Our Shared Reality

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."

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.)

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

If you enjoy my stories please copy and share this website with your friends. Blogging is becoming a thing of the past and I could certainly use help for my readers in sharing these stories with your friends and family.  

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. 

 

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. 

Our Fall-Out Shelter

 

 

Only a few days ago we visited graves and attended parades to remember and celebrate the lives of our men and women who have given their lives for each of us in the United States of America and many European countries. My mind traveled back in time to the Cuban Missile Crisis, 1962, a time that created fear in the hearts of many Americans. 

I created a post on Facebook--

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

and then continued to think and recall the fears of war during my childhood.  Would I be dead some day soon, before I could even drive a car?

Beginning in mid-1950's my father and our family would drive to the Miami Country club to open the doors for people in the neighborhood seeking shelter from the storm. One year we learned afterwards that the three story dark red brick Fullerton home on East Central and Elm st. had been hit. I knew the Fullerton's were not in the shelter that night, and it worried me that Billy, my classmate, could have been hurt. The news the next day reassured us that no one was injured and that the storm hit the north side of the house. Otherwise, it was an exciting time for the kids because we were allowed to run in and out of the men's and women's basement locker rooms. 

KGLC blared loudly on various radios that people brought with them.  Depending on the length of time in the basement Dad would sometimes sell pop or other snacks to the families. 

 

History changed. After the Civil Defense became active, the club was no longer used as a place of shelter and the talk of our parents centered on building "Fallout Shelters" that could also be tornado shelters. 

1961-63 became a pivotal time in our history, and my parents, along with the Dahl family and others in town, took the Soviet threats seriously. Driving the Muntz, Dad's race car, my father made it an adventure to find a suitable shelter and safety for his family.

The awning covers the bomb shelter entrance.  

By summer of 1962 a "fallout shelter" had been dropped into the ground at 209 H NE.  Mother filled it with the proper foods and toiletries. (We didn't know all the dangers.)   It was my job to remind her to change the foods every six months.  It was a schedule we kept throughout my high school years.  And, yet, I only wished to live to be 16 and legally drive a car. On a personal note, there was a multiple choice question on my driver's test December 26, 1963 that asked how low we should let our gas tanks drop before refilling. The correct answer was refill at a half-a-tank. The logic being that we would need that much gas to drive to the caves in Missouri for safety.

In retrospect our naivety stuns me. I grew up in a culture of families who had survived world wars, early pandemics, and the devastating recession/depression of the 1930's. We planned to survive and live. There was a great future ahead for all who worked.

Our optimism can be seen in our history as the Civil Defense advised schools and communities to build shelters. I don't personally remember the short movies showing how to conduct air-raid drills.

However, I vividly recall hiding under my desk in fifth grade at Roosevelt and looking out the window wondering if I would see the atomic bomb go off before it killed me. In junior high and high school we were instructed to go to the hall ways and duck and cover. As a young girl wearing tight skirts and blouses, I found it difficult to squat properly and remain in position any length of time. I wasn't the least bit worried about dying, I was more concerned with my slip showing. 

This Getty Image is much larger than our reality.

Our bomb shelter was a steel tank dropped into the ground covered with cement, much like our present day tornado shelter buried in the corner of or garage, with a ladder and opening a foot above ground. The square opening and steel top with lock inside to keep strangers out made it challenging to lower food and supplies to the shelter. (During those years girls did not wear jeans. I had summer shorts or dresses.)

Our shelter contained a bathroom at the far end, two pull down bunk beds on each side of the tank, built in storage units under the beds (built by my father). Any wall space left over contained food, water, first aid items, and decks of cards to play. I do not recall how the shelter was lighted, but we did have a battery powered radio. We sat on the beds or the storage unit underneath. Mother put Tang in the shelter instead of Kool-Aid because we learned from experience that we would not drink Kool-Aid without sugar added, and Tang was ready to mix, sugar, flavors, and water.

Mother kept a list of all items purchased in the construction of the shelter.

Over the years we made several trips to the shelter when the tornado sirens blared, otherwise, I invited friends over and we spent the night in the deep deep darkness of the shelter, creating memories that we would live to tell about. 

 The heyday of the fallout shelter occurred during the administration of John F. Kennedy, which saw both a rise in international tensions and Kennedy's advocacy of shelters as part of the American response. During the Berlin Crisis of 1961, precipitated by Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev's aggressive moves toward West Berlin, Kennedy gave a nationally televised speech explaining the gravity of the situation. He also endorsed the construction of fallout shelters, saying, "In the event of an attack, the lives of those families which are not hit in a nuclear blast and fire can still be saved if they can be warned to take shelter and if that shelter is available." If further inducement for building shelters was needed, it was provided fifteen months later by the Cuban Missile Crisis, in which the world came closer to nuclear war than it ever had before.

* https://www.encyclopedia.com/media/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/fallout-shelters

 

 

 

 

It's Only Funny Now

One day in late January I lost my car key (FOB; REMOTE KEY; KEYLESS ENTRY; the thing that opens the door).  My mind raced back and forth to everything I had done and everywhere I had been the last two days.  “The thing has to be here in the house. How else could I have driven home?” I begged Jack for an answer. He stood bewildered with his head shaking side to side.

Meet Helen Reddy

Over the next few days we turned the furniture upside down, checked every pair of jeans we ever wore, searched every coat pocket even if we didn’t use the coat, vexation does that to me. I become frantic, thinking I’m losing my mind.

On a warm sunny day I searched the backyard grumbling and kicking sticks. I continued to use Jack’s key, and kept my eyes peeled for wherever I might have dropped the fob.

FOB is the correct usage. 

One day, out of nowhere, Jack met me in the hallway with matching keys, one in one hand and the other in the other hand. “Look what I found in my coat pocket. I must have picked up your key and then later picked up my key.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Now I won’t worry about my brain,” I smiled with relief.

Not a month, not a week, but two days later Jack could not find his car key fob to my car, Helen Reddy. “No,” I sputtered not angrily but bewildered, “You stood in that hallway not two days ago with two keys in your hands. How could one have disappeared?”

I grabbed my purse. There in the side pocket I felt my fob. "At least we have one," I spouted.  

Immediately, we retraced every step we could imagine. No (expletive) fob.

Days began to pass and we continually, like we had the previous weeks, looked, searched, and dug through drawers in vain.

The next day we were all three awake before sunrise, but two of us sat and thought about nothing much, while Murphy having been inside during two rainy days was ready to run. The sun began to warm the east side of our house and rainbow prisms appeared on one wall. Spring was returning.

“Let’s go to Press and Plow for breakfast,” Jack suggested.

“Yes, and let’s take Murphy with us so we can go to Ruby Grant Park and let him run in the mud.”

“Are you sure you want a dirty dog?” Jack inquired.

I could only laugh. “If we don’t bundle up and take him to the park after breakfast then we will get nothing done today except play with Murphy.” Jack laughed and we headed to the car without a key! No FOB key! How can that be?

I realized at last that Jack and I were suffering from ‘the gray sickness.’ I had heard women at the Miami Country club refer to ‘the gray sickness’ when they lost something, which seemed fairly common in my young mind. I would certainly never suffer from that disease.

We stood in sad silence. Frantically, we began to reach into pockets, scatter the items on the counter top, and I dug through my purse. “Ha. Found it in a different pocket. Let’s go before we misplace this one again.”

I ate my entire croissant stuffed with crispy thick bacon and scrambled eggs, with a side of avocado and tomatoes, while Jack only ate his eggs and half of a pancake. We sipped on hot tea and coffee letting the sun warm the air. Relaxed, how sweet.

Our romp at the park refreshed us. Thirty-seven degrees in the morning sun and light wind from the southwest worked magic on our souls.

Home by 10:00 and ready for the day. First, clean mud foot Murphy before entering the house, which I did, but Jack began to look through his tool chest. I understood. He was looking for the key fob.

With Murphy cleaner we once again searched the car and everything cubby and bag in it. We were on a mission, either locate the black fob or drive to the dealership and purchase two more keys if not three.

By 12:30 no cotton-pickin’ ear-scratching fob had appeared. We were truly distraught.

Later, I took a bag of 50+ pencils and pens (found during the cleaning of drawers) to be donated to Bridges and placed them in the front car seat. I memorized the code to get in, just in case I do something stupid! I stood beside Helen Reddy and said out loud, “Please tell me where the key is?”

Nothing.

Jack’s heavy coat, thick enough to walk a dog in an Arctic blast, lay on the car hood. As I picked up the coat to go in the house, Helen Reddy whispered, “Unlock me.”

I threw the coat on the workbench, walked back and locked the car. Picking up the heavy black coat I walked back over to the car, placed my hand on the car door and like magic it unlocked.

Rushing through the house I nearly fell on Jack as I threw the coat at him and said, “Find hidden key in there.” Buried deep in small side pocket a black fob appeared. No words were exchanged about how many times we had searched our coat pockets.

By 12:40, we held two car keys. Mine now is on a key chain. We laughed and sighed in relief. It looks like we will have to learn how to live with “the gray sickness.”

 

*The ‘gray sickness’ is a memory I have from my summers working at the Miami Country Club. Several of the women suffered from the ‘gray sickness’ when they would misplace  billfolds, house keys, cash, a blouse they should be wearing in the clubhouse over their bra tops, and more. I vowed at age fifteen I would certainly never suffer from that disease. In the midst of our angst over the lost fob I remembered that Rose Pratt named it the ‘gray sickness’ that comes when a person’s hair coloring matches it. Others who experienced the same disease were Lois Garwood, Gladys Wetzel, Lib Lillard, and Helen Stapp, who was a blonde.

**Doggone FOB. After I wrote the first draft it occurred to me that I could not use the word KEY and have the story make sense. Any reader would say, “Go to the nearest box store and have several copies made of the master car key.” I wish I could. I realized that I had a problem as did the story. Will it change my word usage from car key to FOB, I don’t know.

***Writing the story using the incorrect vocabulary can prove embarrassingly humorous.  In an earlier story used a word incorrectly: When we ran down the streets our thongs would sometimes fall of us or cause us to fall on the asphalt. Depending on the age of the reader this may or may not make sense. (Thank you for laughing and correcting my language, Dede Tebeck Sparkman, RIP)

 

 

 

 

 

Miami Memories--Dirt Track Racing

          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.

No one could take my energy and curiosity about racing and race cars away from me.  When my father bought his first fast car from George Coleman, Jr., I was barely big enough to look out of the window of the shiny green 1952 Oldsmobile.  It was our family car. Dad with the help of his mechanic buddies from B&M garage on Main Street, Miami, Oklahoma kept the engine running at top speed.  With its V8 engine it could now race quarter mile straight out on dirt tracks.   The nearest track with a quarter mile straight away for that type of racing was in Missouri, near Joplin.

        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. 

 

 

A Part of Herstory Comes to LIfe

A part of herstory, my story, is history and a colorful journey through the time in which my parents grew to adult hood. 

The Golf Gypsy, Literally Letty

In July 1984, my home, the Tudor style clubhouse in Miami, Oklahoma burned to the ground. To this day, a part of me can walk through the clubhouse from the basement to the top attic home, where custodians of her history lived.  I walked and crawled through the empty attic and listened the sounds below. The children's room balcony, the bar, the locker rooms, the golf shop, and **snake pit my father dug out of the clay basement where golf carts were stored, all are part of my deepest memories.  My childhood and that of my sister's, Jonya Lea Stapp,  began there  in 1954 when our father and mother moved from Independence, Kansas to Miami to take the job as Head Professional Golfer and Instructor, along with greens superintendent, and manager of the clubhouse. 

In those days, the golf professional made his money from a salary, giving golf lessons to members, golf shop income, and in the middle fifties, dad bought the first set of gasoline golf carts. The income from the golf carts became the money that sent my sister and I to college. Mother became the book keeper for the golf shop, but the larger income from the social gathering aspect remained on different books, kept by a secretary accountant. The country club was privately owned and operated by its members, so my father reported to the President of the club from year to year. 

Because my parents shared so many roles in the running of the golf shop, my sister and I were practically raised there, even though we lived in town. As a result my childhood memories are filled with those colorful people and days.

The country club began in 1914, thanks to the foresight of a committee of men, and one major investor, George Coleman.  1914-1929 Rockdale Country Club

Our very first golf professional in 1921, was Ed Dudley, who went on to become the first Golf Professional at Augusta National Golf Club. He was hired by the most notable amateur to play the game of golf, Bobby Jones.  Ed Dudley's Golfing Career. Dudley designed the original four golf holes with sand greens. 

Pieces of Professional Golf History in Oklahoma began to fall into place as I read the newspapers from Miami, Ok, and Joplin, Missouri. One quick fact that caught my attention was this line from 1924 April 11:

1924 April 11    G. L. Coleman elected President of Rockdale CC by the seven directors: Ed Millner, Ross R Bayless, J.A. Robinson, A.C. Wallace, L.A. Thompson and R.W. Skinner.

Rockdale CC will become a member of the state golf association, which will give all members of the local club the right to play on the course of any other club in the state, which is a member of the association without having to pay a green fee.

Can we even imagine times like these? Women were playing golf and our local newspapers carried regular information on calendar events for both women and men.  

When the depression hit the country, citizens of Ottawa county and the Tri-State area, were not hit as hard as other areas of the country, because of the discovery of lead and zinc in the late 1800's. By World War I the Tri-State area of Oklahoma, Missouri, and Kansas became one the most prolific producers of lead and zinc that were needed for the war effort. As a result lead and zinc mining kept the area employed. Sadly, there were no government regulations placed on mining in those days, as a result our current history of my home area is darkened by the EPA reports of the poisoned Tar Creek area of Ottawa County. 

Between 1927-30 George Coleman a major investor in the mining area built one of the world's most  renowned theatres:  The Coleman Theatre which opened April of 1929. 

That same year in December the Rockdale Country Club opened its doors to the new Clubhouse.

This building c. 1929 became our home from 1954--1976 when my father retired. 

From 1928--1946 the Miami Golf and Country Club became a regular host for the Oklahoma PGA. However, reports vary on this particular golf tournament and records that might have explained when it was medal play and when it was match play burned in a fire a few decades ago. I found it quite exciting to read how involved the community of Miami became in the game of golf thanks to the newspapers coverage of the tournaments and the well-known names who came to town. A gallery was a regular at these events. Miami at that time had caddy's and a caddy shack located off the north side of hole #1. Oklahoma PGA Championships

Through the 1930's golfers in the tri-state area, including women, traveled often to play other golf courses. Often our Miami New-Record ran AP and other sports stories. This is one I found especially interesting:

1932 April 7 MNR The headlines read: Headaches May Help Lower Golf Score according to Dr. C. R. Griffith, psychological research director of athletics at U.of Illinois. "The golf player with a headache has the advantage over his companion who feels 'fit as a fiddle.' The headache keeps him from pressing and from experimenting. He is out merely to play the game and this means he is out to do that which he has been most in the habit of doing." "If a man goes into a golf game feeling fine, either of two things may happen. He may start to make each hole in one and thus be guilty of pressing. Or he may experiment. Pressing breaks up timing and rhythm. Experimenting may lead to disaster. The man who has a headache or is not at his best, will not be guilty of pressing. He will play his natural game."

There may be some hidden truth to this statement.

In 1934 funds were raised by a team of Miamians to purchase the debt of the Rockdale Country club and change it's name to the Miami Country club. 

Though most of the sports writers used very descriptive language and vocabulary there were a few writers who gallantly took time to rib the local golfers and their status in the community, many of the events that would presently make Facebook news:

 George Coleman, Jr, club president, has suggested that the Miami membership stage a big stag party on the eve of the pro-am, draw names of the amateurs with the pros and form a Calcutta pool. A percentage obtained from the pool will be used for cash prizes for the pros and merchandise for the "simon pures." (Men of  financial means were sarcastically called 'Simon Pures' by the press or media. They were considered men who could play golf six days a week pick up a little cash, and call themselves amateurs.)

The women golfers were also active social ladies and bridge club members. They took on the roles of organizing seasonal decorations and dances, selecting area bands to play for entertainment, helping with various local groups. Well into my childhood through the 1960's I remember the earnest attention they gave to decorations and modeling of the newest décor. 

St. Patrick's decorations, spring violets and an abundance of good food, together with the hospitality extended by the three hostesses, Mesdames H.B. Coban, Carl Britt and Lloyd Newton, made the ladies' day at Miami Country club one of the outstanding of this season. Potted Shamrocks, green tapers and crepe paper were used on the luncheon tables. High score at the bridge was won by Mrs. A.C. Wallace. The sewing prize was awarded to Mrs. Roy Green. The next luncheon will be served by the club cateress and the hostesses on the occasion will be Mrs. L.A. Wetzel and Mrs. Matt Connell.  Members playing in foursomes are urged to have lunch with the group and play at reserved tables afterwards. There will be no additional charge for such reservations.

Note that the women were referred to as Mesdames through the 1940's. First names of the women were rarely if ever used in reference to golf tournaments and scoring. They went by their husbands names. This piece of history can be seen on the trophies of the era through the 1970's. 

This small red tee, only one inch and a half long, is a personal souvenir from a thirteen year old golfer and Bing Crosby fan, Sarah Hilliard Mirjanick. Sarah received this autographed tee from Bing Crosby on the day he played golf in Miami. (September 25, 1942) The picture of the tee is shared by Sarah's daughter, Rebecca Mirjanick Davis. 

**Stay tuned for the TIMELINE and personal stories that I can add through the 1950’s and 1960’s. Use this URL to access any of the Miami Golf and Country club blog:  <https://mgcchistory.blogspot.com/>

** The snake pit might have seen snakes wonder through it, but it was built or dug out for the purpose of practicing golf during the winter. My father set up a mat and a large indoor/outdoor net that held the golf balls hit from a player on the mat. There was room for only one player (or one couple hiding behind the net and kissing). It also stored hidden beers and liquors that were illegal in Oklahoma in the 1950's-early 1960's. 

*** To read more stories from the early days of golf in Oklahoma and the Miami Golf and Country Club TIMELINE please click on the following links.

1914-1929 Rockdale Country club  Later Rockdale became the Miami Country Club

1930-1934 Miami Country club 

1935-1937 Miami Country Club

1938 The Club Enters a New Era

1938 Miami Country Club

1939 Miami Country club

Ed Dudley's Career

Tee Shots: Golf Lessons

Oklahoma PGA Champions

Golf's Man of the Decade 1930-1939

1940 Miami Country Club's Course Layout

Younger Longer--Water for Life

Here is a glass of water from my well.

It tastes of rock and root and earth and rain.

It is the best I have, my only spell,

And it is cold, and better than champagne. 

From May Sarton's poem 'A Glass of Water'

As a child growing up we often played adventurous games in and around Tar Creek in Miami, Oklahoma. (Yes, home to the worst environmental disaster.) But it wasn't that way in the '50's and '60's. The cool stream protected by trees and acres of farm land bubbled up from the ground, and we drank from it in cups made of folded tree leaves. With our clover necklaces we pretended to be princesses who wanted to hide from the world where Atomic Bombs from Russia couldn't harm us. 

Tributaries from various creeks flowed through the golf course, through Lou Newell's horse farm and into Tar Creek. I spent nearly two decades of my life playing golf, practicing, swimming, and simply playing with friends in and around these creeks. Our fresh water for drinking on the nine hole golf course (holes #3, #5, #8) came from wells deep down in the ground and within sight of Eagle Picher, the highest of the chat piles built with chat from the lead and zinc mines of Northeast Oklahoma during the forty year boom from 1910--1950. 

Remaining chat piles around Cardin, Ok. 

The most painful memory I have from those years was the day I didn't drink enough water to walk, talk, or think. By the time I reached the cool inside of the golf shop I passed out and barely missed falling into the glass case displaying golf balls for sale. I only remember waking up to dozens of people pouring cold water on my head, wrapping me in wet towels. It must have been a Thursday, men's night for the CS Club because Dad and Doc Jackson, Doc Ford, showed up. I thought I was in trouble for sure, since they had to leave their golf match, but they merely sighed in relief that I was fine and made me drink water until I had to go to the bathroom. 

Miami Country Club  1963.

To this day I fear passing out from dehydration whether gardening, walking, playing golf, or sitting in the sun and watching OU football. One of the most often spoken rules on the golf course for women is, "never let a bathroom pass by without a visit." My rule is, "never let a water jug pass by without adding water to my cups." 

Water with lemon and cucumber .

My water consumption stems from that experience, but also, because I sweat so much more than glistening as many people say. Even as child I preferred vinegar/oil on my salads, dill pickles at the movies rather than chocolate or candies. My system prefers dill, sour, and salt over sweets. I think this is important to know what your system needs to sustain good health. Therefore, I also drink "Pickle Juice" that I purchase at Academy Sports, and I drink packets of electrolytes called "Smart Styx" that I order online.   

We often talk about getting the 'dummies' on the golf course or at home from over working in the yard. The 'dummies' are a direct result from mild dehydration which leads to negative performance and weakened endurance.  As much as I know to drink water, I don't always follow my own advice. The easiest rule to remember for how much water to drink is called 8x8, drink 8 ounces of water 8 times a day, and it is calorie free. Luckily, I like plain water, but there are so many other options for drinking fresh water, such as: adding lemon, pineapple, orange, cucumber and lemon mixed in a filtration jug, or add a splash of various fruit juices like cranberry juice.  I carry jugs of water most everywhere I go now, and do my best to finish them before coming home.  

For more information on the benefits of water this is excellent article: The value of drinking plenty of water.

The benefits of drinking water make it drink for life. Our brain is mostly water and drinking it helps by improving concentration, maintaining memory function, increasing blood flow and oxygen to the brain (so important as we age), helping to flush out waste, regulates body temperature, and lubricates the joints. 

Like May Sarton wrote: (A glass of water) tastes of rock and root and earth and rain (and it's better than champagne). 

Letty Stapp Watt
historian, golfer

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