Renaissance Marquis resident Betty Cooper knows every word to the old hymns—the ones she sings with the Marquis Melodies every other Thursday morning, her voice threading through the group, steady and true. Music has always been the backdrop of her life, from seven years of childhood piano lessons (she’ll tell you with a laugh she does a “poor job” accompanying herself) to singing with the New York All-State Chorus, a summer with Schola Cantorum in Manhattan, and eight years lending her alto to the Douglas West Atlanta Chorale. She still remembers the thrill of singing with Robert Shaw, the kind of moment you tuck away and revisit on quiet afternoons.



Born in Statesboro, Georgia, in the thick heat of July 1942, Betty came into the world while her father was serving in the Navy, stationed in the North Atlantic. Her mother, finishing up her degree at Georgia Teachers College—which is now Georgia Southern—taught elementary school in Brooklet, where Betty spent her early years. Betty was the oldest of three. Her sister Ann was born in Dublin, Georgia, and her birth came with its own story: the doctor who delivered her was Ty Cobb’s son. Folks around town always thought he was more pleasant than his famous father. Betty’s brother, Dan, came along in 1953—a wonderful surprise—born at Georgia Baptist Hospital in Atlanta.

Change came early and often. By first grade, Betty was at Hartwell Elementary, then Druid Hills in Atlanta, then White Plains, New York, as her father chased his doctorate. She finished high school in Maplewood, Columbia, and earned her biology degree in 1963—one of those women who always seemed to be moving forward, upward, onward.

It wasn’t just music—Betty found joy in every group she joined, from Brownies and Camp Fire Girls in childhood, to clubs in high school and college, to church choirs and teaching Sunday school for the seven, eight, and nine-year-olds. She enjoyed them all, collecting friendships and memories with each new season.

Work was never just a line on a resume. Her first paycheck with Social Security deductions came at age eleven, from the Forest 5 & 10. She still remembers the smell of the penny candy, and the surprise decades later when that job showed up in her retirement papers. In high school and college, she was never still: babysitter, language lab assistant, cafeteria worker—serving up three meals a day behind a steam counter.

After college, she put on her best dress and took a job as an officer trainee at C&S Bank in Macon, earning $275 a month, before finding her calling at DFCS. For 38 years, she walked with families through the hardest chapters of their lives—foster care, adoptions, protective services. Even retirement didn’t slow her down; she served on the Wilkinson County DFCS Board, always showing up, always giving.

Betty met her future husband, John Robert “Bob” Cooper, at Mercer University in Macon, Ga. There’s a black-and-white photo from their wedding day—August 31, 1962. Just married, they checked in at the Riviera Motel near Terminal Station in Atlanta. They were hungry, so Bob went out, returning with a bag of a dozen Krystals for just a dollar. Thirty years later, they returned to that same motel to celebrate and were gifted a free anniversary night, laughter and nostalgia taking the place of wedding-day nerves. They drove north to Gatlinburg, spent three days at the River Terrace Motel, and started a life together that lasted 58 and a half years before Bob passed in January of 2021. “We still liked each other,” Betty says, smiling.

Their children, Andi and Josh, were five years apart. Andi—creative and musical—graduated magna cum laude. Josh, smart and steady, finished at Georgia Tech with honors. Betty’s pride in them is stitched into every story she tells. The pain is there, too—2011 brought the kind of loss that tries to unmake you. That year, cancer took both her children. Andi, married to Bill, was lost to metastatic breast cancer. She left behind her husband and two children—Tiffany, who was just coming into adulthood, and Briggs, still growing into himself. Josh, steady as ever, was married to Veronica. His fight was shorter, a fast-moving brain tumor that changed everything. When he died, his children—Jack, Charlotte, and Daeg—were only eleven, eight, and three.

Betty’s voice softens at these memories, but she keeps going—because that’s what she’s always done.

Now, the next generation carries her stories forward. Tiffany, Andi’s daughter, is a librarian media specialist at Rome High School—the reason Betty came to Rome. Tiffany and her husband Jared welcomed Betty’s first great-grandson last December. Briggs isn’t far away either. Josh’s three—Jack, now an Ole Miss graduate working in Memphis, Charlotte, a Georgia Tech senior and Dow Chemical co-op in Texas, and Daeg, in his last year at Blessed Trinity High School and will enter Georgia Tech in the fall—have each grown into their own.

From the day after their honeymoon, Betty and Bob always shared their home with dogs—mostly German shepherds, sometimes a Great Dane or two loping through the yard. Dogs were part of the family, their steady presence a comfort through every chapter. It wasn’t until just before Bob died that they welcomed their first kitten, Tigger. Betty will tell you that Tigger has been a good friend to her ever since.

It was March the eighth of last year when Betty moved into Renaissance Marquis. The day after she made her decision, her grandchildren gathered—some driving in from Allentown, others from Rome—ready to pack up her worldly belongings. Together they sorted through decades of memories, taping up boxes, wrapping framed photos, and gently tucking away treasures. The moving truck and cars filled up, each load a patchwork of Betty’s life.

As she watched her grandchildren carry her things out of the house and into this next chapter, Betty felt a swirl of emotions—gratitude for their love and help, pride in the family she and Bob had built, and a sharp ache for her children who couldn’t be there. She paused in the doorway, allowing herself that moment to feel it all. But dwell in that moment, Betty would not. At the same time, she also saw the blessings of her life, gratitude for the family around her, and she looked with anticipation at this new season ahead.

At Renaissance Marquis, laughter and conversation filled the apartment as her grandchildren hauled in boxes, arranged furniture, and hung pictures just so. Tigger the cat—her quiet companion—explored the new space, weaving between legs and curling up in a sunny spot. “She’s been mighty good company,” Betty says of Tigger. By the end of the day, the place felt like home, every corner touched by the hands of those who love her. Betty still smiles at the memory, the bittersweet edges softened by gratitude. She hasn’t regretted the move for a single moment.

Betty has found her rhythm at Renaissance. Her favorite activity is Marquis Melodies every other Thursday morning, where she sings hymns with friends, accompanied by Janice—her friend June’s sister—on the piano. Once a month, she joins the craft corner, creating something new each time. She looks forward to the monthly lunch outings to different restaurants, and never misses a chance at bingo, always playing for prizes and for the fun of it with a nice bunch of folks. Each week, there’s a lively Scrabble game, and sometimes Rook or Mexican Train, laughter and banter filling the room.

She still makes baskets—she was a member of the Basketry Association for ten years—and when her fingers allow, she loves to sew, quilt, and settle in with a good book. There’s always something to do, and Betty is grateful for it all.

In her own words: “The residents are friendly, the food is mighty good, and all the special groups that come in to entertain us—dancers, bands, choirs—are just a few. The staff don’t feel like staff, but friends who want you to have a good day—and we do.”

Some days her fingers are stiff and she can’t do quite as much as she’d like, but Betty never lets that slow her down for long. There’s always another project, another song, or another story waiting for her at Renaissance Marquis.

It’s not a life without loss, but Betty Cooper’s story is one of showing up, singing out, and loving fiercely. She’ll tell you that herself—if you listen, you’ll hear the music in her voice.