A Father--Daughter Story

Letty, age 4, captured on 8mm film, practicing on a hot summer day in Independence, Ks. 

As I write on this hot summer day (103 in the shade), I am reminded of my childhood years at Miami Country club teeing off at 2:00 in the heat of the day, after I finished working in the golf shop. I believe we called those days "scorching hot," rather than suffering the effects of the "heat dome." There was no air conditioning downstairs in the golf shop, but we did have a huge wall fan that pulled in the fresh air through the golf shop and kept the downstairs locker rooms cool and dry.  Old Bill and I would take turns, when no one was in the shop, and go stand in front of the blowing air to cool down our bodies. 

Occasionally, on Thursday afternoon's Dad would ask me to join his group of Kenny Richards, Marion Zajic, and Charlie Trussler, Doc Jackson and others. By 1965, after graduating from Miami High school, my handicap stayed in the low single digits. Playing golf with the men and having to hand over a 50 cent piece, if I lost a bet, made me a better competitor. Having a low handicap, also, opened the door for me to play in the USGA Jr. Girls Championship at Hiwan Golf Course in Evergreen, Colorado.  

Dad and I drove through Wichita, Kansas to pick up his sister, Della, and drove on to Evergreen, Colorado that day (without AC in the station wagon). Imagine our delight when we arrived in the cool mountain air. I played one practice round at Hiwan with dad and took copious notes along with the handout from the pro shop.

 

The two days of qualifying were the greatest eye openers of my short life. My tee shot could not reach the fairway. The fairway began 100 yards off the tee box. Dad and I had practiced it and so I knew to use my MacGregor 5 wood to hit out of the rough. Because I had been chipping golf balls in the evenings to clean up the driving range I was, and still am, very good at hitting the golf ball close to the pin.  I one putted many greens in those two days, but often finished the holes with bogies, not  pars.  Even though I did not make the cut line, I met some of the most dynamic young girls from all over the country, including Canada.

 

We played the golf course at 3,544 yards on the front nine, 3,568 yards on the back nine for 7.112 dynamic massive yards.

That last day I watched as my dad allowed tears to trickle down his face when I posted my score. They were tears of pride not disgust. Discovering how proud my father and his sister were of my game of golf and fortitude that day made me feel like I could climb a mountain. I had never won a championship in our Oklahoma Junior events. My dream was to make people at the club proud of me. Attaching dreams to goals is not easy for a teenager. 

On a humorous note, I realize that my short game became my strength because the temperatures in July and August soared to the high 90's and 100's regularly, making it, too, miserable to hit hundreds of golf balls in the afternoon.  Salt tablets and gallons of water from water spigots on the golf course kept us going. Mother learned about serving Tang in the mornings to her active family, and that helped us better survive the heat. 

Golf Gypsy: My Mother's Words explains how much my mother suffered through those growing years with Jonya and me. 

L to R: Rinda Koppitz, Vicki Bell, .., Janice Bell.. 
Letty Stapp On the steps of the Broadmoor
Golf Course and Hotel (1966) 

During the summers of 1966 and 1967 I traveled with friends to Colorado Springs to play in the Broadmoor Ladies Invitational tournament. We never had the money to stay at the hotel, but we did manage quite well in a nearby stucco cottage motel sitting by a fast flowing stream from the mountains. During those summers my game was strong and solid, but the head game didn't develop until I was well into my fifties. I missed qualifying for Championship flight over and over. However, I learned that the other women in "President's Flight" or "A flight" with me were just as discouraged at their plight as I, and so the competition remained strong.

*Instagram: @golfgypsyok 

I found three old 8mm films that my father took at MGCC and elsewhere. I have converted them over the years to VHS, CD, and now a Flash Drive. This last attempt took several hours of viewing to see what we wanted to save. In the process, I discovered these old family videos from the early 1950’s when my father was the pro at Independence CC, Kansas. The blurry attempt came when I paused and took a photo of the picture on the screen, but the moment is captured and I felt proud of that childhood swing…which I would dearly love to have again. 

 

The Golf Gypsy Roars!

I Am Woman

Murphy offered support but he couldn't hold me up either. 

Between roaring and growling I pushed myself up from my lazy chair, and off my lazy duff, threw down the yoga mat and tried to perform a plank for two minutes, while Murphy watched me from the side. When that failed, I grunted and moved to the hallway where I could use the bands to twist and imitate a golf swing, Murphy stood at my feet. Next, I walked the dog around the block muttering to myself "How could I have let this happen?" "Why did I think I couldn't work out?" "I am not an old crippled lady, I am a older woman who is angry at herself." "It's my job to stay healthy, no excuses." I felt better for it but Murphy seemed worried. 

The evil twin replied, "Yeah, but...remember how much it hurts to turn your hips; You know how you feel the next day after 90-100 swings on the golf course; why don't you go write or read another book like you did yesterday and avoid the pain?"

The evil twin has been with me since childhood. I know her well, but over the adult years I have learned to meet her head on and force her to leave. This winter, the injuries I sustained from the "dog fall" set me back. I rehabbed like a athlete, but it was winter and I still ached. Day after day I chose not to work out, or if I did it was only for a short while, not enough to get stronger. 

Snoopy is so wise...

Spring came and I entered a state tournament at Belmar Country club only to shoot a 100 on the first day. The last time I did that was in the late 90's at Prairie Dunes. I have never withdrawn from a golf tournament because of my game, even though my pride felt bruised. Instead, I sat down for dinner on the patio with golfers. Listening to the woes of other women who had shot scores way above their average, let me breathe and laugh. That evening I laughed on the way home rather than crying. 

Helen Reddy sings I AM WOMAN

The next day I played a respectable game and thought all was well enough. I sat down and told myself to accept that this cranky old body would keep me from playing a solid, consistent, and a respectable game of golf.  

My new Mantra--Accept who I am, Accept that I'm older. But something was missing.

I write words on my golf ball to remind me to stay in the moment. The words may range from sing to smile, shoulders to hips, flex and bend, relax shoulders, one shot, be present, rhythm to timing....

Bob Hope once said, "If you watch a game, it's fun. If you

play at it, it is recreation. If you work at it, it is GOLF."

When my mind wonders to the grocery store list while I am playing golf, I tell myself, "This is where I am. This is what I enjoy." This summer I have been saying, "Accept who I am, adapt to the old body." However, it felt empty. Something was missing in that mantra. 

Walking cleared my head and made Murphy feel better. He can tell when I'm out of sorts. Then I stepped out in the backyard and began swinging my 7 iron using only my left arm and left side to pull me through. Murphy thought I wanted to play, and he began to bark and bounce around me. Not safe, I told him.

He continued to bark at me. That's when I smiled and told myself to go hit golf balls. To really practice. To see if I could strengthen this older stiff body. My father's words pounded in my head, "If you don't practice you can't expect to be a better player." In my case, I wanted to be consistent and not embarrass myself. 

For the first time since last summer I hit range balls with my hybrids and woods. (Practicing my chipping and putting doesn't hurt and it reaps great rewards. Hitting the big clubs hurts my hips.)  Using dad's method of hitting 3-6 balls with my left arm following through and keeping my right arm/side from overpowering the swing, I could feel how weak I had become. I only practiced 20 minutes, but it was the best 20 minutes I could have expected. 

"I was determined to play the game well

or not at all."  Babe Didrikson Zaharis

The realized the word practice was missing in my mantra.  Can you see me smiling?

One super-duper muscle vibrator/relaxer, one squeeze ball for the hands, and the
golfer's second best friend, Voltaren. The Bio-freeze is on the
closet shelf and an extra one in my golf bag.  

New Mantra: Accept who I am. Accept that I am older and I will practice on the driving range only 20 minutes when needed.  

 I think I can. I think I can. I know I can. I will.

THURSDAY, the English Bulldog

George Haralson, 1960 

There was once a loved dog named Thursday, who spent his days at the Miami Country Club receiving hugs from the members and food from the kids at the swimming pool. His bedtime home stood south of the #7 golf hole. Consequently, Thursday big backyard became the country club.

 Our golf pro, the trickster that he was, sometimes came face to face with his own orneriness.  M-80’s, his fireworks of choice, caused much hilarity among the men and great dismay from the women.  Of course, the children were never allowed to pull such tricks, but then he did lead us like the Pied Piper down the trail of orneriness. (Jimmy Thompson, I'm sorry you are no longer here to tell us your stories, as you followed my dad around the golf course year after year, copying his behavior.) 

Victims, survivors, tellers of the tales, we all became as the summer holidays neared.  Oh, how golf swings changed when the bombs (M-80’s) exploded in their back swings.  Men could be seen pounding their clubs into the ground shortly after a well-timed explosion occurred in the distance.  The pro was never to be seen.  Even women used explicit language to show their duress at the well timed M-80 explosions set off in the middle of their backswings  by my father.  However, over drinks in the bar the stories of the errant shots and the surprise bombs heard in the distance caused many hours of laughter.  

One warm summer evening the country club’s adopted dog, Thursday, dropped by to check out the commotion and the picnic droppings.  His bulldog jaws reminded me of a jumbo hippo chomping. English bulldogs have an unusual swagger to their short legged strut.  Their massive jaws make light work of hot dogs and hamburgers.

Hot dogs and M-80’s have a similar structure, and Thursday certainly had a nose for food and trouble.  Firecrackers, snakes slithering, roman candles erupting in the air, and sparklers all lit the evening surroundings.  But it was the occasional M-80 blast that shook chips off our plates, causing mothers to scream and fathers to laugh.

It was also an M-80 that caused Thursday a great disturbance.  The evening dusk was upon us, and to announce the forth coming fireworks display to the east of the golf course, the pro threw one last  M-80 behind the crowd.  Not in our wildest dreams did anyone expect Thursday to run with such deliverance to devour the thrown hot dog.  But a hot dog it was not, the lit M-80 landed and bounced into the ready drooling jaws of Thursday.  For that instant dozens of eyes, young and old, watched as Thursday took a bite.

The explosion was muffled but sufficient enough to blow out his teeth.  Still no one could move, transfixed we were.  It was Thursday who moved first, a lumbered side-ways step.  Then a faint bellow could be heard from his belly, contrasted by high pitched screams from the women and children. I watched from the golf shop as the kerfuffle ensued.

Moms and Dads fell to Thursday’s side.  The massive bleeding jaws were promptly wrapped in golf towels and his husky body carried inside.  Ice packs arrived from the kitchen.  The blue Ford station wagon pulled up to the shop door to load the wounded dog.  Doc Smith, Johnie Stapp, and a small caravan of men pulled out.  Mother’s said their goodbyes and grumbled about the dangers of fireworks.  The children cried. 

At last, the fireworks display began. We children oohed and aahed at the brilliant lights bursting into the darkened night sky. Before we departed for the evening, a phone call in the golf shop relayed the message to all that Thursday had survived. 

Time heals many wounds, so my mother often said.  For Thursday and the kids time passed slowly.  One day he was back, snaggled toothed, sagging jaw, and one droopy eye.  His jolly swagger had returned along with his appetite, but his diet was no longer scraps.  Like an old man he learned to eat his softened meals and swallow some pride.  He stayed with us for a few more summers, and then one day he was not at the door begging.

Picnics were never the same for us, but children’s lives were enriched with stories to tell because of one dog named Thursday.

 

*The True Story: Thursday, the English Bulldog, belonged to George Haralson's  family, and their dog did spend many of summer day at the club. He would follow the kids to the pool daily. 

We all knew that Thursday belonged to the Haralson's but he shared his life with us. 

George tells me that yes, Thursday ate an M-80 from a July 4th Fireworks but that he ate it on the front porch of the Haralson's home, never at the club. The results were the same, no matter where Thursday stood that fateful day. Like the story goes, he lived through that explosion to wag his tail again. 

**The funny story is that all of these years that I have told that story to audiences, I believed I really saw it happen. When George told me his version last summer, I was shocked. 

GOLF GYPSY: MORNINGS IN THE GOLF SHOP

1962 the last girls team to win Oklahoma High School State Championship before girls golf was no longer supported by the State High School association. 

        Being the only girl golfer in my high school class, 1965, tended to set me apart from others. In the golf shop, Old Bill most certainly stood apart from everyone.  In my teen-aged eyes he was an old bent man, who worked hard, did his job, then went home. His face was shaven closely, his eyes set deep below his brow, leaving him to appear as if he continually cast his eyes downward. How was it I wondered that his cheeks could appear soft, unblemished and nearly youthful, when his body told another story?

        He wore heavily starched and uniformly pressed khaki pants with a matching long sleeve shirt every day, no matter the weather.  By ten o’clock in the morning he was wet down his back from sweat, and often his sweat smelled like pure garlic.  The hotter it became during those summer days the shorter his temper grew at me and towards many of the club members.  I didn’t understand why it was so important for me to be “kind” in my thoughts and words, when that didn’t hold true for Bill. 

 One evening when my dad and I were out chipping and picking up range balls I asked, “Dad, why is it that Old Bill is allowed to grumble and be rude to people, and I’m not?”  My father showing no attempt to be patient, tilted his head downward glaring at me, and exploded, “Tizzie!" Dad's eyes nearly teared up in his anger,  "Bill saw action during the War in the Pacific. You will never understand what he has been through."

Time hung in the air as I stood at attention. My father continued, "He is retired now, and his pension does not provide enough for Bill and his wife.”  

“Wife,” I interrupted!  “Some woman is married to Bill?  He stinks to high heavens; can’t you smell him when you walk into the shop?”  I’ve never been one to think about my words before they spewed from my mouth. 

I saw the growl forming on my father’s face before I heard his words, “This man will work for me as long as he needs a job.  Don’t you ever say another word about him.  That’s final!” Our lessons about World War II were not in the textbooks.

1967 North View of the Miami Country Club

          In the stifling heat of the summer, the golf shop repeatedly reeked of “Old Bill” and his ancient cures for aches and ailments.  Finally, one day, when I knew Dad wouldn’t be in the shop for another hour or more, I turned to Bill and in a kindly manner, “Bill, I know it’s miserably hot here.  I sweat just like you, but you smell like garlic and sometimes like rotten eggs.  Why?”  In defense of my teenage ignorance, I had often heard the women golfers complain about Bill’s body odor.

 One time I remember LaRue Gaines (Mother of Steve and Cassie Gaines, who died in the 1977 plane crash of the Lynyrd Skynyrd Band.) marching into the golf shop after a round of golf and a few beers. With a swirl of her body and arms flattening on the glass display case separating the costumer from the employee, she flippantly remarked to Old Bill, "Why is it, we come in from a round of golf in this heat only to have you, the golf shop, and locker rooms smell like garlic?” 

Bill mumbled something like, “You don’t smell so sweet yourself!”  Then hunched his shoulders, and turned his back to walk off. I watched LaRue's nostrils flair and then surprisingly, I heard a high pitch giggle like a horse neighing, and she smarted back before he could leave the room, “Well, at least you won’t ever catch any germs smelling like that.”

          Standing solidly, I awaited his reply. He turned, lifted his chin and looked her square in the eyes,  “I ain’t ever been sick in my life." With an awkward grunt he continued, "Working in the public like this puts lots of germs in the air.  I don’t ever go to the doctor for medicine ‘cause I wear this garlic pod around my neck.”  Clutching his chest his deep set brown eyes starred down at me, and for a minute he almost smiled.  

    LaRue turned to her left and exited down the two giant steps to the basement and the cool air of the ladies locker room. 

In that moment, the character, Penrod, in  Booth Tarkington's book that my eighth grade teacher read aloud to us, flashed back to me. My eyes and mouth both popped open. I popped off to Old Bill, but this time sincerely stating,  “I thought just old timey people in stories wore things like that to ward off sickness.  Does it really work?”

“Seems to work." His voice stopped. After a gulp of air he continued, "Ain’t never sick, neither’s my wife,” he replied. 

“You mean your wife wears garlic, too?” I asked incredulously. 

With each word spoken like a directive, he replied. “No." Again a long pause as if he needed to think of the next sentence. "She don’t go out much, but she cooks with garlic, and we eat our greens every day.” 

          I had to ask, “Can I see it?  What does it look like?”  Without answering he walked to the back room with me following like a little puppy dog begging for a bone.  He unbuttoned his heavy khaki shirt part way to reveal another heavy men’s white t-shirt equally wet and smelly with garlicky sweat.  He pulled up on a cord that hung around his neck, and out popped a pouch made from cheese cloth and sure enough inside the bag were several pealed fresh ripe pods of garlic. With curiosity killing me, I wanted to ask a dozen more questions, but thought maybe I should let the subject drop.  Mom constantly coached me on appropriate behavior, “Just let the subject go, Letty. Tomorrow’s another day.”