Dennis Ray 'Cotton' Holt was born on August 13th, 1939 in Newton County Arkansas to Linnis Wayne Holt and Edna Middleton Holt. Dennis married Niva Lou 'Bobby' Ewing on January 4th, 1963. To this union, two children were born: Roxanne Holt and Steven Holt. Cotton was employed as a mechanic for Sutton's for 27 years and a life long farmer. He was also a Mt. Judea school board member for 15 years and an influential force in local politics. He was a local 'shade tree' mechanic and always kept his family and neighbor's vehicles and equipment running right. We lost Cotton to cancer on December 16th, 2004, but we'll never forget him. Words can never express how much he meant to me and my brother. He was always there and kept an upbeat attitude and outlook on things (despite being a tough hell-raiser who loved to fight early in life). Cotton was the man, no matter how you look at it. Rest in peace, Cot. We will meet again.

Dennis Ray "Cotton" Holt, age 65 of Vendor, Arkansas passed away Thursday, December 16, 2004 at North Arkansas Regional Medical Center in Harrison. He was born August 13, 1939 at Vendor, Arkansas, the son of Wayne and Edna (Middleton) Holt. He was an auto mechanic for Sutton's for 27 years and a farmer. A life time resident of Newton County, had served on the Mt. Judea School board for 15 years.

His father and a brother, Stanley Holt both preceded him in death.

Surviving is his wife to whom he married on January 4, 1963 at Vendor, Niva "Bobbie" (Ewing) Holt of the home. Also surviving are one son and daughter-in-law, Steven and Melissa Holt of Mt. Sherman; one daughter, Roxanna Holt of Vendor his mother, Edna Holt of Vendor two sisters, Joyce Dodson and Shiela Sisco both of Harrison'; one brother, Glen Holt of Vendor: three grandchildren, Jordan, Zachary and Kenadee Holt and a host of nieces, nephews and other family and friends.

Pallbearers:
Nephews Randy, Jimmy, Nick and Travis Holt, Robbie Dodson and brother in law, Wayne Sisco.

Honorary Pallbearers:
Joe Holt, Glen Smith, Lynn Carl Middleton, Travis Carter, Wayne Ewing, Alton Campbell, Donald Haddock and Dr. Tom Langston.

Requiem For A Strong Man

In the often remembered, well worn paths back into my memories, there are many people and events that will randomly resurface at a chance meeting, or at a mention of a name or place. I imagine most everyone has this occur at some point; but there are things that linger stronger and longer than others. Chance meetings that seem to be no more than just that; a small interaction between people that you give no thought to at the time, but later turn out to be something more significant; one of these occurred to me years ago near where I was raised, in Vendor, Arkansas. I was walking down the dusty road one hot summer day, when I was ten or so years old, when I chanced across a man I well knew. He was making his way (with some difficulty) up the hill to his house, which was below my Great Grandparent's home. He was dressed in worn jeans, a partially unbuttoned, light colored short-sleeve white shirt with light blue stripes, and an ever-present nigh worn out ball cap. As I came to pass him he looked up at me, with that ever welcoming smile and said, breathlessly 'You know……these hills didn't seem so steep when I was a young man.' I answered in kind and let him carry on. Years later that moment would come back to me in a moment of clarity I will never forget.
My Great Uncle, Dennis Ray Holt, was born on August 13th, 1939 in Vendor, Arkansas to Linnis Wayne & Hilpie Edna (Middleton) Holt. He was nicknamed 'Cotton' due to his bright blonde (nearly white, at times) hair. He grew up to be a true jack of all trades and one heck of a shadetree mechanic, never failing to prove himself able to tear down and fix the most complicated things. From push mowers and Volkswagons to fuel injected late model cars, he did it all. His early life, aside from his natural mechanical aptitude was marked by another trait he excelled at; the ability to 'raise Cain.'
He had a fondness for good moonshine whiskey and an equally good bare knuckle brawl. He was no slouch in taking part of either. He quickly developed a reputation that still shown brightly into my childhood, with stories passed down to me like the un-faded lines of a Hank Williams ballad from nearly 40 years before my own birth. He seemed like a mountain to me, even in his older age, he was stout, lean and could hold his own in any situation. He left a trail a mile long in people he had bested in fist fights and car races. For all his fondness for these things, he never turned his back on his family. He was always one to stand for them, and wouldn't permit someone to bully or pick on someone lesser than themselves. Cotton had a reputation as a hard-drinking, hard-working, and downright hell raising brawler.
A man who once, just for a laugh, grinned at his friends and jumped out of a fire observation tower, hooking his arm around a support beam and sliding all the way to the ground. A man who once fought his cousin because they weren't sure exactly who was tougher; they ended up tied, after a long and bloody fight. A man who once crossed a swollen creek in a '55 Fairlane to get a quart of whiskey out of a hollow tree stump, not even pausing when water rolled in and began to fill the car; a man who once broke his neck in a car accident and went back to work without a thought; a man who looked for and got a fight and couldn't have been happier to have it.
But this was not the man I knew.
When I was born in late 1987, Cotton was forty-eight years old. He was largely retired, but still kept up a brisk business repairing vehicles for people around the house, rarely taking any payment for doing so. My dad would say that Cotton 'changed' when I was born. But, I'm not vain enough to think that my mere arrival caused such a drastic turn of events in his life. It was long coming, as he aged. He did what many men aren't strong enough, or refuse to even try, to do; he changed his life for the better.
Cotton quit drinking, rambling, and fighting. He took up with me and I can't remember an early memory where he wasn't close or just out of sight or reach. I spent hours riding in the old white CJ5 and on the Big Red 3 wheeler, or sitting on his porch with him & Bobby (his wife) eating bologna sandwiches and peanut butter crackers (I don't think we ever ate anything else?) and just listening to the birds and visiting. I remember him giving me advice on things as I grew, and I could tell by the way he told his stories that every lesson he seemed to impart came hard learned to him. He helped show my dad & I how to build & fix nearly everything around, from electrical to engine overhauls, he never lost his touch. The last engine he helped us rebuild was the 289 that went into my first car. I will never part with it, due to that fact alone, except to pass it on to one of my children. Though Cotton was always physically strong, this was doubly proven later in his life, when he was diagnosed with cancer. He opted for the treatments and pushed through them with amazing endurance, prompting one doctor to tell us in a medical briefing, quite spontaneously, that he was 'tough as a pine knot!' But even the strongest men can't run forever, as much as you want them to.
Cotton gave us an example; simply put, that a man's destiny and life is ultimately in his hands, and his alone. We are given a life by our creator, and we all make mistakes. Some of us more than others (myself definitely in the latter category), but that doesn't mean you have to perpetually live that way. My Uncle Cot was a shining example of that. In my life he was a loving, caring, honest and hard-working man of strength who helped prepare me for things to come in my own life later. He was always there, sitting in the breeze on his large front porch, that old worn hat cocked slightly back to catch the breeze. He was unchanging, even as the world passed him by, much like his own father; he had a code and he stuck to it, until the very end.
My uncle Cotton died on December 16th, 2004, a date that I still treat with reverence, and one I will never forget. The evening after his death, as the family gathered and visited til dark, I became tired after an emotionally draining day and began to walk down the hill to my own house. I was now sixteen years old, and even though I only had that short space of time to spend with 'Uncle Cot', it seemed like so many lifetimes of memories were etched in my soul. As I neared the very spot where I had met him those seven or eight years earlier, that same encounter played out vividly in my head, so sudden that I stopped in my tracks and for one moment, was taken back in time, to relive that encounter once more. It is forever with me, just as his memory and lessons will be.
If there is a moral to this short remembrance, it is this; my Great Uncle was a hero to me. He was a strong man, physically and mentally. He made a change that turned his life around and fought his battles bravely until the very end. He died as men should, proud and strong and knowing that though time was mis-spent and mistakes made; he did what he could and changed what he could. May the memory of him and so many more countless men of his stock forever help remind and guide us in our own lives, in this crazy, twisted world that we navigate today.
Rest in peace, Cot. God bless you and God bless Dixie.

A second short story I wrote:
I sit here, watching the fading sun over the Ozarks hills, not too far from where I was raised.

Last night, we had an annual birthday bash for an old family friend, and I got the opportunity to sit and visit with many of the older generation that I grew up around. The most notable, a long visit with a family friend and our talk about time and the changes that it brings to our lives. I am now a mid-30s man with a home and family, and am extremely busy, as everyone is, making a living and trying to do my best to record and preserve our history. Growing up in the storied hills of Newton County, Arkansas, God Himself blessed me with a rich heritage and an even richer (in life and legacy) people to be raised by.

Everyone has a story, some good and some bad. Some in between and some unknown. I could type out countless pages of short snippets and recollections I've gleaned from conversations with folks about those who have gone before, those who now sleep with their fathers in eternal rest. My land is an old land, and legends have (thankfully) been handed down largely intact. The question becomes this: Whose story should you tell and pass to your children? Who is worthy of remembrance? Thankfully, I know many who are.

Dennis Ray Holt was born on August 13, 1939 in Vendor, Arkansas, where I was raised. He quickly was nicknamed 'Cotton' due to his blonde hair being so light as to seem white as cotton. I came of age knowing him as 'Uncle Cot', as he was my grandfather's brother (older by two years).

I spent many years growing up riding his three wheeler and in the old white CJ5 around the house. I was always amazed at how if anything broke, Cot would fix it with ease. He was a natural born mechanic and became the 'go-to' if anything broke around home for folks. He did a business and fixed local folks' rigs and small engines. I was always amazed at how he could tear down anything complex and make it seem so simple. He was truly a genius at this art.

I was the first great-grandchild, born in 1987, and was spoiled far beyond reason by my people. Cotton had a life-long wild streak of drinking and became locally known as 'the man to beat' in local brawls at the pool halls and establishments in and around home. He carried this streak up in years, continuing to drink and carouse around until I was born. My folks all tell me that something about my birth made Cot decide to quit drinking cold turkey. He laid it down and never looked back. I never would know the rough 'hell raising' Cot that so many tell me about, but I did get to know the later life Uncle Cot, who was warm, loving, and understanding, but firm.

I took to Uncle Cot and soon came to be his best buddy, riding around the place and 'helping' feed the cows and pigs. I still vividly recall his 'hog call' that he would break out when I was into something I shouldn't be! I'd be fooling around with something and he'd break that call loose and I'd quickly abandon my wayward ways! But, he was a great role model. One who turned his life around and wanted to tell you about life and always willing to share his experience. He straightened me from many a crooked road.

Cot was a good man by anyone's standards, and a great one in my estimation. He never failed me. He showed me what being a man was. He put down his vices when the time called for it and fixed his neighbor's vehicles and rarely ever charged for it, always saying 'we'll get it next time.' He was a man who walked the crooked road and then went back and straightened it out. He was a Newton County legend in his time, and even today I have people talk about him. My people have a long memory, and I will be forever thankful for that. Cot lived out his days on his farm in Vendor, the one his son manages and maintains today, as he would want it. He was a son of the soil, one who grew up in hard times and would talk about his experiences. He was immensely political and always on the forefront of any political movement about the county. He cared about his family first and foremost, and always looked after his son and daughter.

My father was gifted with the ability to fix things, and Uncle Cot and he formed a special bond. One day, as they were working on something, he told my dad 'Nicky Lynn, you better learn this! I ain't gonna be around for ever!' He taught us mechanics and how things worked and ran. He truly had the touch.

I was a young man in the early 2000s, and Cot was aging. A life long smoker, when the doctors told him they found a spot on his lungs, he laid cigarettes down and never touched them again. Two vices, quit cold turkey. He was a man among men.

But, unfortunately, the damage had been done.

In the fading twilight of my youth Uncle Cot was always there, but not as vigorous as before. I took to walking the hill I grew up on, and one day saw Uncle Cot walking up the other way, since his 'fix' on a rig didn't work. He looked at me and said 'hills didn't seem this steep when I was a young 'un!' When dad drug home a '56 Ford, Cot said 'I'd give anything to feel as good as I did when that car came out.' He was leaving us, but nobody wanted to admit it. Life without Uncle Cot was a terrible thought.

Cancer was Cot's diagnosis, and he took treatments. The doctors told us once that it would be some time before he recovered enough to accept visitors, but then later that evening told us that he was 'tough as a pine knot' and we could see him.

Seeing Cot in that white hospital bed was something I see so clear in my mind's eye. We talked with him and left. Before long he was released and went home to Vendor.

He woke up one morning and got dressed, not feeling well. He told his wife, Bobbie, 'you better call somebody' before he had to sit down. His lungs had filled with fluid and he was rushed to the Harrison hospital. December 16t, 2004. I remember it well.

When they told me Cot was bad, I left school and went with mom to Harrison. I well remember walking in the room and seeing everyone crowded around him, lying in bed, gasping.

I held his hand and meekly said "I love you, Cot." To which his daughter lovingly replied "tell him something that he doesn't know."

That will forever stay with me. Cot died that day. I could tell you stories about my youth and the country and the beauty of the pristine forests and fields that I wandered about. I could tell you about folks I was blessed to know, and folks I was blessed to NOT know, but nothing, no words at all, can encapsulate what Cot meant to me. He was a role model, a great man, a hard line Arkansas boy who grew up from poverty to give his children and grandchildren a better life. He was Newton County and Mt. Judea proud and our hero.

Sometimes I think about the night he died. We were all up at Cot's house (up the hill from my parent's home) and all the people congregating. I left the crowd and began walking home, when it hit me that the spot I was standing on was the same one that I had met Uncle Cot all those years ago, walking home. I broke down right there and then, hearing him speak of the hills 'not being as steep.'

Cot's story is one of many coming from the Ozark hills where I was raised. God blessed me with him and his guidance and help in many things. Like General Patton, I say 'Thank God men such lived.' He did live. He made many mistakes, and did many things in his youth he would regret. His reputation as a tough guy would follow him through life, but people outside the family never knew just how tough he was. He was a rugged, raw, old-time, Newton County, Arkansas legend. He was tough as nails for his family and soft as silk to his kin. He was a man. Words can never express what Uncle Cot meant to us, and I miss him every day.

I once wrote that if life gave me a crown for my achievements, I would hand it to him. I meant that.

God bless you and yours. Remember your family. Tell their stories. The Ozarks will live as long as you do just that.