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.  

Nomads

 

Jonya and Bill

Jonya 

         This summer my sister and her husband have traveled the north central plains states in their RV. Jonya retired from teaching after nearly forty years. To help her adjust to retirement they decided to travel with their cats to keep them company. I can tell from the photos that they send that Jonya and Bill have both taken time to unwind from the working world. Nomadic life looked pretty cool from my perspective. 

 
       

The story written below is of the Stokes family we knew who were real nomads. No cameras no pictures no cell phones were available to them. The atlas was their Bible.  They never owned a home and were on the move in an Airstream trailer after every job that Dale finished. I only wish I could  recall his stories of working from the great Southwest to the Northwest in the 1940's, 1950's, and 1960's.  

         

  One hot humid summer day on E street S.W. when I was seven years old, our house was rattled by the blaring blast of a cow horn coming from a car pulling up in front of our house.  Leaving dishes in the sink, then quickly drying her hands on her apron, Mom rushed to the front porch with Jonya and I following closely.  “They’re here already.  Dale and Elsie are here,” she joyfully pronounced, “I thought they were days away.”

            Jonya and I just stood in the screened in porch watching as a man and woman stepped out of a boxy shaped car that was pulling a sleek silver trailer.  Then we heard Elsie’s enthusiastic voice call out, “Hi girls.”

            “Elsie, “ I yelled, when I recognized her voice and her open arms.  Leaping down the steps I ran to her open hug.  Mom was right behind me giving Dale a hug and then Elsie.  Jonya tugged at me, I turned and said, “It’s Elsie and Dale, remember, mom and dad’s friends from Arizona.”   She was only three, so how could she remember, I suddenly thought.  So I tried to explain, “Remember, Elsie is the lady who loves to swim and play games with us when she visits.”  Just then Elsie stepped over to Jonya and knelt down on the ground eye level, “Hi little one.  My name is Elsie,” then turning and looking up she continued, “This is my husband Dale, and we’re friends of your mom and dad.  We’re going to spend some time with you this summer; playing golf, swimming, and fishing.”  Jonya seemed to catch on and shyly smiled, “Will you play dolls with me?”

 “I’d love to play dolls with you, since I don’t have a little girl to play dolls with anymore.” Elsie answered with a smile that showed her large teeth.

“You’re a few days early, your letter said middle of August to Labor Day.” Mom said rather flustered.”  Before she could continue Dale answered, “I finished my last job early, so we just took off.  Thought we hadn’t seen Johnie and Helen and the girls since their move to Miami, and that this would be a great summer trip.”  Just then I remember that I had slept in their trailer when we visited them in Arizona.  “Can I sleep in your trailer while you’re here?” 

Using a rather firm voice mom said, “Letty, let’s get settled and call Dad at the club before we do anything.  Dale and Elsie come on into the house and have some tea or a beer while we make plans.”

After a cold beer, Dale’s voice boomed, just like his car horn, “Helen, do you have room for our Airstream in the back yard?  We could park it there before John gets home from work.”  “Yes, yes we have a big backyard,” I chimed in, only to receive the stare from mom, that I was to be silent and let the adults decide.

After examining the alleyway and the unfenced yard, Dale pronounced that there was plenty of room.  Without any arguments or advice he drove the trailer around the block and up the alley.  Elsie directed him flawlessly into the yard where he parked the compact trailer.  Then the two of them went to work unhooking the car, balancing the trailer, rolling out the awnings, opening windows, and setting the wooden steps in place by the door.”  By the time Dad came home from work, they’d moved in. 

The neighborhood kids arrived in groups to see what silver bullet had just pulled through their alley.  The Bothwell’s, the Searle’s, and the Hammonds next door all showed up to see the commotion.  Holding Jonya’s hand, we proudly stood outside with them, showing off our newest addition, like proud owners of a new toy.  Since it was nearly dark, Dale and Elsie promised the neighborhood kids that tomorrow they could come back and take a tour of their trailer. 

The Flying Cloud 
Airstream design from the 1950's

That evening the lawn chairs were set up in the backyard, a red metal chest with cold beer set between Dale and Dad.  As they drank a few beers Mother took us inside and fixed our dinner early, as she did most every night in the summer when dad worked till dark.  When we’d finished our meal we were free to play till bedtime, while mom and Elsie joined the men for a few drinks.  Elsie drank beer like the men, but mother preferred Scotch.

  Dad loved to grill outside in the summer when we entertained company.  Pulling the homemade trash barrel BBQ grill away from the house to the gravel driveway away from trees and bushes made the fire breathing dragon seem innocuous.  I sometimes helped by placing the black dry charcoals in a coffee can. Dad would soak the coals in gasoline until he was ready to start a fire.  His fire starting method always scared mom, so she’d grab us by the arms when possible and yanked us back with a comment like, “I don’t want your eyebrows singed.” 

  At last he would place the soaked coals on the grill and surround them with dry coals from the sack.  With a warning cry, “Stand back,” he would light a couple of matches and toss them on the pile of gasoline soaked charcoals.  Like fireworks the flames leaped high above the grill lid and the smell of burning gasoline radiated through the air.  After another drink or two dad would place the steaks on the grill while mom prepared the salad with homemade vinegar and oil dressing, bread and butter,.  By then it was our bedtime and the adults finished dinner and drinks alone.

During the next few days we woke up to Dale’s jovial voice at the backdoor, “Stappie, you got the coffee ready yet?”  Then we’d hear the screen door open and bang shut.  Mother was the coffee drinker, not Dad.  “Coffee is served,” Mother responded.  After the adults finished breakfast, a cigarette and coffee, Jonya and I crept into the kitchen.   Dad left for work, then Dale loaded up his heavy car with tools and drove out to the club to spend the day fixing things for Dad.  

I loved our nomadic friends. Dale was an electrician by trade. He and Elsie traveled the west coast year round looking for jobs. They raised one daughter, and were like family to us. 

 

 

 

 

 

Golf Gypsy Slays a Dragon

Being a teenager in any decade is NOT easy. Working in the golf shop at Miami Golf and Country Club during those years opened my eyes to the vast array of personalities walking through the golf shop. 

MGCC 1960's lady golfers Florence Dawson, Clara Barton

Mother stared at me with her hazel green eyes and tightly pursed lips.  When I heard the sucking sound of her lips pursed together, I knew I was in trouble.  “Letty, if you can’t say anything nice, then say nothing at all.”

“Mother,” I labored throwing my body into a forward slump, “If I say nothing at all, then I’d never talk. You’re always telling me to ‘kill them with kindness’, but I’d much rather trip those girls, and watch them fall in front of the boys.” Shaking my head, I continued ranting.

Placing a hand on each of my shoulders, attempting to calm herself she sighed and said, “Never, never stoop to their level of rudeness. You will only be the loser.  With kind and thoughtful words, you will be a better person, and people will respect you.”

“But these girls are the most popular and all of the boys like them!”

Now her voice steamed, “You must learn to control your mouth.  Your father’s job could depend on your behavior.”

My only defense came in a few lines, “Fine! Then why did you have me? I’m not attractive and I’m certainly not pretty with these pimples and flyaway hair. And I think telling the truth is more important than spreading rumors.”

With a heavy sigh mother growled one last time, “Go to your room now. One of these days your words will come back to haunt you.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my little sister spying on us from her middle bedroom. 

Letty Stapp, member of the NEO boys Golf Team 1965-67

During my teenage years I worked summer mornings at the golf shop and spent afternoons practicing my game or swimming. Evenings were my favorite time when Dad and I took the scooter (golf carts in the '50-60 were often called scooters) out to the driving range to chip up the range balls.  The Kildeer was our favorite bird to watch and dad would often put sticks around their nests so machines and people would not step on them. We rescued more baby rabbits than I can count, all with no success but many memories. 

1962 MHS Girls State Champions, Letty Stapp, Diana Oliver,
Carole Luttrell, Pam Smallwood

One night I overheard my parents talking in the kitchen. My father’s voice seemed quaky like he might cry. I knew that tone of voice meant something was wrong. Slipping out of my bedroom, I crawled into the living room and hid behind the large cushioned chair.  “Helen, he is just plain nasty to everyone at the club.  He glares at the women’s breasts. He rudely burps and belches in front of decent people. He embarrasses the women with his vulgarity and condescending remarks. He calls any man who disagrees with him a Son-of-a-Bitch, no matter whether children are nearby or not. So, I finally told him to take his business elsewhere, if he couldn’t be a gentleman around women and children.  Now he says that he’ll have my job. At the next board meeting he plans to ask them to fire me.”

The tension shook the floor of the house that night. I barely took a breath because I knew they were talking about a club member who we nicknamed “Nasty.” I understood that those words stayed inside our four walls, or else!

“Johnie, will you have a chance to speak at the board meeting to defend yourself?”

Nearly stuttering my father replied, “I certainly hope so, but I have nothing nice to say about him.”

Bob Hill, Dickie Neal Miami High School State Champions 1960

“Then say something nice about the families of the board members. Remind them of the advancements we’ve made at the club with golf carts; how we host golf tournaments that make money for the club; how you conduct one of the best Jr. Golf programs in the state of Oklahoma. Bring some of the state trophies that our junior boys and girls have won.”

Mabel Hotz Memorial tournament winner 1964, Donna Fox,  Susan Basolo

I could hear my father’s fist nervously pounding the table. My mother continued, “Always focus on the positive. Somehow Letty cheerfully greets the club members every morning on the job with a smile on her face.  She listens to their complaints and never says an ugly word. Remember that time Nasty came in and yelled at her about the condition of one of the greens, and how he couldn’t make a putt.”

“See that’s what I mean, Helen, he has no respect for any of us. Letty didn’t need to be confronted with those harsh words.” 

“My point, Johnie, is this. Remember how she handled him? She listened, then said something like, ‘Mr. B, I know you are a very good putter, and I can see that it makes you mad to miss a putt. I saw you sink that putt on number 9 the other day when you won a wad of money off the Springfield guys. That was fun to watch, and all of the people in the bar upstairs cheered and tapped on the windows.  You are a great golfer.’” 

It was quiet in the kitchen, but my heart pounded in the living room. “Johnie, she simply fluffed his feathers and softened him by treating him kindly and with respect, even though I can guess what she might have been thinking.”

That night, I felt like crying tears of joy. For all of the times that I had said it wrong, my mother remembered the time that I said it right, and slayed a dragon with kindness.

by Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian

Tidbits of Ticklish Golf History

Many of us are well aware that the Rules of Golf will soon be changing. Hopefully, the 2019 rules will lighten our minds and shorten our rounds of golf or not. Sometimes, I find it best to look back, recall another time and smile.

Wicked water hazards are nothing new for golfers. They have haunted us since the beginning.The next time you play an ocean course keep this rule from 1919 in mind.

     During the recent tournament at Pebble Beach, the champion, Harrison Johnston, made a great recover shot from the Pacific Ocean, standing in water to address the bobbing ball. 
     
     One of the rules of golf covers such a shot. When a ball is in the water a player may, without penalty, strike at it while it is moving, but he must not 'delay to make his stroke in order to allow the wind or current to better the position of the ball, under penalty of the loss of hole.   (source: Settling the Point in Golf, Miami Daily News Record, 1929.9.20)
     
What a pleasure it must be to have the opportunity to dash to the Pacific Ocean to hit a ball at Pebble Beach.  I'm sure we could post that picture on Facebook and get a laugh. 
Personally, I think that rule makes sense by using the phrase "do not delay to make the stroke."

When the Rockdale Country Club first opened they did not play to greens, as we know them. Rather, they played target golf. The yardage was figured and a stick or target acted as the destination. Target golf was soon followed by the use sand greens, and eventually in the late 1930's grass greens with undulations added to create a challenge to the putter.

Having played on sand greens and cottonseed greens, even through high school in the 1960's,  the flagstick didn't create problems, as we were allowed by local rules to putt twice. If the ball didn't go in on the first or second putt, we were to pick it up, rake the green and go to the next tee.

However, grass greens and the honorable flagstick causes problems by the rules. 

     The rule covering the incident of a golfer's  ball striking a flagstick is often incorrectly invoked in match play (even in 1929).  There is NO penalty for hitting the flagstick in match play except when the flag is being held by either of the caddies. If the ball strikes the caddie the player whose caddie is struck loses the hole. (Sounds like this rule could create some animosity among competitors.)

     When, in stroke competition, a competitor's ball, lying within 20 yards of the hole is played and strikes the flagstick or the person standing at the hole, the penalty shall be two strokes. 
(Source: Settling the Point in Golf: Miami Daily News Record 1929.8.15) 

   
As I studied the newspapers from 1909--1940's Bobby Jones highlighted the news. Here is a challenge. 

Jones shoots a 42 single-handedly. 

          The question is, could you beat Bobby Jones with both of your mitts? 


Sources for photos: B. Jones, Miami News Record sports cartoon, 1930.10.14
Water hazard cartoon, 1929.9.20 Miami Daily News Record. 

Letty Stapp Watt
historian, golfer

Rock Bottom or Bedrock

Hitting a rocky bottom, I cut my knees, bruised my arms, banged my head then cried in my father's arms.

I was only six.


When the bleeding stopped we walked back over that rocky land, kicking stones till they hurt our toes, almost laughing, almost crying. "Don't let those rocks hurt you, Tizzy. Every time you fall pick yourself up and start walking."

How did he know that I'd hit rock bottom again and again?

I needed to talk to him recently.  I wanted to show him, that in spite of all of my scars from falling, I could still laugh, but our father didn't hear me. I cried longer and louder than usual and even threw a rock towards heaven. In the wind I thought I heard a voice, "Close." I wanted to laugh, but I couldn't. 

Days passed, I ached, but couldn't laugh.

Friends led me home to Miami. We placed flowers on the

MHS Class of 65 friends.

cemetery, and knots welled up inside as I tried to suppress the tears. We drove by the farm breathing in the fresh spring air, absorbing the energy of the land, the grass, and the flowing streams.

As last we drove to the land where I grew up.  The skies were gray as Jack and I walked through the tall grasses, our eyes following the tree lines of the old golf course. I kicked

Miami Golf and Country Club (closed)

the brown rocks on the gravel road, my eyes scanned the horizon for memories. It was all gone--Eagle Picher, the mountainous chat pile of my childhood; the clubhouse burned to the ground; the golf course turned back to nature, giving home to chirping birds, and critters hiding in the holes. 

"I'm missing something," I told my husband, "but I don't know what."

Back in the car we drove. Little by little I regained my

bearings, off the highways onto graveled roads, following fence rows lined with honeysuckle, sliding through winding S curves.  From Narcissa to Galena, I searched.

Then I saw it, something that had been right before my eyes all along.  The rocks that lined the old town of Galena. The reddish orange, gray and brown speckled rocks that were dug from the earth that became the bedrock for churches, fences, cemeteries, homes, lives, and filling

stations that lined the old Route 66 and Route 69.  The rocks that my father pulled from the land and used to build a fence; the rocks that my grandfather and great grandfather cut through to mine the lead and zinc.  Those rocks were the "bedrocks that build character" as my mother often told me.

At the Tri-State Landmark I jumped out of the pickup and like a child kicked the gravel, climbed up over the bar ditch searching, digging, and kicking for just the right rock. "Here," my husband said, "Here's a good one." I kicked it just to make sure. "Yes, that's it." Then my foot gave way on the slippery embankment, and I landed on bedrock. Stunned and dirty I looked around and began to laugh. "Thanks Dad, I needed that"

While laughing I realized that my parents were always there for me.  They were my bedrock.  Now my husband is my bedrock.  He catches me when I fall. 

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian


**For pictures of the mineral Galena rock (not my childhood memories of the rocks that built fences) check out this website Galena rock

Central Jr. High  (Miami, OK) late 1950's

WarPups:  Pieces of Memories (1959-1962)

Why this story is hard to write is a conundrum. Fifty-six years have officially passed since my mother bought my seventh grade books in the basement of that cornerstone building.  I must have walked past that building hundreds of times from my home on H. Northeast.   Walking West on 2nd NE street took me over the railroad tracks, the truck route (D. st),  past large two story homes, the corner Christian Church, the brick wall surrounding our school, the Candy Shop from where this photo must have been taken, the red brick public library (that once kicked me out with my little sister when she would not stop crying during story hour; where I began my career path as a librarian) and onto main street where I walked to the movies and other places with friends or looking for friends. I spent six active years on that block, and then ironically, another year when I worked for HUD in the 1970's in the old pink building that held over flow classes.  I watched that brick building being torn down, slammed to the ground and bulldozed into history.

This photo now stands in our memories as a record of our time and place. A glance of whom we might someday become.

I've searched my brain, and the internet for memories.  This site is particularly accurate if it is facts that are needed for research for a particular year: The People History .  Printed neatly and orderly, it serves as a refresher for where we were in those days, what we were doing, songs we listened and danced to, plus the current events.  

But for my heart which leads my fingers across the keyboard, my connectedness to those early years seems blurred. Six short years slowly crept by, three divided in Jr. Hi years by Central/ Will Rogers, then blended as the true spirit of being a WARDOG. These are the years and dates for "reunions", but not always the reasons.  

Nov. 14-18, 1960

Rather than stories with heart and soul, my memories run randomly, much like notes across a napkin.

   With a last name of Stapp, I often sat near some very ornery boys in our ABC ordered classes;  I learned in Mr. D's science class that Richard Spencer could draw gorgeous lettering called calligraphy. The beauty of those letters stayed with me and finally, when I was in my thirties I learned calligraphy.  Bill Smiley, Bill Smith, and John Stansell kept me distracted in math class, in geography, in history class, but did I ever have fun laughing and passing notes when I should have been paying attention to Mr. Hammons, or Mr. Teal,  Mrs. Vanetta,  Mr. Campbell. Miss McCoy and Mr. Akers, however, scared the fun right out of me on more than one occasion. They seemed to think that I was occasionally disruptive in class. I explained I always had help in the disruptions--like Vicki Newell, Nancy Burnes, C Ann Richards or those boys.  (They didn't realize that that phone call during Mr. Teal's math class in 9th grade was an offer for me to drive to El Paso, Texas with the Newell family to look at a race horse.  The truth is that we also toured a private girls school that Vicki would attend.  We even flew back to Tulsa and Opal drove the car with a new horse in tow, but in the end my friend Vicki left the halls of MHS, and I lost a friend.) I should have learned then not to blame others for my actions, but that would take a few more hard lessons in life.    

Stashed in a box of memories, I found my blue vinyl "Dear Diary". I did write something on nearly every page of that 1961 diary, but the adult English teacher in me went ballistic with that little girl's grammar errors.  
      January 27, I went to Mutt Hutt, danced two times, and played ping pong.
      February 8, We had an aptitude test from 9 to 3 in the gym.  Had to carry our chairs up and down three flights of stairs.
      February 14, Well, Patrice Lamobaba (Lumumba) was killed. We are having a lot of trouble with them.  Kennedy Pres.  Well, I'm going to the Mixer--Valentine Dance....I had a lot of fun. (I attempted to use different handwriting to denote time or mood changes.) 
      March 17, Mother and daughter banquet
      April 29, I went to see Gone With the Wind.  Wow, was it good.  Clark Gable xxxxx
      May 22, 3 1/2 days left.  Well, I got my wish.  I got to usher at the ninth grade promotion.
      May 26, Out of School.  Going into the 9th Grade.  Went to the lake at Grand Point and had lots of fun. (If memory serves me correctly I seriously sunburned myself.)
      May 28 Went to see the movie Cimmarron, the story of Oklahoma territory.  (I later showed that black and white film at an elementary sleep over in the 1980's and promptly put everyone to sleep on the gym floor.)
      June 7, Dress rehearsal for Virginia Lee and Tom's dance recital.  I'm an Indian in Peter Pan.
      June 13, Jonya had her eye surgery in Wichita.  Freddie fell on the picket fence and cut open his leg.  It made me sick.
      June 20, I played 18 holes with Daddy.   Daddy bought me a new tourquoise golf bag and a new wedge and putter. 
      September 9, Hurricane Carla hit Texas.  The worst so far of the twenteth century. 
      October 6,  Sat with Bill (guessing on the brick wall).  Went to Mutt Hutt.  Bill came in sat and danced with me about 10 minutes (I don't like him.) I finally asked Blaine Taylor to dance.  Wow.  
      November 8, Rainbow Dance is coming but I don't know who to invite.  Bill?  Tim?? 
      December 16, Went to see Blue Hawaii.  Mary Dahl and Judy Scruggs stayed all night with me.  I don't think Tim likes me.  

What I do remember with heart and soul are the memories we shared after the school day. Ironically, I carry fond memories of watching TV with my family and eating our meals on TV trays. The Ed Sullivan Show was my favorite, but I rarely missed Bonanza,Gunsmoke, Candid Camera, Andy Griffith, or Alfred Hitchcock. I discovered "As the World Turns" and other soap operas thanks to the lunches we shared at Judy Scrugg's house. Judy and I cried together at the drive in movie when mother took us to see "West Side Story."  I just knew that boy didn't die, even though mother and Judy let me know I was wrong.  

Eighth grade became a pivotal time in our history, and my parents took the Soviet threats seriously. Driving the Muntz, Dad's race car, my father made it an adventure to find shelter and safety for his family. By summer of 1961 a "bomb shelter" had been dropped into the

The awning covers the bomb shelter entrance.  

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.

Fear comes in strange forms, and I suppose I never really thought I'd live to see the world, raise a family, much less enjoy a reunion fifty years after graduation. Like my diary, the count down has begun....11 days.    

Miami Oklahoma Class of 1965

P.S.  Doug Gosney, looks like I owe you a nickel.  

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian

Miami Memories: The Muntz

1951 Muntz Jet.  Johnie Stapp's pride and joy.  

Most people knew my dad as the golf pro, but as his oldest daughter I also knew him as a race car driver; jokester; builder of cars and furniture; a man who loved to tinker with things.  Dad brought color and adventure to our lives through the people he met, the trips we made, and the stories he told.  

When I look back I most often cherish the memories my sister and I created through Dad's love of cars. The 1951 Muntz Jet was the epitome of race cars, adventure, and color. The true story of that car may never be known, but my memory says that Dad bought this car from Lou Newell, in Miami, Oklahoma.  It was rumored to have been the lead car in the 1952 Indianapolis 500, but when I wrote the letter of inquiry I found it to be a rumor only. They showed no record of this car.

The picture above shows it painted white, but when purchased it was a shiny sparkling Mustard color, consequently it was lovingly nicknamed "Mustard" by my little sister.  The car sat low to the ground with a wide wheel base, allowing it to travel up to speeds of 160 mph+ and offering a back seat in an original race car. The rolled and pleated leather seats and interior were a striking mustard color. 

"Mad Man Muntz, produced the first American sports car--the Muntz Jet.  A beautiful, well-crafted, speedy car that was a precursor of Chevrolet's Corvette, the Muntz Jet was an aesthetic and mechanical success, but Muntz's first financial disappointment.  The Jets sold for $5,500, but they cost $6,500 to produce, and this at a time, the early 50's, when a new Cadillac could be had for $3,200.  He installed Cadillac V-8 engines, added padded dashboards and seat belts, painted the cars in bright Easter egg colors, and even installed liquor and ice cabinets." The movie poster of Mad Man Muntz says, "7 wives, 3 fortunes...one of a kind."  His biography shows his entrepreneurial abilities and flamboyant lifestyle.
Mad Man Muntz info
Mad Man Muntz

The mustard car lived with us through our teenage years when Jonya and I were allowed to drive it, because the seat belts were required.  Dad painted it several times:  a sleek black, then white, and in its final years baby blue.  If our car had a liquor cabinet I don't remember, but I do remember that in the 50's, when Oklahoma was dry, dad and mom made a regular beer and liquor run to Seneca, Missouri and the state line liquor stores to purchase alcohol for the MGCC. We always buckled up, as dad drove the black asphalt Highway 10 in speeds up to 100 mph.  Our drives back were most miserable as my sister and I sat on a scratchy old wool army green blanket that covered the hidden beer and liquor in the back seat.  On the drive home Dad obeyed the speed limit.

The Muntz also came with a convertible top hard top.  In the summer months the padded hard top could be removed and hung in our garage.  Minnie's and Milts was a well-known dance and dinner club in Joplin, Missouri.  We often made the trip in the summer with the top down and mother complaining all the way that her hair would be ruined by the wind, but we never complained even when the wind whipped our hair into our eyes and stung.  We loved the old drive through pneumonia gulch somewhere between Miami and Joplin on the backroads, and before there was a turnpike. Pneumonia gulch was cold, no matter how hot the day had been when the car sped down the hill and took the turn up the hill and to the right, we screamed in pure joy and thrill of feeling the car hold the ground and climb the hill. Every breath was filled with fresh air, moisture from the nearby streams and rivers, and the dampness of the wooded areas. 

I was twelve years old, the night Dad ditched the Muntz in the embankment nearing Twin Bridges.  Dad was traveling way to fast to take the final curve on Hwy 137  and down to the right to Hwy 60.  He somehow applied the brakes with enough force that the car spun then skidded into the ditch on the right.  A slide to the left would have left us airborne, and no one to tell this story.  I wasn't scared until I heard my father's voice ask, "Tizzie are you alright?"  I might have cried, but like a trooper I rallied, and we backed out and drove down to Twin Bridges and fished that night.  

Still, my father, zany and flamboyant, like Mad Man Muntz, didn't slow down. Incredibly, I was with him when he hit the top speed of 160 heading up the newly opened Will Rogers Turnpike to Joplin. He taught me to drive in a white Ford station wagon with a "mud flap" on the back, mom's car, but he also let me drive the Muntz on the turnpike with him.  I drove with the understanding that if "ticketed" that I would pay the cost!  The engine changed over the years, like the color, but speed was always it's strength.

There are other stories in heaven now with Dad, Doc Jackson, Dr. Baron, Mickey Mantle, Ray and Roy Mantle plus other Yankee ball players and club members from the Miami Golf and Country Club.  I only wish I knew them.  

 Mad Man Muntz and his incredible car was a part of our lives till my parents died in 1989.  The steering wheel still showed the caricature and logo of Mad Man Muntz wearing a black Napoleon hat and red BVD's. The caricature that  could be found on the steering wheel is shown on this site:  
caricature of Mad Man Muntz



For a picture of the sleek car go to:  The Muntz.

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian
 

Golf Gypsy: Words Matter

The first of February I began to workout four mornings a week. Today, I added a new routine on the mat--practicing the bench (Plank) hold.  In order to really build strength in my core, it is important to strengthen my core by holding myself up in a plank position for two minutes from arms to toes, and two minutes on each side for three sets. Holding each pose for the first set lasted sixty seconds and gave me a red face. On the second set I began to shake and quiver from tired muscles, so I rolled over and said, "Oh, Well!" 

I walked away and began to roll up the mat. Luckily, I have an inner spirit that yelled at me today and said, "It matters. Now get back over there and finish the routine."  To my own amazement, I did and like a child, I smiled at myself in accomplishment.  

Focus helps.

I learned a decade ago that "Oh, Well" demoralizes my golf game and my spirit.  It's like the "I can't do it" phrase, and it sets up failure. Now I write single thought words on my golf balls, like "It Matters," "Level Hips," "Swing and Sing," or "Giggle Inside." These are thoughts that keep me focused. 

The Pro giving lessons 1954. MGCC

I also know how to live with my golf scores. If I am a 10 handicap then I know that on my best day I will hit at least 10 bad shots. Notice, that is on my best day.  So on those days when I experience some "Crazy 8's," I can say "Ok," not "Oh, Well." I feel the difference inside of me with the words I chose to say.  It Matters.

It matters when I write, even if I've not finished that book.  I'm careful to say, "Ok" I can live with this because writing is a process that I practice nearly everyday. The quote above my desk reads, "What lies behind us and what lies before us...are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."

I love my brain (most of the time), but it stays in constant motion.  When it's good it's really really good, and when it's bad, it splashes in the bottom of a deep black well (Oh, Well.).  That is why I've added meditation to my life.  I know better than to say that I will meditate  everyday because I will fail.  Instead, I have agreed with myself to practice mindful meditation at least twice a week.  When I meditate more then it's like icing on a cake, and it gives my crazy brain a break.  

Our words matter.  Let's be kind to ourselves each day.

It Matters.

We all have stories to tell.  What words motivate you? You are welcome to leave comments below where the blue words say "comments."  Those comments come to me to read before I publish them.