My
father, Johnie Stapp, loved to work on cars, build cars, drive cars fast, and travel. Since he didn’t have a son, I became his
shadow and helper. When I learned to
read a road map better than a textbook, my mother described me as a curious
child to her bridge club friends. I
understood that it was a survival technique after having experienced my
father’s verbal frustration at mother’s inability to read a map and give
directions. Learning to read road maps
served several purposes for me. One, by
sitting in the front seat on long trips I was less likely to vomit from car
sickness Secondly, I could honestly read the maps and signs well
enough that we didn’t get lost. Third, I didn’t have to sit in the back seat
with my little sister and get in trouble for touching her half of the bench
seat. At some point Dr. Graham told my parents about drug called Dramamine,
which knocked out children and they slept through curving and hilly roads. When
I took Dramamine, my power of sitting up front was taken away from me. I didn’t
always have to take the sleeping pill, as I called it and over the years and
miles of travel, my skills of map reading came in handy preserving peace in our
family.
My eyes nearly exploded the first time I sat
on a wooden bench with mom and my little sister, Jonya, and watched the cars
scream by me. Dust, dirt, and engine
heat filled my nostrils leading my lungs to scream, “Faster, dad, faster.” Mother pulled at my shirt tail keeping me
away from the fence as I continued to jump and yell, even though the race was
over.
I don’t remember that we attended very many
races, but I do remember one particular nigh when I was in third grade at
Lincoln school (1955-56). We had watched
several other races and it was nearing dad’s turn. He stood up and turning to us said, “Tizzy
how about taking a spin down the track with me?” I’m sure mother had to grab my shirt tail, as
I leaped high off the bench in jubilation.
“Now Johnie, I don’t think that’s a good
idea. Anything could happen out there,
and besides she gets car sick. How could
you forget that.” Mother cried in a demanding voice.
“Helen,” Dad replied
with a sigh in his voice, “she’ll have a seat belt on, and it’s a straight race
to the finish line.”
“Mom,” I pleaded,
“you know we’ll be safe because we always wear seatbelts and I like it when Dad
drives fast.”
Mother gave in.
Taking me by the
hand we walked past the bleachers of people down to the parking lot and into
the Olds. Suddenly, my insides pounded
and I knew I had to tinkle, but I
guessed that if I told dad I needed to go tinkle, I’d lose out on riding in the
race. The next thing I knew I was
buckled into the front seat starring out the open window at the people in the
bleachers. We sat there for eternity waiting our turn,
while my eyes scanned for mother and Jonya.
The car reverberated in place as
dad kept one foot on the brake and one on the pedal, then with a burst of
energy the car leaped forward, and I bolted backwards into my seat forcing me
to sit tall and straight as the people in the stands and the wire fence blurred
past my eyes. I’d imagined of waving as
we flew by my mom and my sister, but instead my body buzzed with excitement. I don’t remember whether dad won or not. I only remember the feeling of humiliation as
I realized I was sitting in a warm puddle in the front seat of the car.
After we drove off the race track
and back to the lot of parked cars, I pulled myself forward to get out of the
car, then froze in place as the warm lingering buzz of the race trickled down
my legs and cold tears filled my eyes.
“Daddy, I couldn’t help it.” I whimpered, not making eye contact with
him. “It just came out of me when you
hit the gas. I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t help it.”
My words continued
to babble from my lips making no sense until Dad raised his voice and patted me
on the back. “You’re fine, Tizzy. Now
take a deep breath and stop crying. Your mother is walking over here.” In my head I wanted to stop crying, dry off
and look cool, but in my heart I just wanted to run from my own humiliation.
I never believed that dad was angry with me
for wetting my pants, but I think he was concerned about what had just
happened. What had he done? Had he crossed a dangerous line with his
oldest daughter? I had no fear as a
child, but I think it was events like this that helped me recognize danger, and
how to stand my ground and say, “No.”
Out of the car it,
was clear that I had wet my pants. When
mother saw what happened she reached for my little sister’s hand and stared at
my father, rather than hug me. Then in
a rather icy voice she spoke, “See there Johnie, you’ve scared her to
death. Letty’s just a little girl.”
“Damnit Helen,
she’s fine. Grown men have done the same
thing. She’s not afraid.” Then they both looked at me. When I heard the anger in their voices, the
tears quit flowing, and I stood alone glancing at my parents then at my little
sister. She was holding tight to
mother’s hand and trembling with fright, I think more from their voices than
from the dirt track races. Finally, the
quivering deep down inside of me released my voice and I shouted, “I’m ok. I’m ok.
It just made me go tinkle, that’ all.”
I tried to think
of something funny to say, to make us laugh and the anger go away, but no funny
words came. It was a quiet drive home, always
eerily quiet after mom and dad argued.
Arguments weren’t
uncommon in our household, but they were most painful to me if my actions had
caused the fight. To this day I’m not
comfortable with people arguing, and I will avoid confrontation whenever
possible. As a child who keenly observed
people, I knew then, as I know now that no one wins an argument when feelings
are hurt with ugly words.
My accident, as
mother called it, didn’t stop us from following dad from time to time to the
drag races in the green Olds. There
seemed to be some subtle agreement between mom and dad that I wouldn’t be in the
race car on the track again. I never lost my curiosity and thrill of riding
with my father, especially after he bought the Muntz from Lou Newell in the
late 1950’s.
**This story came from memories I have collected as I research the history of my home and golf course. My history story from Miami, Oklahoma can be read at Johnie Stapp--The War years to 1947
*Search for other blogs about MIAMI MEMORIES in the search bar above right.
*Thank you Bobby Poole for helping me with pictures and locations of our Miami childhood memories.
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