One late toasty-warm August afternoon when pancakes baked on the sidewalk, I stood in line at the post office, enjoying the cool air while waiting to mail a large stack of my Miami Golf and Country Club History books that I self-published. I was weary that afternoon but still my adrenaline flowed from the excitement of selling nearly 100 books.
I only printed 30 to begin with and never expected more. It took two more printings to have 100 copies.
Stepping up to the counter I plopped the packages down with relief. With a tired but proud smile, I looked at the lady in white and blue and stated, "I'd like to mail these books in media rate, please."
She returned the smile, placed one on the weight machine, checked the location and zip code and while placing the stickers on the the package she asked, "Are you an author?"
The question caught me off guard. Two book signings, one in Miami, Oklahoma and the other in Tulsa, were most successful for me and for the people who dropped by to purchase the book, but I never thought of myself as an author. I was a writer, yes, but an author is well-known, has books in the public libraries, and makes money.
After watching her weigh the second book and checking the address I finally replied, "Yes, I am an author and this is the history book I wrote about my hometown, the golf course where I grew up, and the people who were a part of my life."
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| Letty Stapp Watt, Vicki Martin Reynolds, Jonya Stapp Pry, Dobson Museum, Miami, Oklahoma |
In full conversation by now she replied, "Oh, I wish I could write the story of the mountain in Washington state where I grew up skiing every winter and the lodge we called home."
I saw her name "Cori" on the top left shelf of her post office station. It was a painted brick with her name engraved in stylish lettering. No one else could claim that station and her name. I liked her creative and individual taste. As she finished weighing and marking each package the doors to the post office locked, but we continued to talk about our shared histories and how people had come and gone in our lives.
Even though we were separated in age by twenty years and 2,000 miles growing up in Washington state and Oklahoma, we found a common bond.
Judy Woodruff said after a story she shared on PBS,
"The need for a shared reality is one-way stories and history bring us together."
Authors, writers, journalists, storytellers, teachers, parents, ministers, historians, civic leaders......all possess the power of words to bring us together. We often look for stories that touch us inwardly, that connect us to others or another time and place.
I found this to be true, when a few days later I asked for help in the Hallmark store. I explained that I needed thank you notes for the many people who helped me publish the book and who encouraged and challenged me to finish it. The ladies looked at the various boxes that I had picked out and we talked our way through the best choice (I bought two boxes of Thank You notes.)
One lady** asked what I had written. I replied, "I've collected stories and created a timeline of the last seventy years of the people who built my town and the golf course where I grew up."
She lite up, "Are you a golfer?"
I laughed, "Yes, I am and have been since the time I could walk."
"Oh, you lucky girl," she pipped. "I have always wanted to play golf, but never found the time. I watch it on television on the weekends and once went to a championship in Tulsa." We chatted a few more minutes and then she asked, "May I buy one of your books?"
"Let me bring one in for you to see," I suggested. A few minutes later, she sat down with the book and thumbed through the pages. "Where are you in this story?"
"Starting in the early sixties," I said, then turned a few pages until we reached a decade she recalled. "I want to buy your book. How much?"
I was stunned. This lady didn't play golf nor had any connection to it, like I might have thought. "The book costs $35."
She took $35.00 out of her purse and asked, "Would you autograph it me."
As I was leaving the store, she said, "Thank you. I want to read about others who have lived during my time and understand what it was like."
I beamed with gratitude and felt tears well up in my heart with her kindness and soft spoken words.
(**The one lady, a perfect stranger, at the Hallmark made a difference in my life by asking to buy my book. A book that I thought would not be read by others. She and I now know each other by first names. Thank you Sandy (Beach) Patterson for sharing your life and stories with me.)
I became a storyteller decades ago, thanks to a job at the Miami Public Library, because I saw people laugh and connect with the personal stories that I heard at the Miami Golf and Country Club, the stories my parents shared about the depression, the war, and the people who had come and gone in their early lives. (Some of the stories might be called "fishing for a good line or lie." I was never sure as a child how to take that.)
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| George Haralson and Thursday |
One of my favorite memories to share is of an English bulldog named Thursday, who roamed the club in the late 1950's. His official home was on Yale Street and his backyard became the golf course and the clubhouse. One July 4, I witnessed Thursday run with his short legs and full body to catch an M-80 thrown by one of the club members. Oh, my...
The rest of the story can be found on my history blog Thursday's story
The homepage for my history blog is:
<https://mgcchistory.blogspot.com/>
Miami, Oklahoma Golf and Country Club History
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