Two Little Girls

Helen, Letty, Jonya, Johnie Stapp c. 1953 

There were two little girls

  A blue-eyed beauty

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

There were two little girls

  A green-eyed child

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

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

There were two little girls

   One blue-eyed little girl

Whose dark curly dangled and danced all over her head

She smiled and giggled and brought

  Joy to the world.

There were two little girls

  The other a green-eyed little girl

Whose light brown hair bounced like a butterfly.

The sun and heat graced her face

  When she pretended to be Tarzan.

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

There were two little girls

  One with curls

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

  On the stage they felt no fear.

There were two little girls

  One without curls

Who raced little cars through dirt and sand, and

Built houses out of blocks and furniture out of sticks.

  Through competition they learned fear and accomplishment.

Letty and Jonya, Prairie Dunes c. 2010

There were two little girls whose lives drifted apart

One learned a new language and found beauty in Spain

  And her calling in Spanish, a teacher she became.

Jonya in Antigua, Guatemala 2018

The other discovered books and traveled the world through words

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

 

There were two little girls, curious little girls

Together they bounced through roaring streams and ocean currents;

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

  Chased fireflies and listened to the evening echo of locusts.

Their curious love of nature centered their lives.

There were two little girls maturing through adventures,

  Through pain and loss.

Jack and Letty at Texas State Fair, 2017

Families they raised and shared their hearts with loved ones.

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

Their worlds spun but not without control.

  The blue-eyed brunette grew to fairy tale stature with

  Flowing curly hair the color of arctic ice,

Shirts of every color danced around her feet.

Her radiant smile and lyrical stories charm those around her.

Bill and Jonya cruising 2017

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

  Much like her Miss Clairol hair.

She loved the laughter of children and people at play

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

Letty c. 2017

There were two little girls, aging like good wine

  Who, one day, found themselves looking in the mirror

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

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

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

Jonya and Letty, c 2016

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

May Day Baskets

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

One for practice 

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










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

fold and tape

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

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

flatten cone, cut edges 

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

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

arrange flowers then deliver

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



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

Remembering Passion

While walking the dog in the bitter cold winds, there in the dark recesses of my mind I spied a time and a person where I first experienced passion from the heart.  I saw myself, age eight, wearing a black leotard in the winter and climbing the steps to the second story dance studio where the heater didn't begin to warm the rooms. I shivered, but only for a moment.  Once she placed the

Virginia Lee Wilson. 

needle on the record, our bodies began to stretch and glide.  












Where did you first learn or see passion?

There she stood, not much taller than I stood in fourth grade,

Tom, Virginia, Tom Pat, Bobby Wilson.

clicking, tapping, shouting, demanding, and then guiding, repeating, and teaching us dance steps. We learned how to tap dance, glide pose, bend like a ballerina,  follow the footsteps of a partner in ballroom dancing, and move our bodies in rhythmic physical steps to the different beats of jazzy tunes. Every step she walked modeled passion; her passionate love of dance, of music, and most certainly of life.  Her passion may have shown itself in her feet, her moves, but truly it radiated from her heart. 

She also spent hours outside of her studio coaching, training, and

Norse Stars, NEO Drill Team 1953 

drilling a group of young ladies known as the Norse Stars.  During the 1950's and 1960's, we competed against the Kilgore Rangerettes ( History of Kilgore Rangerettes, Tyler Texas  Apache Belles (History of the Belles) for the best drill team in the nation.  Our performances placed us on center stage of the NEO football games, basketball games, NJCAA National Basketball tournament in Hutchinson, Ks., and parades. Through it all she pressed upon us the importance of drill, repetition, practice, and "smiling."  (Mrs. Sandmire was always there to add lipstick.) There were no goodies, rewards, or trinkets given for performances. She simply expected and demanded our best, and we willinging followed her lead, like trained dancers. I can't speak for others, but I most certainly dreamed of being a Rockette and performing in the Macy's Parade in NYC. 

I didn't grow up to be a professional dancer like some of her students, but I learned what Virginia Lee Wilson taught, that passion is powerful, and when we lead with passion from the heart we can make a difference.  

That dream and passion instilled from Virginia Lee made a difference throughout my life.  Most recently, on a family trip to New York City we spent an evening enjoying the Rockettes Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. 

How has passion made a difference in your life?

WARDOGS -- Pieces of memories

Roosevelt 6th grade, 1959-60

My world was much smaller then. Fifty classmates who shared teachers, textbooks, pencils, paper, playground games like softball, tag, jump rope, jacks, swings, and teeter-totters, no libraries, very few books, and through this we created memories. 

In fifth grade Miss Garman's class I learned that if I didn't have a pencil I had two choices:  borrow one from friends or the teacher, or bring a nickel and buy one from Mike Westfall, who kept a stash of new pencils in his cigar box.  He was a salesman even then. Jackie Rundell fell in love with me and gave me a tiny yellow plastic clothes pin to put on my blouse collar, to show his love. I was too embarrassed and hid the collar clip in a drawer.  

Remember these:  I love you little,  I love you big,  I love you like a little pig.

In fourth grade I felt out of place and lost in Miss Bloomberg's class.  I didn't know many things that I should by fourth grade and I missed my friends from Lincoln school. Gay Turner sat in my class and even though she was older than the rest of us, she was my neighbor and during that fourth grade year became my friend both at school and at home. Luckily, our neighborhood was filled with kids, so after school we could all play tag, hide-n-go-seek, blind man's bluff, kick the can, or just sit on the sidewalk and play jacks.  
*When you get old and think you're sweet, Take off your shoes and smell your feet.  

I began school in Kansas at a Catholic School where I could enroll in first grade at age five.  I finished my first year in the Catholic school in Miami and met the Burford's and other families from the country club.  My second and third grade years were spent at Lincoln school where there were plenty of playmates in the neighborhood.  Just having the Cantrell's or the "Sixes" as we used to call them, just two houses up filled my day with plenty of fun and excitement.  

*Don't be what you isn't, Just be what you is, Fore if you're what you isn't, You isn't what you is."

I felt grown up in second grade because I could walk to Doc's BBQ or Gene's Tarry-a-While and buy a coke or ice cream as long as Sherri or Judy Cantrell was with me.  My mother sent me, with money, to Doty's grocery store where I could purchase food and return home, feeling proud.  We were even allowed to walk to town and buy a donut or cookie at the baker.  The "old" Ottawa and Miami theaters were at the south end of Main street.  Occasionally, we were allowed to walk to a Saturday matinee without parents. 

*Remember me in the country, Remember me in the town, Remember me as the girl, Who wrote in your book Up-Side-Down.

At last mom and dad bought a home by NEO, and I began fourth grade at the age of eight at Roosevelt.  This was the year my classmates began to learn the times tables, continents, and oceans while I looked out the window and pretended to do the work.   Reading with SRA reading kits was my favorite thing besides penmanship. I never climbed to gold in SRA, but it certainly motivated me to work harder.  One time I reached a color (?) I liked, so I decided to stay in the color until I read them all.  That meant that even when I knew the answer to the short quiz I made sure I missed just enough to stay and read the next story in that color.  When Miss Bloomberg quizzed me on this I explained that I liked the colors and the stories.  

*You are 2 sweet
                2 be
                4 gotten
During fourth grade I met one boy, who admired my artwork, thank you Scotty Haralson.  One other time in Jr. High, when Scotty and I had become friends, I won $2.00 from the Student Council for an essay, and Scotty called me up on stage to give me the award.  I was thrilled and thought perhaps that might be my academy award moment.  ( My friend, Scotty, died last week, but he left me and many of us with memories we will cherish.)

 *Roses are red, Violets are blue, You have a nose like a B-52.

At the end of fourth grade Miss Bloomberg called my mother in for a parent meeting.  I had to sit outside the door, however, I leaned into the door crack and did my best to listen to every word.  The good words were, "Letty is very smart, and she has many talents and abilities. She likes to draw, to color, to write, and she can certainly tell a good story."  But the bad words followed, "She is a baby, very immature.  She doesn't even know her times tables nor her geography.  I want to suggest that we hold her back to repeat fourth grade again.  Then she will be with her neighborhood friends, and the right age group.  She could easily be a leader if she stayed behind just one year."  

* The stork flew North, The stork flew South with Letty in his mouth.  When he found out she was a nut, He dropped her off at the Stapp's hut.

I listened, and she was right. School was really hard for me, and sitting still even harder.  My life was bigger than the school room the minute I left that building.  I had a neighborhood of friends some older and many more younger than I, and we played outside night after night, plus we had Tar Creek to explore and the NEO campus to claim as a playground.  On weekends I spent time at the country club, learning to play golf and meeting people. 

* Roses are red, Violets are blue, Pansies are lovely, just like you. 

The meeting ended, and they found me hiding down the hallway crying. I jumped up and screamed in their faces, "I know I'm a baby, but I'm smart, too. Please don't leave me in fourth grade next year."  Negotiations followed for the next few days.  At last it was agreed by father, mother, teacher, principal, and next year's teacher, Miss Garman, that on the first day of fifth grade I must know certain things, and a test would be given on the first day of school to see if I could pass.  

Rudolph's Red Nose

The winter, that Rudolph guided us home on the night before Christmas, began with a week of snowy winter days wrapped in fog, with clouds of drizzling mist that kept us shivering on the cold Kansas plains in Greensburg. The long drive across the state to Miami, Oklahoma was daunting on nights such as this, and I was often exhausted from teaching.

Beauty and the Bleakness on the prairie

On Dec. 24, 1976 school was dismissed at 2:00, an early release was quite a bonus.  Because the weather had been so questionable, we decided to caravan with another teacher and her husband (Dennie and Karen Smith) across the state, where they'd meet up with family near Coffeyville, and we'd drive on into Miami if the weather and the roads allowed it  We packed our 1975 little green Toyota Celica with winter clothes, blankets, Dr. Pepper, water, food, a few packages, and our beloved Cairn terrier, Squirty. 

Squirty and Frisky

The weather stayed dreary then dark prevailed. After Augusta the old black asphalt highway narrowed to two lanes and the headlights barely showed the tail lights of the sleek red Camaro that we were following. Somewhere near Sedan (on the old highway) I lost our caravan, so we made one last stop at a dirty battered gas station.  Afraid I'd get sleepy, I washed my face and kept the wet towel handy in the car for spills and to splash my face.  

With only a radio to keep us company we listened to the "Old Time" radio shows out of a Coffeyville station, and laughed at "Fibber McGee and Molly" and "George and Gracie Burns." Suddenly, I realized that we were the only people on the road, and our sight was limited by the low clouds and fog lining the bar ditches along old highway 166.  Even going 55mph seemed dangerous, but the slower I drove the longer the night.

Somewhere over a field Katy noticed a blinking red light up above and cried out, "Mommy, there's Rudolph.  I bet he's going to the farm."  Then like a tiny miracle I, too, saw that twinkling light.  Even though my mind knew it was a small airplane, my heart really felt the presence of life and hope. I opened my heart, released my fears, and let Rudolph's red nose guide us home safely to my parents farm.   

An hour later, we pulled into a star lite night on the farm with my parents outside to greet us. Katy leaped from the car and ran to gramps shouting, "Has Rudolph been here yet?"  To which my dad gleefully smiled, "You just missed him Kitten. He and Santa flew away just before you arrived."  

Jumping up and down in excitement Katy continued, "I knew it, I knew it.  I saw Rudolph's nose in the sky, and he showed momma how to find the farm."  

Katy's Christmas dolls.

Aunt Jonya listens to Katy's story.

Journeys and Jaunts: the Flint Hills

It was only a few snows ago when Jack and I took off to drive through the Flint Hills of Kansas and learn more about our surroundings.  Over the years we've been able to visit many of the sites listed in Marci Penner's book The Eight Wonders of Kansas Guidebook.  

We had our reasons for this jaunt:  1) to see the grandeur of the Kansas landscape, 2) to visit Council Grove and Cottonwood Falls, and 3) to touch the land my grandfather, Tobias Weaver might have explored nearly a hundred years ago when he was drilling for oil.  Trips like these resonate deep in our souls.

It was a cool crisp day and I shivered when I took photos of the various sites.  The Madonna of the Trail  in Council Grove was our first stop.  The sight of this pioneer woman reminded me of a time when my little Girl Scout troupe traveled to Ponca City to see the statue of The Pioneer Woman.http://councilgrove.com/24-historic-sites-of-council-g/
I stood in awe of this Madonna now and felt the drive and courage of these women as they crossed the prairie and built their homes from mother earth.  She belongs on that pedestal.  


Nearby, I walked past the statue of The Guardian of the Grove, then slid down the hill and touched the waters of the river called Neosho.  That same river runs through my home town of Miami, Oklahoma.  The touch connected me to home.  Lucy ran freely up and down the river bank, and gladly jumped back in the truck muddy feet and all.

Just across the river to the south of Council Grove is Cottonwood Falls.  No wonder it's courthouse gets so much attention.The Chase County Courthouse was a finalist for the Eight Wonders of Kansas because of its striking French Renaissance style and its red mansard roof (p.46 The 8 Wonders of Kansas Guidebook by Marci Penner  http://www.kansassampler.org/8wonders/ ).  Jack, however, was more intrigued with the canon that set on the courthouse lawn.

The Scenic byway opened it's door to us that day.  The eeriness of being one of the few cars on the highway made us feel like we'd entered the Twilight Zone.  Having only my cell phone camera doesn't do justice to the colors, the textures, the waving grasses, and hills.  All the more reasons for you, my reader, to drive through the Flint Hills.  

We drove east then west and north to south that day exploring the hills, their contours, and the vastness of space...no hurries, no cares, no worries.  I will always wonder where my grandfather explored and the lands he touched. My mother loved telling stories

about the drives their family used to take on Sundays to go visit her father's oil wells.  Her love for the Flint Hills and the smell of gasoline from the refineries was passed down to me. When I was little and we'd drive past the refinery at Augusta, I held my nose and said, "Pu eee.  My mother turned to me and said, "Letty, that is the smell of money."  Although my grandfather made a money in oil, he also lost money in oil and in the stock market crash of "29.  

Finding solitude in the landscapes that surround us seems to be something Jack and I share, and maybe a touch of connectedness or a link to an ancestor we never knew.  Our roots run deep and in the end it is the land that connects us all.  

What journeys have you taken lately?

Miami Memories: MHS the Substitute

The phone rang early this morning jarring my cozy dream state.  Staying in my warm bed and ignoring the loud ring came to mind, but instead I crawled out of bed, politely answered in a most upbeat tone, and listened as the voice pleaded, "Letty, we need a sub today.  Could you please take this job?"

"No, I'm sorry," I replied, "but my calendar is full."  After hanging up, my guilt gene kicked in for a few moments.

The morning was still dark outside and the house was chilly.  My husband was eating breakfast and the dog was faithfully begging and drooling by his side, waiting on a tasty morsel to drop.   Before I had a chance to settle into the still warm sheets of bed, my brain buzzed with a flashback to my first substitute teaching job at Nichols Elementary in Miami, Oklahoma.

A picture would have read circa December 1967,  showing a bright eyed nineteen year old college student dressing for her first teaching job.  I was home from LSU on semester break and had plunged into the adult world immediately by filling out forms to be a substitute teacher.   I don't remember much about that day other than the fear in my eyes when I meet those fourth graders, and the pounding in my heart when I saw the teacher's lesson plans.   With the schedule seemingly changing every 20 or 40 minutes, I never really caught up with that first day.  Recess was a great relief to me, and the end of the day bell convinced me that I had chosen the right path, teaching high school English or History would be a breeze compared to elementary.

Spring Break 1968 I remained dedicated to making money by substituting at Miami High School, where I knew my way around, having just graduated from that stately red brick building in 1965.  I proudly accepted the job to sub for Mr. Lingo in French class, especially since I had taken two years of French from him and had continued on in college with French classes.  The morning was glorious:  my little sister Jonya, a sophomore, came by the room to see me; I drank a coke and set it on the desk as I had seen Mrs. Enderland and Mrs. Thompson do when they substituted;  other teachers recognized me and asked if I needed  help.  "No thank you, but I'm doing just fine," I replied. I spent time in the library at noon with Mrs. Watson chatting about books we had both been reading. The Confessions of Nat Turner was my favorite read that year.

The calming spirit of Miami High.

Springtime weather warmed the classroom and the janitor helped me open some of the stuck windows, leading to my first encounter with rowdy boys.  Shortly after taking role in the last class of the day, I looked up to see a boy leaping out of the window and two more on his heels.  I rushed to the window to stop them, and then I broke into a short jab of laughter followed by embarrassed anger.  The remaining students and I watched as the boys ran between two houses and on across main street to "E. C's" Drive-Inn.  A deep breath was in order, but then what to do?   Calming myself and my students came first, and when at last they were on task for the moment, I quietly stepped out and walked down the hallway to the principal's office.  Mr. Kelton looked up smiling,  "It's nice to have you in the building today.  How has your day gone?"  Humbly, I explained that I had lost control with the group of boys and described what had happened.  With no sympathy and a sheepish grin on his face he responded rather sarcastically   "Now skipping out of class isn't anything new to you, is it Letty?"  If I could have disappeared in a puff of smoke at that moment I would have, but instead I smiled, dropped my head and said, "I never jumped out the window!"

I don't remember what the course of action might have been that day.  My guess is that Mr. Kelton calmly walked over to E.C's and invited the boys back into the building.  I survived.  I never finished that degree to be a high school teacher, but I did stay in education, and am most grateful to every child who entered my life.  Forty-five years have passed since that first phone call.  Today, and perhaps for years to follow,  rather than substitute I have chosen to write, to exercise, to read, to relax and let someone else take charge.

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