qualities – all with an extra dose of humility.
That’s why I wanted to write to him.
I also admired the magnetic attraction he had with his many friends. Certainly one could see that from the crowd on the first tee last week for his eulogy. In an earlier time, there would have been more, but since he was 94, so many friends and former playing partners had gone on before him.
Cotton was the type of man with whom you wanted to be friends. Because he was the essence of how a friendship should be. To have so many people want to be with you just says so much. It says even more that so many people considered him their best friend.
Thankfully, my Dad was in that number, so we got to spend extra time with the Berriers – at their house, at the pool, in our hotel, in restaurants, hanging out in town. I was able to experience how he related to his family, which was so consistent to all of his character.
What else would I tell Cotton?
I would let him know how admirable it was that he was so proud of his daughters. Those same girls who were my very first friends in the Gatlinburg area. Harriett as a long-time school principal, and Katherine as an equally long-time rep for FootJoy. Upon seeing him in my adult life, Cotton lit up and was quick to give me an update on these girls, of whom he so adored. A father seeing how well his children were doing in life is beautiful inspiration.
I would tell him how cool it was that, in his 90s, he was still driving out to the golf course most days, and hitting balls on the practice tee until his arthritic hands were no longer able to grip the club. For the past several years, he would take his customary seat in the members’ lounge, playing Solitaire, and greet friends who still remained.
What a blessing to be among that number and get to speak with Cotton on my weekly golf day, after we moved to Gatlinburg five years ago. He still never failed to call me by name and to ask about my two brothers, whom he also called by name. And he would remember to ask about our newly opened bookshop, curious and caring til the end.
In that letter, I would thank him for being the kind of man whom I will never forget. The kind of man that always put a smile on my face. The kind of man that warms my heart. The kind of man I hope I will always emulate.
But for this now 65-year-old kid, his legacy isn’t a memento I can touch, like the many on display at his memorial service, rather, it’s a life that has influenced me for more than half a century and will continue to shape my remaining years on this earth.
Although, just as with Rose, I missed my chance to tell him personally how much he meant to me, I am blessed with his lasting legacy, his life of impact – which is felt by an untold number, everywhere.
And even though he has completed his time on earth, this larger-than-life golf pro taught me one more lesson: Don’t wait…say it today.
Mountainside Reflections 