My Story--The Fire 1984

 

 

          It was 4am before the flames were high enough to rouse the neighbors.  Sirens rang as truck after truck sped through the streets to reach the raging fire.  The neighbors stood in nightgowns and thrown together layers of clothes, starring in awe as the 1927 Tudor structured clubhouse burned out of control like an angry lady poking a stick at mad dogs.

          With water hoses surging full blast from all angles, photographers shot pictures of the fire in the night, while word spread throughout Miami, Oklahoma that the club was burning.  Shortly after sunrise it became clear that flames had reached the fifth floor and were screaming through the roof.  Windows had exploded floor by floor, and the town had turned out to see the event, like a circus train unloading lions and tigers.

          It wasn’t known how or when the fire started on if anyone was inside.  The housekeepers from time gone by no longer lived on the fourth floor.  Cars had sometimes been left overnight by members too drunk to drive.  Had the men gone home or stayed behind to win a hand of cards?

          For me, the club was like a home, my touchstone of who I was, who I could be, and eventually who I would become.  We moved to Miami, Oklahoma in 1954 a few years after the flood of ’51.  As a child of five my greatest regret was that we missed the flood, but oh did I ever soak up the stories and seek out proof of flood lines on homes at every outing.

Ladies on the practice green on the north side of the country club.1960's

          My dad was the golf pro at the Miami, Ok. Golf and Country club  and the greatest teacher I would ever know.  In turn, I played golf and loved the fresh air, but it took hours of my life to prepare for tournaments.  Practice was my life as a teen, whereas, my sister was a natural and still has an easy flowing flawless swing. (I must confess we both worked hours on the practice tee. Golf is never easy, even for a person with natural swing.)

 

1967 South-side main entrance with our blue station wagon that would take me to college in 1967 sits to the left of the entrance.

         I went to work in the golf shop at thirteen.  Tuesday through Saturday I opened the shop by sun up in those summer months.  From 2:00 till dinner I played or practiced my golf game. By the time I was a full-fledged teenager I had very little time to drag main, shop with friends, watch “As the World Turns”, or date. What I did have were the friends I made at golf tournaments in those years and the experiences of playing at the highest level of junior golf in 1960's before Title IX.

          Part of me always wanted to be like everyone else, but the other part was willing to stand alone and just be me.  I didn’t know who me was or would become.

          At nineteen, 1967, I left home for college at LSU to complete a teaching degree. Being immature, thinking I was smarter than my professors, I came home in the summer of 1968 married and left home for Ft. Hood, Texas.  Five years later I was a mother of a beautiful child, but divorced, uneducated, and alone. I left home again, and worked my way through college and degrees.  As a librarian, teacher, and mother I began to entertain and teach through storytelling and puppetry.  And we laughed.

          The stories told, laid the next layer of asphalt for the road I would take.  I found those universal truths of stories to be healing for the human spirit.  Listening to the laughter of the crowd rejuvenated me.  Listening to my daughter mimic me as she retold those stories to her dolls and friends, also made me realize how our children watch in detail our every move.

          It was the stories that led me home that weekend the club burned.  On a Sunday July 16, 1984 I drove from Norman, OK in a green Toyota loaded with kids, puppets and books and drove straight to the club.  I needed to feel the soil of my soul and show my children a part of me.  On the horizon I saw only two chimneys.  One four story chimney stood in the center of the broken brick shell, ashes smoldering, people still standing rows deep in the drive way watching. The second chimney stood alone on the west side of the building that connected the dance floor and porches to the main building.  Fire trucks and traffic blocked my entrance.

 

North-side from the putting green.

          I parked on the street and walked quietly cautiously toward the smoldering structure, my broken lady. My children ran ahead. 

 

July 23, 1984 Dad, Johnie Stapp, myself, daughter Katy Rains, and stepson Michael Watt.

     When my father saw me, the tears he had held off since the wee hours of the morning fell down his cheeks in rivulets flowing haphazardly.  The hugs and tears came from all directions.  All any of us could do was stand, stare, until at last we began to share.

          On Monday after teaching summer school at PSU, I returned to the club and parked near the yellow tape on the south side.  I followed the tape around a giant circle to the north-side and the entrance to the pro shop.  No lives had been lost, but, oh, so many memories danced in the clouds.  I stood outside the yellow tape. Then I heard a choking voice coming from the ashes that were heaped where the golf shop once stood, supporting the lofty building. From an angry grumble I heard these words,  “Where are you?  I know you’re here.  You’ve got to be here.”

          Quickly, I crossed the line and hollered, “Who are you?  What have you lost?”

          A deep angry voice returned, “It’s John.”

          “Dad?" I rushed through the door frame,  "I thought you were at home.”  

     Stepping into the ashes of golf shop door, I saw a bent over white-haired man swinging a rake wildly at a pile of ashes.  I thought for a moment his khaki jumpsuit was streaked in blood, but my imagination was vivid and dried red paint had the same effect.   Then I realized it was another man, named John, not my father. 

          “Oh my gosh, John, this is Letty Stapp, the pro’s daughter.  What have you lost?”  I asked fearfully.  He stopped, turned at me, and hollered,  “I’ve lost my putter.  She burned up, but I know I can find the mallet head.  Come here and help me, now.  You know where my bag was stored.”

          With two of us digging, and my clothes already covered in ash, we found the mallet head, no wooden shaft, no grip, nothing else to be retrieved.  With rake and mallet in hand we walked to the outside of the ropes and behind the yellow tape.  No words were spoken as we turned to look at shell.

          At last I said, “You know she was my home, my touchstone.  I can see myself and your children, all of us up there in the attic playing and spying on the world below.”

          “It was my home, too,” he replied.  “My father, James Coleman,  and George Coleman had her built.  I grew up there.  I know every nook and corner like the back of my hand.”  One by one we shared our stories through tears and laughter that spanned six decades.  Secrets had been shared.

          Then he placed his arm around my waist and said, “I’ve always said a man is just as old as the woman he’s touching.”  I laughed, for he was known to be a fox around women, but I knew that for a few moments in life we were both younger and shared a deep feeling for a burned out building called home.

 

*A true story by Letty Stapp Watt, as told for three decades on storytelling stages throughout the Midwest. 

**Later that week John Robinson drove to the farm where my parents lived and asked dad to remake his mallet head putter. It took a few weeks before my father found a wooden shaft that would work. 

***Sadly, my mother had finished updating the Miami Ladies Golf Association scrapbooks and delivered them to the ladies locker room a few days before the fire. Without pictures in that scrapbook I thought I had lost a part of me, but the memories floated back easily. In retirement, I took up the mantle (or mallet head) and wrote the history of my club from 1916 to 1984.

****Luckily, the club rebuilt and there are more stories to share. Click on this link to read our history: Miami, Ok. Golf and Country Club Stories

The Golf Gypsy: My Mother's Words

The Stapp Family at the Country Club about 1966-67
Jonya, Johnie, Helen, Letty

Monday Evening

(June 1967)

Dear Letty,

Just read your note since your phone call and am I glad Mabel is two doors down from you. (Mabel Hotz was my childhood dream golf mother, and one of the first women inducted into the Oklahoma Golf Hall of Fame.)

Back story:

That Monday, June 5,  I qualified for the Women' Oklahoma State Amateur held at Oakwood Country Club in Enid. However, I did not qualify for Championship Flight and my opportunity to win the state championship dissolved,.  My disappointment led to tears of frustration and for me humiliation. 

I had played golf for two years on the men's golf team at NEO. I held a 2 handicap and could play to it on the difficult MGCC course, but my nerves won that day. I was 19 years old. That evening, from the hotel  room in Enid, I called home, collect, sobbing to my mother. 

NOTE: My researching curiosity won out and I searched for the write up on this State Amateur. We played Oakwood CC at 6,529 yards for that championship. I suppose that comes from not having forward tees. I qualified for President's fight and took runner-up after Jarita Askins beat me 2 and 1. 

I would go on to play in the WOGA Championship in 1968 for the last time as a youngster, who felt the weight of winning for her father, her mother, and every member of the country club.

Mother continues:

Letty, the 91 is no disgrace--golf is just a game for some, but it is a way of life for us, and that is why we take it so seriously. Daddy makes his living at it, but you probably won't and neither will Jonya. Just remember that at the end of the day, being a good sport and associating with all those nice people is most important.

You saw Billy Casper (in Tulsa at Southern Hills) smile when he missed a putt and smiled when his opponents made one--you have been looking for an ideal to follow--I think he would be the one I would choose if I were 19 again. He also does not drink and I want you to be a clean pure girl athlete.

Daddy was at the river fishing when you called. In fact he is not back yet.

Just as you told me you "bombed out" and I was thinking you shot a 110-112 or something like that, Jonya sat down by the phone with blood streaming all over the place. She had used an old razor and sliced about two layers of skin from her ankle. I had to put Merthiolate on it and she yelled so loud that on top of your disappointment I thought I would have a nervous breakdown. 

We are calming down watching TV now and I'm getting my nerves put in their proper place now.

Letty, if you are still nervous tomorrow go to a movie. Maybe Louise (Stekoll Johnson) or Rinda (Koppitz) would like to go with you. It is best to get out of this world sometimes. A good book might do the same therapy. 

None of the Miami players did any good at the Hill Blast  tournament in Bartlesville, But just think Ben Hogan bought Daddy's team and we mingled with movie stars and golf stars for two days. 

Are the Bell's there? Tell them all hello--

I got Dad to stay home all day and he is rested. Now if I could get him to a movie.  I'd really be living. 

Well it's time to put Jonya's T.V. dinner on. She has stopped bleeding.   

Remember darling--the golf does not matter.  It is the gladness of your mind that is really life.   Smile win or lose.

Love,

Mama cita

 (Mother loved to use the Spanish language and thus my sister, Jonya, is fluent in Spanish, and spent her life living out some of Mother's dreams.)

Little did we know that my younger sister, Jonya, would go on to the Oklahoma Junior Girls Championship in 1968 Oklahoma Junior Girls Golf Championship

Luckily, like kids and children do, I lived and learned about life through competitive golf. I, also, became better golfer and competitor as it as I grew into adulthood. 

My mother's letter has traveled with me from Enid, to Ft. Hood, to Kansas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and back home to Oklahoma. Her words have never left my heart and to this day I seek a good book or sometimes a movie to escape my worries..

My parents died in 1989 and I miss them everyday, but I must add that Dad has certainly entertained my mind when I am playing golf.  He gave me the nickname of Tizzy, does that tell you something about my scattered brain as teen?  

Two Little Girls

Helen, Letty, Jonya, Johnie Stapp c. 1953 

There were two little girls

  A blue-eyed beauty

Who danced like a whirling gig and sang for the folks.

There were two little girls

  A green-eyed child

Who galloped like a horse and pretended to be a circus flyer.

Letty Stapp with Sherry Cantrell  c. 1955 on E. st SE, Miami, Ok

There were two little girls

   One blue-eyed little girl

Whose dark curly dangled and danced all over her head

She smiled and giggled and brought

  Joy to the world.

There were two little girls

  The other a green-eyed little girl

Whose light brown hair bounced like a butterfly.

The sun and heat graced her face

  When she pretended to be Tarzan.

Jonya, Dad, Letty  Long Beach, California c.1961

There were two little girls

  One with curls

Who loved playing with dolls; paper dolls, Tony dolls, and rosy cheeked baby dolls.

  On the stage they felt no fear.

There were two little girls

  One without curls

Who raced little cars through dirt and sand, and

Built houses out of blocks and furniture out of sticks.

  Through competition they learned fear and accomplishment.

Letty and Jonya, Prairie Dunes c. 2010

There were two little girls whose lives drifted apart

One learned a new language and found beauty in Spain

  And her calling in Spanish, a teacher she became.

Jonya in Antigua, Guatemala 2018

The other discovered books and traveled the world through words

   And felt the call of a library, a storytelling teacher she became.

 

There were two little girls, curious little girls

Together they bounced through roaring streams and ocean currents;

  Gathered sea shells, rocks, leaves, and baby bunnies;

  Chased fireflies and listened to the evening echo of locusts.

Their curious love of nature centered their lives.

There were two little girls maturing through adventures,

  Through pain and loss.

Jack and Letty at Texas State Fair, 2017

Families they raised and shared their hearts with loved ones.

One year they lost their parents, and old secrets lost their hold.

Their worlds spun but not without control.

  The blue-eyed brunette grew to fairy tale stature with

  Flowing curly hair the color of arctic ice,

Shirts of every color danced around her feet.

Her radiant smile and lyrical stories charm those around her.

Bill and Jonya cruising 2017

The green-eyed sister changed glasses by color and shapes,

  Much like her Miss Clairol hair.

She loved the laughter of children and people at play

And turned to the golf course where she lost her worries among the trees.

Letty c. 2017

There were two little girls, aging like good wine

  Who, one day, found themselves looking in the mirror

Laughing as curls the color of silver and ice danced and dangled around their faces.

And right in the middle of their foreheads curls bounced as they giggled at themselves.

Their hearts filled with love, a passion for life, thanks to their parents and the world that raised the two little girls.

Jonya and Letty, c 2016

**Dedicated to our parents Helen and Johnie Stapp who died August 26, 1989 and October 21, 1989 respectively, and to our families and friends, past and present who helped to raise two strong women.

May Day Baskets

Once upon a time in my childhood neighborhood we made May Day Baskets.  In fourth grade I discovered the beauty of cutting and folding cherished wallpaper samples.  We shaped them like ice cream cones, the larger sugared cones.  Using tape, staples, or Elmer's glue to hold the edges together made me feel artistic with a flair for something different. One by one we passed the single hole punch around the room, and one by one we cut a ribbon from which to hang our baskets.  The intent as that we'd give a our baskets to our mothers, after filling them with fresh cuts off the spirea bushes or honey suckle that lined the alley way to Roosevelt school. Like a dutiful daughter I proudly carried mine home that day, letting it swing around my arm as I danced home. 

One for practice 

Sadly, what I handed to my mother was not the same beauty I had earlier created. Instead, I handed her a colorful cone shaped basket without a ribbon, but filled with spirea and a few bright yellow dandelions, which I thought added flair to my bulging creation. 










Over the years, my mother, sister, and I continued to make homemade baskets, fill them with whatever

fold and tape

flowers and blooming shrubs we could find and secretly deliver them to the elderly people in our neighborhood. My mother insisted and repeated her mantra, "Kindness first." 

How ironic, as I write this my mind flashes back to the delight I found in surprising these people.  The Shaw's were always the kindest and most grateful, Miss Einsel scared me as I probably scared her in some unknown fashion. So many people go nameless in my memory, but I recall them working in gardens, canning foods, showing me how to make a compost

flatten cone, cut edges 

pile so the vegetables tasted better. Two of the couples spent hours sitting on their porches watching us run up and down the streets, playing tag at night, kick the can, red rover red rover,  and grey ghost.

Then like Puff the Magic Dragon, I grew up and lost the magic until I fortunate granted me a little girl to raise. She, too, learned the magic of giving a basket of flowers. How sweet my memory of watching her leave our apartment early one morning and running to the neighbors door. She hung the homemade basket, rang the door bell and ran home, but not

arrange flowers then deliver

inside.  Katy didn't want to miss the moment as the attractive gray headed lady, who drove a pickup, opened her door and saw the basket. Standing on our little cement porches there we exchanged smiles. A bouquet of kindness lifted three hearts that day, and left a lifetime memory of joy. 



For more information on May Day click on this link:
May Day Tranditions

On the Road to Grandma's House

Passing a black SUV on I-35 covered in dirty snow with wrapped gifts pressed against the back windows and children sleeping on pillows in the back seat sparked a memory of long ago arguments and pinching contests with my little sister; of my dad yodeling for endless miles of hilly dark roads; of empty coffee cans used for tinkling (no cafes or service stations stayed open on Christmas eve) on those long trips from Miami, Oklahoma to Wichita, Kansas to be with family for Christmas.  

Suddenly, my imagination tucked me into the back seat of a station wagon loaded with Christmas gifts and golf clubs, sitting next to my little sister where an imaginary line between us indicated our space on the cold vinyl seats.  Luckily, KGGF, the reliable AM radio station out of Coffeyville, Kansas played Christmas music and clips from old radio shows like Fibber McGee and Molly at Christmas keeping mom and dad happy and reflective of their own Christmases past.

When Roy Rogers sang "Jingle Bells" Jingle Bells sung by Roy Rogers dad began to yodel between each stanza, mother began to sing in flat notes, my voice rattled in sharps, and Jonya sat and stared until at last she joined with her cheerful but squeaky soprano voice.  The long dark road served and bounced us around in merriment.  

My Aunt Della once bought me a little red 45 rpm record of Gene Autry singing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer  It mattered not the time of year when I'd play the record and sing along. KGGF played many of the Gene Autry songs and we all joined in. The long hours on the highway didn't seem so long while we sang in the car.

But it was Bing Crosby singing   White Christmas  that seemed to bring our voices into harmony.  Even as children we knew our father had fought in the war and missed many a Christmas with his family.  My father had played golf with Bing Crosby in Southern California after the war, and that somehow made "White Christmas" and time in the Army real in our minds. 

Before long the old narrow highway pulled into Augusta and passed the stinky oil refinery. The smell woke us up out of our dreamy sleeping states, and mother often reminded us that in those glimmering blinking lights of the refinery lived the "tooth" fairies that carried away our tiny teeth and replaced them with a nickel or a dime.   

As we neared Grandma's house dad began to honk his special horn that "Mooed" making sure everyone was awake for hugs, kisses, and warm chocolate chip cookies when we arrived. 

Christmas 1953 

Merry Christmas  and Happy Hanukkah Dear Readers. May you all experience the magic of the holiday season, and sing a song.  

Moving On

One fall while teaching in Norman many of us were struggling with changes in curriculum and administration and Dr. Judy Ford, principal at Eisenhower elementary, reminded me that every fall was chaotic with new things to learn and that change was the only constant thing in life. I've never forgotten the smile or enthusiasm she shared when she said that.  I always felt change was a good thing in life, IF I were in charge of that change in my life, but perhaps that is a universal feeling or frustration as we all grow and face the changes through the years.

After eighteen years of living in Hutchinson and many changes in those years, some that we chose and major ones that others chose for us, Jack and I have decided to move back to our Oklahoma home and family in Norman.  Once we decided our hearts were lifted and we were happy until we sat down to reflect on our years in Hutch and the friends we've met around the state.  Now it's been tears of sadness and heartbreak when talking with friends, followed by tears of joy when I chat with my sister and daughter.  Our hearts pound with emotions.  Change is difficult even when it's our choice.

After Jack retired we traveled south and southeast looking for future homes and warm moist sunshine.  Marana and Tucson, Arizona also beckoned us to enjoy it's warm dry desert sun and the lizard inside of me said, "Yes.  Please let's sit on a rock next winter and be warm."  

Imagine the warmth.

But the heart of my family quivered and spoke, "Let's go home first, while we are healthy enough to start a new life and be part of our families lives once again."

Our secret search began before Thanksgiving as we drove around Norman reacquainting ourselves with a home we'd left.  By Christmas we were house shopping and in mid January we found a house with windows, sunshine, extra bedrooms, and a big backyard. Still we kept our secret and that hurt most of all.  We had our reasons for keeping it a secret, but now I realize it might have been easier to have started the dialogue earlier.  I wrote about our tree in the field growing old and dying and cried to myself inside as I knew when writing it that this would be our last winter to experience the life of that field.  I haven't been able to write since then on my blog, but I did send a story to "One Woman's Day" about Keeping A Secret....<http://onewomansday.wordpress.com/>  It helped me to tell my story, just as this story does.

Mike, Isaac, Ann, Jack, Letty, Jonya.

Yes, we are moving on, but not so far that we can't return for celebrations of friendships, rounds of golf, or just because we miss this home.  Sometime in March we will begin the moving process with hopes of being settled by Easter so our sons will have a home to come home to for Easter and other holidays; so our daughter and my sister's family will be near; so we can help Jack's mother who is moving slowly now in her 90th year of life; so we can gather with Jack's family and share stories and be there to help each other; and, so we don't have to travel far for those OU home football games!

It will be an adventure, and one that will create a few stories to share.  For those of you who follow my blog, I want to thank you and to say, I will continue to write.  It just feels good, and even better now that I have shared what's really happening in our lives.