A few weeks ago, the Lillian E. Smith Center lost Bill Watts, an important member of our community. Here is a tribute I wrote about Bill.

The Lillian E. Smith Center on Screamer Mountain is a spiritual space. It’s a patch of land with a history deeply connected with the Civil Rights Movement. It’s a space of community and bonding, a space where humanity exists amidst the turmoil and tumult at the bottom of the mountain. I’ve been at the center for about four years now, and since my arrival, William “Bill” Watts has been a fixture on the hill. He’d be there, striking a mountain-man, Elvis pose with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down, showing his chest and a necklace. He’d be the first person to greet residents or visitors to the center, helping them get settled in, and he’d be there if they ever needed anything.

Bill grew up at the bottom of the hill. His father, Kelton, worked for Lil and her family doing maintenance work and other projects. One photo shows Kelton and Lillian planting ferns on top of the walkway between two of the cabins. Bill walked in Kelton’s footsteps, returning to Screamer Mountain after moving away for a while and working at the center long before Piedmont acquired the property. He worked with Lil’s niece Nancy Smith Fichter and her husband Robert when they turned the site of Laurel Falls Camp into an artist residency and retreat.

Ever since I met Bill back in 2019 when I arrived at the center, I tried to get him to tell me stories about Lil, Esther, Annie Laurie, Frank, Paula, and what life on the hill was like back when he was growing up in the 1950s and 60s. He’d always fall back on one memory, one story that stuck out in his mind. He’d tell me about the Christmas parties that Lil hosted for the children in the community, both Black and white. He’d tell me, with fondness in his eyes, about the large Christmas tree she had in the library and the pinecones that Lil would hang from the branches. Lil would tell the children to go and get a small pinecone from the tree, and when they did, they would flip the pinecone over and find a quarter taped to the bottom.

Bill would always tell this story with joy, and whenever I introduced him to someone new and tried to ask him other questions about life on the hill, he’d always tell that story first, going back in time to memory that solidified his place on Screamer Mountain and his connection to it. He’d eventually tell me other stories about playing baseball in the field with other kids, about going to Atlanta for inspection after being drafted for Vietnam, about Frank’s exploits, about his wife who passed years before, and a lot more.

Only a week ago, I sat with Bill in the garden at the center, next to Lil’s grave, and chatted. I shared picture with him from my recent study travel trip, and we just sat under the shade of the trees and chatted as birds sang around us. I thought about the past few months and seeing him struggle to catch his breath and other things. He caught COVID back in the fall of 2020 and was on death’s door, and since then, he has had oxygen and been in and out of the hospital, all while still working on the patch of land he loved so much.

Before I left for my trip, we chatted in a similar manner, near Lil’s grave in the garden. He told me that he needed two surgeries, and he was scared to death about put under for these surgeries due to his reliance on the oxygen and other factors. He rarely showed this type of fear, but his expression and tone indicated how scared the thought of being anesthetized made him feel. He did so much for others on that hill, taking care of them as they came for their retreats from the world. He meant so much to them, and at that moment, I wanted to do something to show him how much he means to countless people.

I asked him if I could take a picture of him at his favorite spot at the center and share it through the center’s social media accounts. He was a little leery because I didn’t tell him why I wanted to take the picture and share it. I just told him I had something in mind. His favorite spot was by the chimney, the last remaining remnant of the gym at Laurel Falls Camp. Lil’s favorite spot was the chimney, and she rests beside it. I think they tore the gym down before Bill’s birth, so all he knew was the chimney.

We walked to the chimney and I took a few pictures of him standing there, shirt unbuttoned showing his chest, as he posed next to the chimney. I posted the pictures on our social media, telling people he was struggling with some things and asking people to write postcards to him to show their love and support. A number of people responded wanting to send him cards and letters of encouragement. People he knew and people he didn’t know. I wanted Bill to know how much he meant to so many people. I wanted him to know he mattered.

As I sit here and type this, I keep thinking about people I need to contact to let them know of his passing. Every time I scroll through my phone or email, a new person arises. When I reach out, they all say how much he meant to them and how they welcomed them, no matter who they were, to the mountain. While Lil, Esther, Paula, Annie Laurie, and Frank are the mountain for Bill, Bill is the mountain for me. I never met the others in person. I know them through stories and writings. However, I know Bill. He’s not just a tangible connection to the others; he’s an integral part of the community that has been on Screamer Mountain since Calvin Smith started Laurel Falls Camp for Girls in 1920.

Bill will forever be tied to that space for me. When I head up there, I’ll expect to see him there. I’ll expect to have him call me once or twice or week to catch up on what’s happening on the hill. I’ll look for him and he won’t physically be there. Yet, he will be there. He will be in the wind that blows through the trees. He will be the dirt beneath my feet as I walk the grounds. He will be there in the birds singing above me. He will be in the mountain laurel that blooms every spring and the blackberries beside the cabins. He will be in that place.

It’s fitting, for many reasons, that Bill’s favorite spot on the hill is the chimney. That space holds special significance, not the least of which because Lil rests directly beside it. The inscription from The Journey on Lil’s headstone epitomizes the fact that Bill remains with us on the hill. Her headstone reads, “Death can kill a man, that is all it can do to him. It cannot end his life because of memory.”

The Lillian E Smith Center won’t be the same without Bill, but the center is what it is because of him, and he will forever be a part of it.