Tears of trust

Sometimes us writers/editors/podcasters/posters ask a question that makes somebody cry. The protocols are straightforward once it happens.

Shut up. Listen. Listen some more. Proceed with abundant empathy.

Tears mean somebody has enough confidence in your brand, reputation and demeanor to reveal powerful details about their lives or career. Trust yields fabulous stories. Once it’s established, avenues open to receive insight and anecdotes somebody might not willingly share with others.

On a visit to Cable Hollow Golf Course in early August (Injecting energy into the Pennsylvania woods), I made Joanne Martin cry. Joanne is the wife of Cable Hollow superintendent Jerry Martin, a second-generation industry professional whose career spans five decades.

I interviewed Joanne and Jerry in Cable Hollow’s new indoor pavilion, a modern, authentic structure. The pavilion meshes wonderfully with its rustic northwest Pennsylvania surroundings. Joanne is Cable Hollow’s clubhouse manager. She has spent thousands of hours this year ensuring the seamless execution of the course’s growing event and daily-play schedule. Joanne is 72, two years older than her superintendent husband.

Joanne, a northeast Philadelphia native, met Jerry in 1981, three years following the death of her father, Robert Lintz. Joanne had entered a transitional phase of her life. Jerry, who was raised in the small northern Pennsylvania and southern New York towns where his father, Harold Q. Martin, built, maintained and operated golf courses, offered stability and unyielding love.

“My father died in 1978 at 54,” said Joanne, with tears falling from her eyes. “I was kind of lost, it had shaken my world. I then met him.” The couple met in a bar in Wellsville, New York, where Jerry was the superintendent of the eponymous local country club.

Joanne and Jerry raised five sons. Tyler Martin is the only one working in the golf industry. Tyler balances his duties as Cable Hollow’s general manager with a full-time energy industry career. He happened to be in the pavilion when I made his mother cry. He patted Joanne on the back and urged her to take “deep breaths” before continuing her thoughts.

“I told him that he was first person I met that came to the caliber of person that my dad was,” added Joanne, staring intently at Jerry. “My dad would have loved what Jerry does for a living. My dad was a hell of a guy. He fought in World War II. Jerry filled a huge void in my life.”

Silence engulfed the pavilion. I followed the pause by asking Jerry what it means for a superintendent to have a supportive spouse like Joanne. “It’s huge,” he said. “I can’t even describe it. It’s a very unique situation and not many superintendents have that. There are superintendents that get divorced because they put work before their marriage.”

Sadly, divorce and golf course maintenance is a story for another issue.

The Martins have been married for more than four decades. When the couple started dating, Jerry quietly added Joanne to his crew.

“My parents were always good at taking care of the yard,” Joanne said. “My dad had me stripe the yard before I worked on the golf course. We had an old reel mower with a roller, and I walked perfect lines. It came natural to me.”

Joanne initially worked for free to help Jerry. That changed when the then-president of Wellsville Country Club insisted Jerry add Joanne to the payroll. They worked demanding jobs while raising a family. “If we had to get up at 2 a.m. and stay until 3 a.m., we did it together,” Joanne said.

The days are still long. The memories are irreplicable. All five of their sons worked alongside them. “We didn’t go to the babysitter, we went to work,” Tyler says. “We didn’t take the bus home. We took the bus to the golf course.”

Sometimes the best family lives aren’t always the easiest. Seeing emotion overcome the people who experienced them — and knowing they trust you to convey their lessons to others — can make a stranger with a notepad and a recorder weep.