Making Memories

‘The most beautiful things are not associated with money; they are memories and moments."   Alec Wek

Memories are special and personal. My childhood is not like yours nor even my sister's. We often laugh about 'that's not how I remember it.'

Memories are also made for others to share and that is where parents, schools, and communities come together. My sincere applause to the community of Miami, Oklahoma and all who made dreams come true this year with spectacular lights, colorful globes, the tallest Christmas Tree on Route 66, hot chocolate, fresh cookies and sweets. and a main street filled with families making memories for another generation.

I have realized in the last few decades that some of my memories are more like souvenirs. The word parade elicits large floats with scenes of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus; flat floats filled with children from the Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, and community churches singing; grade schools with scenes from a Christmas play. The floats were larger than life and skirted and covered with chicken wire stuffed with napkins / Kleenex. (I had some experience in decorating floats when I attended NEO.)  In my child’s imagination the floats were every bit as large as Macy’s Christmas parade. My eyes saw glittering shades of reds, greens, whites, yellows, pinks, orange, black, blues, all twinkling, or flashing like magic. Whereas our black and white televisions and newspapers only carried parades in black and white.

Wilson School

My heart filled with joy and giggles when I heard over the loudspeakers Holly Jolly Christmas by Burl Ives. These are the moments that connect their generation with my generation.

A recent "Family Circus" cartoon shows the little boy holding a string of Christmas lights, then handing them to his father, the child declares,

 "Christmas lights up the world." 

In my hometown, Miami, Oklahoma, we attended every Christmas parade from 1955--the 1970's on the first Saturday night of December.  Of course, my vision is in full color and always in my mind ready to roll. As a child, my point of view often caught the tires and lower levels of vehicles passing by pulling the radiant floats. Everything above me was giant in size. Looking up I saw astronomical golden yellow, blue, green, and red balls.  Greenery and streaming lights were as high as the sky and unreachable as a child. 

Vicki Martin, daughter of Russ Martin, recalls that their family had front row seats on the balcony of the Miami Hotel. Their dad announced the parade, for all at home who could not attend, from the KGLC station that was located on the second floor of the hotel. 

What older people and former residents forget is that our parents and community were Making Memories for us. Fifty-years later parents and community are still Making Memories for their children and the children of Ottawa county. They are different memories, and they will have cameras and photos to recall plus bags of candy to remember the sweetness of the night. 

Small towns still sent bands, cheerleaders, dance teams, "Shriners," shinny cars, fancy trucks, sleighs with toys and candy. The lights glowed overhead. People sang along, clapped and cheered for family and friends. 

The children in front of us caught my attention. They jumped and hollered with joy and giggled at the sights on which their eyes feasted.  A gray car, one I called the Bat Mobile drove by and I noticed the children's eyes and awes were thrilling. I wondered what a Bat Mobile would be doing in a Christmas parade? The truth of the matter is that it was a Tesla Truck, and didn't we have shiny new Mustang  convertibles in our parades?  I laughed out loud at myself and could hear in my head the lyrics to Rodgers and Hammerstein's song,

 "Everything's up to date in Oklahoma. They've gone about as far as they can go. They went and built a skyscraper seven stories high about as high as a building ought to go." 

What could be more joyful for a seventy-year-old woman than to hear the voices of children laughing, loving, and spirited in the moments...making memories. 

The highlight for me was to see that Miami honored its best, Jane Osborn, as the Grand Marshall of the 2024 Parade. Her artic white hair, her joyful face aglow, and bright red lipstick set off her genuine smile and love for her hometown. She waved and we waved back. We knew her love and commitment had helped to bring our small town back to life. 

Thank you Jane Osborn, Bill Osborn,  Colby Allen Sign Company, Mayor Bless Parker, Bobby Poole, Debbie East and members of the community who worked together to make this parade of 2024 the best ever for the children with new businesses and brick buildings clean and inviting.

Footnote: Jonya and I drove old Route 66 going home on that Sunday from Miami to Sapulpa. You can't go wrong on Route 66....

For a glimpse of the olden days of black and white in Miami click on this link: 1950's Christmas Parades

Golf Gypsy--The Lost Stories

This morning I awoke early with stories spinning in my head. At last I gave up and crawled out of bed, boiled some hot water for my morning tea and sat down to write. By then whatever seemed so important had drifted away and new thoughts and stories streamed through my visions faster than I could type or organize my thoughts.

I have piles of notes that are unlabeled but visibly show different resources, such as: newspaper clippings of interest, WOGA, Letty's writings and thoughts, and three piles of "golf" history.

Three tags in my golf history piles caught my attention: Mother's list and costs of supplies for our bomb shelter; a story about being pregnant for three years; and personal story that will not be retold in print.   

    

The rains began Monday and on Tuesday we drove through torrential rains too Shangri-la, Grove, Oklahoma for a golf vacation and history search. Waking up to more rain on Wednesday we explored the activity center at Shangri-la and spent  time playing ping pong and using the Track Master golf facility hitting into an automated golfing screen. Still no outside golf.

When it became apparent this would not be a golf trip, I began the phone calls and appointments with former Miami, Oklahoma, Golf and Country Club members. I've been collecting stories about the club for over ten years now.

We drove into Grove, Oklahoma and met Bev Jackson Moss, who I had not seen in over fifty years. At 88 she has outlived three husbands and played golf until recently when she began losing her eye-sight to macular degeneration. She has battled back from colon cancer and then nearly died two years ago from Covid. She has not lost her sense of humor and good memories of the old country club, as we have come to call it. 

After the hugs and laughter my most pertinent question burst forth.

 "Bev, please tell me about your pregnancies and golf games. I can recall looking out the golf shop windows as you teed off on number 6 and I saw your belly swing forward with force as you hit your drive up the hill and nearly to the bunker. It seemed like that baby is what propelled you to hit the ball so far."  

Before she could reply, I spewed another memory. "Keep in mind Bev that I was twelve when you moved to Miami and it seemed to me that you were always pregnant. I even heard people talk about you as years went by, pointing out that you were the only woman they knew who was pregnant for three years." Once again we could not contain our laughter.

"Letty, it felt like I was pregnant that long, too. Daughter number one, Sandy was born in 1960. Daughter number two, Debbie, was born in 1961 and son, Billy, was born in 1962." 

"No, wonder people laughed saying you had been pregnant for three years, and you played golf, too, didn't you."

Bev explained, " With Sandy, I gained too much weight. Dr. Highland insisted that I get exercise and said, 'You live on the golf course, get out and start playing golf for your health." Her husband, Wayman Jackson, a part owner in car dealerships in Kansas City and Miami, bought her a set of clubs and a pull cart.

"Letty, without even having a lesson I walked out the backdoor and every day played holes number 8, 9, coming into the club house, and then turned around and played numbers 6, and 7 that led back to our house. All the time I hooked a stroller type of a chair to the back of the golf bag and cart and pulled Sandy along while I learned how to play golf."

That summer of 1961 she began playing in the Friday evening Scotch foursomes, a couples 9-hole event. People began placing bets on when she would deliver that baby and on what hole.

That Friday night she recalled, "I played the best I have ever on the 9th hole. I hit four perfect shots and my partner and I, Charlie Trussler, won the night's award. The next morning I felt better than ever and set to work in the garden when suddenly my water broke. My husband panicked and Virgil Cooper, a friend and the undertaker!"

"Mr. Cooper also panicked and arrived at our house in the Cooper Funeral Home Hearst. They rushed me to the hospital and Debbie was born an hour later."

L to R: Beverly Jackson, Winner; Faye Berentz runner-up championship flight; Sue Barnes, 9-hole champion; Dorothy Schofield, runner-up 9-hole. 

"The good news is that I never delivered a baby on the golf course. Our three children all learned to play golf and I took lessons from your dad, which led to me winning the club championship several times. From the late 1960's through the 1970's I became a golf travel mom, taking the kids all over the four-state for golf tournaments. It's been a great and rewarding game."

**The story of the bomb shelter will be published soon.

FORECAST NOT GOOD

July 20, 1954

July 21, 1954 Miami Daily News Record

SLIGHT CHANCE FOR BREAK IN SEARING HEAT (AP)

Oklahoma moved into its 15th consecutive day of 100-degree weather today without much chance of breaking the terrific heat wave which has claimed 67 lives.

Temperature ranging from 100--105 were predicted. Guymon was the only city in the state to have rain last night. This was the coolest official weather bureau reporting point. Kingfisher recorded an unofficial 109 while 107 readings were listed for Enid and Ponca City. 

GREAT LAKES REGION GETS RAIN, COOL AIR (AP) 

Showers eased a crop-damaging heat wave in parts of the nation's parched corn belt today. But a wide strip of torrid weather continued across the south and central plans and the number of heat deaths in the nation since the origin of the general heat wave in early July rose to 298.

Cooler air from Canada poured into the Great Lakes region. The temperature at Chicago plunged from 98 degrees at 2 pm to 71 at 6 pm yesterday. Showers swept from Chicago southward across Illinois where drought and het have damaged young corn seriously and killed thousands of chickens and pigs. 

A farmer was crushed to death at Ft. Wayne, Indiana last night when wind flattened his barn. Two persons were injured by tress falling on automobiles.

For the last five years I have been reading and researching my hometown history through the eyes of a young girl growing up in the 1950's-1960's at the Miami Country Club, Miami, Oklahoma. A project that I thought might take two or three years in not even half-way complete. I'd like to blame it on Covid-10 but the truth is in the "News."

Miami Oklahoma Golf and Country Club History

It is the "rabbit hole" that drives me off course, and not the ones where I chased a bunny to its den and cried when it disappeared, nor the rabbit hole where my father found four baby rabbits dying of thirst. He brought them home for his two little girls to care for. With dolly baby bottles we fed the bunny babies and watched them die one by one. Such vivid memories that one little line can take you to. And while looking up a clearer definition of "rabbit holes" I found a very linear helpful guide on How to Avoid Falling Down the Research Rabbit-hole. It might have been more helpful if that had been my goal. 

When, in actuality, I was looking for a more descriptive term to describe my dilemma. 

What is a rabbit hole in research?

A rabbit hole, in a metaphorical sense, is a long and winding exploratory path with many connections and offshoots. The term rabbit hole is often used to describe online activities. *Personally, my husband and I thought the term came from Alice in Wonderland.

But I digress, to quote Robin Williams in his movie "Good Morning Vietnam."

Perhaps this a better example of where my mind flows when reading the newspapers in the decades before social media and too many television stations to even count. I am missing our hometown newspapers that kept us all in touch with the local news and the lives of our neighbors. 

NOTES FROM YOUR TOWN (July 21, 1954 )

Little Deborah Jarrett invokes an appeal for the return of her lost kitten each time she delivers the blessing at the family dinner table. The pet, Nosy, has been missing about a week. But four-year-old Deborah maintains a steadfast belief that the parting is only temporary.

The daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bill Jarret of  428Coyne Avenue was given the kitten last May. (A full explanation of where the kitty kat came from follows, with the cat entering the household at a time when Deborah was recuperating from a tonsillectomy.)

The kitten may have made friends with some other child by now, if so, and if Nosy is returned to the Jarrett's, Deborah's grandmother says she has another kitten she would give to Nosy's founder. 

I have finally found my way back through the NewsArchives to my search for the 1954 heat wave that hit the nation like the "summer of 2022". Oh, dear. I digress again: Summer of '42

July 22, 1954  Miami Daily News Record

NOTES FROM YOUR TOWN (July 22, 1954 )

Without a 'smidgin' of rain to ease their plight, Miamians, sweltered through the 22nd  straight day of 100-degree temperatures as a merciless sun bore down at 1 o'clock this afternoon.

At the end of the lunch hour, the mercury reading was 103, one degree above Wednesday's high of 102, weatherman John W. Gray said.

Temperatures were hot and so were bed sheets as heat-weary residents tossed and turned in their sleep as the temperature remained in the sultry bracket most of last night.

As a six-year old living on A st S.W across from the newly built Lincoln School and only a half a block away from the blaring music and honking horns of cars dragging Main street. through Doc's BBQ and Gene's Tarry-Awhile, I do not recall the summer's heat. I wore hand made bloomers and cotton shirts on those summer days, and played outside searching for four-leaf clovers in the shade or pulling locust shells off the trees.  At night I would have been sleeping  (tossing and turning)  in my upstairs room with an east window opened. My eyes and ears often locked into the music coming from Main Street. I could still hum "Hernado's Hideaway" to this day.

Top 30 Hits of 1954

Sometimes during those hot evenings we sat on the south side of the house waiting on a breeze.  Dad and Mom held each other around the waist and sang "old" songs from World War II, like "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me." The radio, KGLC, seemed regularly tuned to any music by the Glenn Miller Band, which always brought on a dance by my parents.  I regularly put my fingers in my ears and squealed at their performances. 

Popular Songs of World War II

NOTES FROM YOUR TOWN (continued)

Deborah Jarrett now has two kittens! Nosy, her favorite pet, is back after having been missing a week and, in addition, Nosy has a feline playmate. The piece about the missing kitten appeared in yesterday's News-Record. Only minutes after papers were delivered in the Northwest part of town, Nosy was being smothered with affection in the arms of four-year-old Deborah, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Bill Jarrett, 428 Coyne avenue. A family living two blocks away had adopted the kitten after it showed up a their house. Mrs. Jarrett, having learned shortly before of the death of an uncle, said she was so upset she failed to ask the name of Nosy's guardian. 

The second kitten was left at the Jarrett home while the Jarrett's were away. Deborah's aunt, Mrs. Lee Allison, of Little Rock, Arkansas, accepted the kitten which someone brought to the door, believing it was Nosy. 

Movies were a great escape for Miamians. Churches 
advertised air cooler auditoriums. 

August 2, 1954 Miami Daily News Record 

COOLING RAINS BRING RELIEF (AP)

General rains covered most of Oklahoma last night when high winds swept storm clouds into the state from the north and brought cooler weather. In some areas the first measurable rain in nearly a month came on the heels of one of the hottest Julys in state history. During the July heat wave, 76 people died of heat in the state. 

August 20, 1954 Miami Daily News Record

Water levels at Grand Lake yesterday reached a new all-time low of 715.14 feet above sea level. 

"It's up to old man river now," if the Neosho arm of Grand Lake doesn't go dry, some farmers and stockmen probably will survive Ottawa Country's three-year-old drought. There's John Blaikie, who for the last two weeks has been hauling water from the river to 31 head of stock at his farm, about eight miles northwest of Miami. The farmer's daughter, Lois, helps her dad dip water from the stream. After his pond and well went dry last month, Blaikie was forced to start hauling the life-giving liquid a mile and one-half daily from the Steppes Ford bridge to his farm. 

Perhaps that cool air from Canada will find its way to Oklahoma by August, giving hope for all of us suffering in air-conditioned comfort. Better yet to quote my mother, Helen,  "This too shall pass." 

These are some of the stories I've written about the History of the Miami Country club, when not lost in a rabbit-hole:

1954 Miami Golf and Country Club History

1955 Miami Golf and Country Club History

1956 Miami Golf and Country Club History

Johnie Stapp, Golf Pro from California to Kansas

Lost in a Flood of Images

My brain flies from one thought to another which is why I take Tai Chi and Yoga classes. After I left stretch yoga class this morning relaxed and focused:

1) I sat down to write about the flow I felt, and how important it is to stretch, relax, take deep breaths, lower my shoulders and smile as I look out the window and see the finches feeding. 

2) I sat down to write about the rabbit holes I've gone down in the last year and just yesterday. They make me laugh so much, especially the one in 1943 about the lady who flew through a bakery window.  (Wichita Eagle) In the best Hollywood "stunt girl" tradition Mrs. Francis Fayette, 532 East Harvard cycling on Broadway last evening struck a bump with her bicycle and sailed over the handlebars. She crashed through a plate glass window in a bakery shop at 718 East Broadway and emerged from the wreckage with nothing more serious than a tiny cut to her left forehead. (In the beginning before Facebook there was the news of the day.)

3) I sat down to write about the Flood of 1951 in Miami, Ok because it was on my mind from reading the News Archives on Miami in the early 1950's. Miami, Oklahoma History  It seems as though most of the newspapers were not saved, leaving a gap in my blog-- Miami Country Club, History   

Moments after I sat down my sciatic nerve pinched me without let up.  My head bobbed in pain. 

I fumed and kicked around like a child in a temper tantrum. Out loud I mumbled. "Leave me alone. I just want to write, not try out for a marathon. Let me relax..."  I stood and stretched with the right leg in front, bent myself to the knee, stood, repeated with the left and continued down the hallway, like a pigeon nodding and walking down the fence top (or a pigeon in heat, I call it), followed by downward dog, #4 standing stretch, and finally I could stand upright and not hurt." Ah, relief. Almost. My brain where did the thought train go?

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat. 

Somedays I feel as lost as Alice in Wonderland.

Hours later, sushi for lunch, a load of laundry, a romp in the backyard with the dog, and I'm once again ready to write or not.

For the last two weeks I have been reading and collecting golf notes on my father's life between 1928--36, 1941--44 in the scrapbooks that he and his sister put together. This is my working station.

As I walked by it this morning while stretching in my pigeon walk, I noticed the framed plate in the background. Everyday for two weeks I have looked at those plates before I sit down. The rose patterned one on the left came from my Grandmother DeBacker's home, the two blue fishes were my mother's, the one on the far right is my plate with an attitude ("Give Into Temptation, It Might Not Come Again"), the framed one stumped me.

Godey Print, early 1930-1970's production by Salem China.

Was it the child bringing flowers to her mother? the child wanting attention? the stiff composure of the women?

I've carried this plate with me since my parents died and only this afternoon did I remember why and only this month did I find a way to display it.

We moved to Miami, Oklahoma in 1954, three years after the massive flood of 1951.  Now, I can remember seeing this plate hang on the green painted walls with faded flood lines wrinkled in the wallboards. In my child's mine of age six, I could imagine the fishes and how they must have slithered between the walls when the flood left this house in ten feet of water. Yet, my parents had hung this plate on the wall directly facing the stair case that I rumbled up and down daily. Did the water drip out of the nail hole? Did the fishes all die? I pondered these thoughts and many many more. 

Our home was 3 blocks north of the railroad tracks on the west side of Main St. We can see from the photo that those homes filled with water. 

I loved that old house on A St. Southwest. It held more stories than anyplace I have ever lived, and that framed stuffy plate is my reminder of the flood, I never saw.  My upstairs closet held a child's painting of "raw and bloody bones"; the beggar man and his children came by to eat trash from our garbage, unless mom saw them first and fed them food from our table; hobos from the train tracks walked by and begged food from our homes; before we moved in 'I was told' that the lady next hanged herself over the basement cellar and died; the sixes (Cantrell's) lived two houses up; the house on the north end burned to the ground one day while I was at school; and everybody had flood stories or river stories to tell except me. I often think I was destined to be a storyteller. A St. Stories Told and Retold is another collection of stories I wrote a few years ago. 

I missed the great flood and for the rest of my school years I heard those stories and never got tired of listening. During my eighth grade year Miami experienced another small flood while we lived on H St. Northeast. Finally, I had a flood story, but it ended with a tetanus shot and I didn't like the outcome one iota. 

Ironically, the flood of images and the floods of time all come back to me now. 

Although our roots may be flooded, washed away, burned to the ground, destroyed by tornadoes, earthquakes, volcanoes, and tsunamis we stoop, stop, look upwards for help and we cry, then carry on. Like in war and the images we are seeing that flood our hearts with pain, we see their broken roots but know that their spirits are strong. We pray for all mankind.  

Awakened by Winnie-the-Pooh

"People say Nothing is Impossible

but I do nothing everyday."

Winnie-the-Pooh 

5 Mile Creek, NE Oklahoma, photo by Bobby Poole

Strange, how a photo can cause the mind to stir and swim in search of a lost memory, of a story, of a time, of a place where nothing often happened.  Motor boating flat rocks across a creek is like doing nothing, but having so much fun doing nothing that one forgets there is another world out there.  Was that yesterday that I played like that?

When I first saw Bobby Poole's photographs on a Facebook page called, "You Know You Are From Miami IF......" I knew they were of home and a time long ago. They represented the places and good times of my childhood, but now they meant more. How?  What was I missing?

 

To avert thinking about what was missing, or to avoid my Art Gecko room which holds so many playful ideas, I instead jump up like a cat and look for a chore to do. Something is wrong.

Ironically, that same week the photos captured my mind, I watched the movie "Christopher Robin," three times. A few tears trickled down my cheek, but I managed to smile through the story of Pooh finding his long lost friend. Finding myself identifying with the lost spirit of Christopher Robin, I began to look out the windows in search of something lost. 

Pooh filled my heart with glowing happiness, through his gentle love of life and playfulness. So I listened to the CD’s of Winnie-the-Pooh and disappeared into the Hundred Acre Wood with Pooh and Christopher Robin. Oh, how I giggled with the antics of that poor bear, with very little brain, always in search of honey, his shy fearful friend little Piglet, and the floppy glum old donkey named Eeyore who stayed at his side. No matter the trouble they found, Christopher Robin arrived in time to save them. 

Shoal Creek, photo by Bobby Poole

There it was, the picture of the land where I could still do nothing. Like the bridge that crosses the waters connecting our spaces my mind and heart connected.  Standing on the bridge in my mind I watch the surroundings; the hawks gliding, birds swooping, the couple kissing near the shore, the fisherman slowly floating downstream nearer and nearer the oblivious couple.  With my imagination I walk the shores and step into the cold flowing waters and do nothing, like a vacation where there's no laundry to wash, no deadlines, only time and scenic arrays, and all of this from my imagination.

"Rivers know this: there is no hurry.

We shall get there some day." 

Winnie-the-Pooh

*Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A Milne, CD Random House Listening Library, 2009 with Judy Dench's voice and other outstanding voices is a terrific way to listen to Pooh Bear's stories.

May Day Baskets

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

One for practice 

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










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

fold and tape

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

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

flatten cone, cut edges 

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

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

arrange flowers then deliver

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



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

Miami Memories: A st. stories

Dr. Pepper memory from childhood

I'd like to blame my love of  Dr. Pepper on my college life, carrying a heavy load of college classes and needing a sugar/caffeine boost every so often, but the true story is that I first discovered Dr. Pepper when I was in 2nd grade at Lincoln school. We lived on the corner of A S.W. across from Lincoln.  My upstairs bedroom window overlooked the playground, and best of all the drive through at Doc's BBQ and Gene's Tarry-A-While.


I learned a lot about life from that upstairs window. The family up the street from us, the Cantrells, had six children (later seven), but we called them the sixes.  Many summer days one of the sixes would let me tag along

Courtesy of Ron Wagoner.  

as we'd go over to Doc's or Gene's in the daytime and share an ice cream cone or Dr. Pepper.  We never had much money, so we shared and pooled our resources.  (Later as a teenager I looked at Doc's differently and my memories are more emotional.)

Thanks to  MHS Class '64 & Sammie Ketcher

My storytelling days were also born on A street.  With my tiny upstairs window open in the summer nights I could listen to the music blaring from Doc's speakers, and with Dad's binoculars I could spy on the lovers in the parking lot.  We were never allowed to go over there at night! Sometimes Sherry and Judi and I would sit on my bed and take turns watching people. Kissing was absolutely disgusting, and I could not figure out why anyone would cuddle under a hot sweaty arm of a man on a hot summer night, much less put lips together.  Just the same, we laughed and giggled when we saw the moves coming.  

My favorite song of all was "Davy Crockett King of the Wild Frontier."  Even then I was part feminist because I wore a white Polly Crockett hat, not the brown one made for boys, but poor Polly never had a song named after her.  Fess Parker sings Davy Crocket  Sherry and Judy Cantrell and I ventured off to the Neosho River, and walked up and down the banks of the muddy flowing river. When it flooded it was even more dangerous and more reason to walk to the edges of the swirling river.  Most homes didn't fence off their backyards, so we thought it was safe to tread on their property, even the magnificent homes north of Route 66 along the river banks. Carol Cosby lived very near the river, and we often stood on the bank throwing sticks into the water and searched for snakes. Don't know what we would have done if we'd found one!

My mother had a kind heart and my father was a flamboyant man who loved to tell a good story and drive fast cars, but it was a hobo who spent an afternoon with us on the doorstep that sparked my imagination and opened my eyes to the wide wide world.  We were only a few blocks from the railroad tracks, and it was not uncommon for hobo's to hop on and off the trains passing through.  Mother would always serve them soup or a baloney sandwich, and I would watch from the screen door as they ate alone.

1985 Matt, Michael, Katy, Letty.  

Clouds building in the Grand Canyon

 

t

One time a hobo told my mother that he'd once lived in Wichita, Kansas.  That was her home, and she smiled and listened as he told his sad story.  When he sat down on the steps to eat, I asked if I could join him.  Mother watched out the kitchen window, as this seven year old girl sat beside a stranger one afternoon and listened to his stories.  He pointed to the straggly elm trees along the street and said, "Imagine walking into a forest where trees grow so high they touch the sky, and where they are as wide as that garage across the street."  From his stories of giant trees and red golden gorges dug by the hands of God I began to see the world.  He painted a world that I wanted to see, and he was just a hobo, a man, who made a difference in this child's life.  

Hope all of you see these wonders in your lifetime, and toast with a Dr. Pepper to memories.  



This is a link to a great old photo of  Gene's Tarry-A-While in Miami, Oklahoma.  Thanks Fredas Cook.  

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
 

Miami Memories: A Lasting Imprint

I'm one of the few 6%, and I have Mrs. Louise Watson, Shari Lewis, and Minnie Pearl to thank for that.  Not long ago The Today show discussed career choices people have made.  In a study in the Journal of Social Forces, just 6% of adults have ended up in the careers they had aspired to when they were kids. Then I considered mine, and what about my friends or classmates.  Did any of us even think about careers back then?  If we did was it a dream, a goal, a vision of the future, or was there someone we wanted to be?  

For as long as I can remember I really just wanted to be a mother, secretly a comedian, but LuJean Howard was already our class clown, so that job was taken.   I loved performing tricks at my parent's parties, and telling stories to the neighborhood kids, but Hollywood never beckoned me.  If I were going to go to college then of course, I would be a teacher, but sometimes I dreamed of becoming a race car driver or a world traveler who published stories about exotic places to visit.    By high school, I knew after reading On the Beach that I'd become an English teacher, move to Australia, then naturally, I'd make a difference in the lives of hundreds of people and change the world along the way, if we lived that long. 

Along the way life opened and closed several other doors before I found my calling and career.  By age 19 I was already a substitute teacher, then I worked with Head Start after Katy was born, but my lucky break came when the Miami Public Library needed a children's librarian.  Suddenly, I had the best job in the world, and it blossomed to be one of the best choices of my life.  The Saturday morning and afternoon story hours were empty because there was a new yellow big bird on television that had garnered every ones attention.  To be honest I was nervous about telling stories to children, so when no one arrived I felt relieved, but then it became a challenge.  How to fill the library with children at all hours of the day.  I began to reflect on my recent childhood and recalled how much I loved Minnie Pearl, Shari Lewis, and so many entertainers I'd see on the Ed Sullivan Show.  

One day I found an old puppet in a closet and brought it to life when the puppet found the warmth of my hand and saw the smile on my face.  I imagined I was Shari Lewis talking to Lamb Chops.  I then taught myself how to make puppets, so children coming to story hour would have puppets to use. 

Serendipitously, a class on storytelling was being offered and I thought, "how perfect and so easy."  I was so wrong.  I worked day and night for three weeks to learn one story that only lasted about eight minutes!  In the end, I was hooked, and I spent the rest of my life pursuing stories to tell for children and adults.  How lucky can one person be. I did my best to reflect on the smile and

enthusiasm of Minnie Pearl.  Her voice still echos in my mind, "How Deeee folks. I'm jist so proud to be here."  Her smiling face convinced me that she meant every word she spoke. Her jokes and funny stories made us all laugh, and I loved to hear my parents laughing while watching her.


The hardest lesson came when I realized that I'd never make a living as a librarian without a college degree.  Being a single parent made the choice easy, stay near family and finish my education.  Now raising a little girl,  I wanted to become an elementary teacher or librarian.

It was the quiet sincere librarian, Mrs. Watson, who had left the greatest imprint on my life by sincerely believing that books and reading could make a difference in our lives.  At Central Jr. High we had a 3rd floor study hall with a tiny room filled with books.  A few hours a day Mrs. Watson worked up there while her remaining time was in the real high school.  I loved to be in that hushed room and smell the paper and books.  Even when those ratty old boys became

obnoxious in study hall, little Mrs. Watson could quiet them down. High school was no different, a large study hall room and small dimly lit library, but again her smile and passion for reading set me at ease.  She handed me a thick historical romance and suggested I read it cover to cover. When I finished that book I felt empty on the inside, like I'd lost a friend or a family. It was about a woman who was to marry Napoleon, but fate changed her life. Perhaps, the pulse and heartbeat of love on the pages of a book changed my fate, too.

Mrs. Watson had me hooked for life, and now more than 50 years later and a career as a librarian and teacher, I still smile deeply inside hoping I made a difference in at least one person's life.  
  
Letty Stapp Watt, storyteller and historian
 


    

Miami Memories: College Grocery

Taste and aroma elicit amazing sensory memories for me.  The other day we drove across Broadway street in Newton, KS and passed a tiny store called Gillespie's Meat Market.  I've only been there once, and that was to purchase a "ham loaf" for Thanksgiving.  Now to be honest I'd never heard of a ham loaf fixed like meat loaf, but I became an instant fan of the meal after serving it oozing with juices that soaked up the dipping bread and blended with the new potatoes and green beans.

Another memory, I thought lost until we passed that store, sits in my heart.  Simply put, as a child I lived on fresh ground "ham spread" sandwiches from Bob Hill's Grocery (College Grocery was the official name, but our neighborhood simply called it by the owner's name, Bob Hill.) on the corner of 3rd  and H st. N.E. in Miami, Oklahoma.  I was eight years old when we moved to 209 H. NE and a responsible 4th grader, or so my mother convinced me.  I could walk to the store less than a block away with money in an envelope and buy groceries.  The list was never more than I could carry.  The first step into the store released a sense of fresh air and a wetness in the air when I turned to the left and walked by the fresh fruit and vegetables.  There was just something about the citrus smell of the orange and banana crates that  filled my mind with pictures of palm trees in sunny California or perhaps Brazil. I'd walk by the fruits just to smell them even if they weren't on the list.

My favorite trips were when I carried a dime and a nickel and walked to the back of the store and asked Lon, the butcher, for 15 cents worth of ham spread.  I stood nearly eye level with the butcher case of meats.  Everyday he ground up fresh ham and added relish, mayonnaise, celery, and other spices to the ground ham.  Then he neatly packed it into a long row lined with green paper trimmings to separate  it from the other meats.  Lon towered over the butcher case and peered down at me and asked, "What can I get for you today, little girl?"  I would look up and say, "My name is Letty.  I'm not a little girl."  Then he'd grin really big and laugh and say, "Oh, how could I forget, you've been here before."  It was a game we played and he always made me smile.  I'd look up at his ruddy wrinkled skin, fading blue eyes, curly sandy blond hair and big teeth and say, "I'd like 15 cents worth of ham spread today, please."  Then my grin would spread across my face in anticipation of running home to make my sandwich on white Wonder Bread with heaps of  lettuce.  I would stand and watch with fascination as Lon scooped up the meat, weighed it to the penny, then pulled the  butcher paper off the rack and placed the meat on the slick side of the paper.  Very meticulously (a word I later learned to describe him) he'd fold the paper across the top, roll it, fold one side in, roll it, fold the other side in and roll one last time before he taped it and then in handwritten letters wrote out $.15.

I'd run home, grab the bread and plop the ham spread onto the white bread, tear off a lettuce leaf, the greenest I could find, set it on my sandwich then smash the sides together.  That way I could lick the oozing ham as it drop off the sandwich.  With my glass of milk I could then set up a T.V. tray and walk into the living room to watch T.V. while I ate my sandwich.  Black and white T.V. and sandwiches on white gluey bread, life was good as an eight year old.

My mother used to call those cravings a stage I was going through, and she rested assured thanks to Dr. Spock that I would out grow my desire for ham spread sandwiches and learn to eat other healthier foods.  Of course, my mother and Spock were correct.  I outgrew the ham spread sandwiches, and later the canned spaghetti, and for a few years I outgrew the memories.  Now, I think I'll make a trip to the meat market and buy some ham.  Along the years of growing up I bought an antique meat grinder and secretly learned to make my own ham spread.  It's time to make some more for lunch and perhaps a toast to Lon and all those people at Bob Hill Grocery who made time to smile and recognize a little girl by name.

Letty Stapp Watt
storyteller and historian