The Power of Words by Joyce Bump Milliser

Joyce and I met for the first time at Lincoln Elementary school in Miami, Ok. in the fall of 1952 in second grade. We were so proud to be in a brand-new building that year. 

I find it ironic how many first names I can recall and like every other super senior I forget faster than I remember. First row: Rosaline, Tony, Jackie Trask, Letty Stapp, Mike Stevens, , ??,
 Row two: Raymond, Joyce Bump,, Carol Cosby, Donald, Homa June Jamison,  ? Ronnie, ,?.
Row three: Cooper, Kay, ?, Linda Sellers, Bradley Karnes, Lawrence, Jackie Smith., ? Sue. 

Although, we never became close friends, because my family moved before I entered fourth grade, we met again in junior high to high school. Now, thanks to reunions and social media have come to know each other, and more importantly share some of our stories and laugh over our gray hair and wrinkles. 

This is Joyce's recent story, and one that many of us have experienced, as we have learned that words can hurt or be filled with kindness.

I had a yearly dermatology appointment today. When the doctor came in and started examining me the first thing, she noticed was the mole on my face. It has been there for as long as I can remember. 

She asked if I’d like her to remove it. I’m thankful I didn’t tear up. I said “No. Let me tell you why. If your dad or grandad ever watched Gunsmoke you’d know who Miss Kitty was. She had a ‘beauty mark’, my dad called it, on her face and he always said mine was my Miss Kitty mark. So I’d feel like I was losing part of me if you took it off.” 

I thought she was going to tear up. She apologized and said “Well, now you have convinced me not to take it off because I’d feel guilty.”  

Through the years I’ve been very aware of other people's reactions to my mole. Kids especially. They’d ask where I “got it” and I’d always tell them “God gave it to me.” 

One customer asked why I didn’t have it removed and I jokingly said, “because it doesn’t bother me like it does you.” She laughed, not realizing I meant it. 

I know women especially who would have it removed in a heartbeat just like wrinkles or gray hair. I’m not those women. I’ve earned my wrinkles and those gray hairs. Why try to hide something that’s so natural. My mole is very natural to me. 

I’m not upset. It just makes me aware of how powerful words are to a child and how words can influence their thinking about themselves. 

I’ll always be thankful for my daddy’s sweet words.

The Journey follow this link to another story about the power of words. 

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

Miami Memories: Tornado alley

In my wanderings this morning I was playing with words and rhymes. The sun barely breached the horizon and cast a golden red glow in my room causing an old rhyme to echo, "Red sky in the morning sailors take warning." "This is the green day," I mumble to the world, "Top of the Morning to all of you and Happy St. Patrick's Day." My mind casually ambled playing with green rhymes (while the chicken boiled over!):

Green clouds brewing

Tornadoes building

Sirens blowing

Dead man walking

Run for shelter.

With that last line I was taken back to Roosevelt School on Gst. Northeast, Miami, Oklahoma, and my fifth grade classroom with Miss Garman. We had tornado sirens starting that year I entered fifth grade; we had KGLC broadcasting music, sports, and weather; and we had one basement in the block, next door to us, at the Broderick's. It's purpose mainly was to store canned goods. The wet cement walls were lined with shelves and one window well gave light from the West. (I would have preferred the Searle's basement which was a cleanly lite apartment, but it was a block away. Fear and torrents of rain usually kept us near home.) I don't know which scared me the worst, the cold damp dark basement, the threat of tornadoes, or my imagination that snakes would slither out of the walls.

Several times that spring we all found ourselves running for cover and standing face to face dripping wet and shaking in that basement. As much as tornadoes frightened me, clouds and weather patterns fascinated me. Because we were often outside playing golf and just playing my dad taught me what to watch for when the weather began to change. On the playground that spring day I felt static in the air, as I swung back and forth watching the green clouds boil and build in the Southwest sky. I noticed the teachers eyes were watching the skies, I thought with the same fascination. Inside our flat blond brick building the radio blared from the office and Miss Garman, our teacher, had placed her radio by the window to listen for any warnings.

Our fifth grade windows faced the East and tornadoes generally battered us from the Southwest, so I would not be able to watch and warn people. I walked up to Miss Garman's desk and spoke quietly in her ear, "If you will let me go out to the playground I can watch for the storm and warn everyone." She smiled and said, "No, don't worry. We'll send you kids home who live nearby if it gets bad." I thought that was a great idea since the school had windows on all sides and no real shelter.

Within minutes the winds began to whip up the dust and tangle the trees. KGLC announced that a tornado was on the ground in Welch, Ok., and for residents to be prepared to take cover. Nervous excitement built in the classroom. At some point Miss Hamilton, our principal, walked room to room with her high heels clicking telling us if sirens blew that those of us who lived nearby and had basements close would be sent home. Then with her beady eyes and shaking finger she pointed at us (we knew who we were) saying, "You are to go directly home to your parents first, then go take shelter. The rest of us will take shelter in the kitchen."

In an instant, sirens rang. Ivan Lee, the neighborhood bully, fled from his 6th grade room screaming while the rest of us, David, Diane, the two Jeanne's and myself ran in giggly delight. The blowing torrents of rain had hit just as we left the building. The two Jeanne's were the first ones home, we turned to run up the alley with Ivan Lee already out of sight. I was running so hard one of my moccasins flew off. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, I was so scared. My mother, holding my little sister's hand, met me in the backyard near the alley. We immediately dashed over to the Broderick's basement. Off and on siren warnings blared that afternoon and evening. Each time frightened eyes stood and faced each other while mother's tried to calm us. We learned that tornadoes had touched down out by the fairgrounds and then East of town, but not near us.

I knew we were all scared that day, even the bully, Ivan Lee had shown fear in his banshee scream and tears. What I didn't know was that there would be another spring day, soon, when the skies turned green, and Ivan Lee and I would come face to face with our fears.

Letty Stapp Watt
storyteller and historian