Bushwacking in the Muntz Jet--There Is A God

Growing up in small towns after World War II gave millions of us, the Baby Boomers by labels, opportunities to run free in our neighborhoods, streets, and alleys. We were warned what kind of people we must look out for. In Miami, Oklahoma, we called him the “man on the bicycle.”  Parents and rumors spread that he might ask girls especially to ride on the bike with him. We were told to run away and tell the nearest adult. That was the Biggest Fear we carried with us as we explored creeks, rivers, the other side of town, and friendly neighborhoods where we knew to be home by dark or else. 

After all of these years, I finally found a picture of our Metallic Mustard colored Muntz Jet, parked in our driveway in Miami, Oklahoma in 1957. 

One Saturday night my parents gave me the keys to the Muntz. My plan was to take Judy Scruggs and go “BUSHWACKING” at Riverview Park. My father, Johnie Stapp, had a Highway Patrol headlight on both sides of the Muntz, so the driver or the passenger could reach out and maneuver the bright light. He also had a loud horn that sounded like a “moo cow” in pain, that frightened people.

The Muntz Jet was originally a metallic Mustard color until dad painted it white, then black, then baby blue. 

Our plan that night was to drive through the park looking for lovers parked in the dark.  We would then flash the bright light on them and hit the horn in hopes of scaring the life out of them. I knew we could outrun any car in town. But some plans don’t produce the outcome expected.

Turning off the highway and down into the dark of Riverview Park on the west side where lovers could often be found necking, we drove slowly with the dimmers on. I noticed the closer we drove to the water’s edge of the Neosho River, the muddier it became until I felt a sinking sensation.

The Muntz, already low to the ground with two steel beams on either side for support, stopped in the mud and refused to move. …. How could I have forgotten that the park often flooded with spring rains?

Instead of looking for lovers we used the search lights to look for help. Then out of nowhere a tow truck from B&M Motors appeared. The men, the Meyers brothers,  knew exactly who I was and also knew that Dad would ground me for life if he ever learned of this episode.

Being small town trustworthy and caring men, they hooked up the Muntz, pulled it out of the mud, and towed us to their business on South Main, Route 66, where they washed down the car and sent me on my way. Never a word was spoken to dad about that night.

I’m not sure of the exact lesson I learned other than people are there for you, to assist and help in many ways; or perhaps it was God and a band of angels who laughed out loud at our misery and sent the Good Samaritans that night.

I believe this experience must have been the spring of 1964 or 1965. 

Last year, Tom Pat Wilson sent me a link to the story behind the story of the making of the Muntz and why it never made money for Mad Man Muntz.  I thought it was a rather sad story because the Muntz held nothing but good memories for me.  Click on this link for the story of Mad Man Muntz and his failed endeavor to build the best race car ever—

https://www.google.com/search?q=the+failure+of+the+muntz+jet&rlz=1C1CHBF_enUS1150US1179&oq=the+failure+of+the+muntz+jet&gs_lcrp=EgZjaHJvbWUyBggAEEUYOTIHCAEQIRigATIHCAIQIRigATIHCAMQIRigATIHCAQQIRirAjIHCAUQIRifBTIHCAYQIRifBTIHCAcQIRifBTIHCAgQIRifBTIHCAkQIRiPAtIBCTczMDdqMGoxNagCCLACAfEFVQI1AWMbdiw&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:353d3b84,vid:su7hp1or2rM,st:0 If this link doesn’t work please google The Failure of the Muntz.

For another true story of the Muntz click on this link:  Turnpike Race of 1957

Miami Memories: The Pro

On Father's day I sat down to find a picture of my dad to put on facebook. Due to lack of patience with technology on my part, the task did not go as planned. In the moment of frustration I realized it was not the photo that was so important, it was the memories of the man who was my father, Johnie Stapp, PGA Professional at Miami (Oklahoma) Country Club, 1953-1977.

People might recall what a dynamic teacher he was when it came to the game of golf. He loved this sport and believed that it was a metaphor for life. It was his competitive spirit and tenacity to learn that significantly shaped the lives of his two daughters, Letty and Jonya, who would go on to become lifelong teachers themselves.

The Old Pro, Johnie Stapp

So much of the man he became was a result of a childhood accident that could have left him crippled for life. He was fourteen years old the first time the matches lit more than his cigarette. He was a curly dark haired boy with crystal blue eyes, who loved to keep his hands busy smoking or working on automobiles, one of his lifetime fascinations. He was working under a care when a dog came along and teased him. While working and playing tug with the dog his matches fell out of fa pocket and somehow were scratched, causing a fire to ignite on the garage floor. In his attempt to extinguish the fire his arms were burned from the finger tips to his shoulders.

The treatment for burned skin in the 1920's was nearly as painful as the burns themselves. Dad spent fourteen months in st. Francis Hospital, in Wichita, KS with his arms bandaged. However, being a good looking young man he charmed the nuns and nurses, and so as grandmother often chuckled, "they spoiled him rotten,"

The bandaged burns and several surgeries left both of his forearms drawn at forty-five degree angles, and his finger tightly curled inwards. It left him unable to hold a pencil, handle tools in the garage, or do much more than rake leaves. One of his doctors was a golfer and took an interest in his young patient. In the beginning, the golf was prescribed for therapy. The doctor taught him how to grip the club properly, which meant painful gripping and twisting to his hands and wrists. While still in the hospital dad practiced how to grip a club, giving his hands and arms the muscles needed to once again become useful. When he was released from the hospital he would meet his doctor on weekends at a nearby golf course. Eventually, he learned to swing the club. While the recovery was painful, it also proved a new playground for the then sixteen year old. The pro at Sims Parks suggested that Johnie become a caddy, which would give him an opportunity to make money, and play golf one day a week.

Through perseverance and the guiding hand of a loving mother, my father's young arms and hands responded to the golf swing treatment. He became fascinated with a game that would provide a lifelong source of income, enjoyment, and success.

Like so many fathers of my generation, he was a World War II veteran, who rarely spoke of the battles in the Pacific, but he did share stories of the peoples he met throughout the war. He spent time in Japan after the war. Thanks to his friendly nature and genuine smile, he met and stayed in touch with several Japanese families for the next twenty years. This friendship provided the opportunity for me to share unique items, such as cards and handwriting in Japanese, during Show and Tell. During my childhood there were many adventures with my father: we drove and raced the mustard colored Muntz; dug a hole for a bomb shelter to protect our family; spent Monday's at Grand Lake fishing, swimming, skiing; traveled extensively to play in golf tournaments and take vacations. We met many of the great LPGA golfers (Marilynn Smith, Patty Berg, Mickey Wright) and the PGA pros (Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player). Thanks to those experiences of my father, my sister and I learned to stand in front of an audience and tell stories.

My fondest memories are of the summer evenings we spent together shagging golf balls on the driving range. To make it simpler for us to pick up the balls he would place a half-dozen metal baskets around the range. My job was to go out and chip balls to the baskets. Over and over we would chip balls to the designated areas until they were close enough to shag, or pick up by hand. It was a special time for me, as I rarely got in trouble, and I learned how to share a job making it easier for everyone. I also learned to keep my head down and finish the job. I observed the forces of nature in the winds, clouds, the life cycle of animals, and I learned to whistle a tune, sing a song, and relax as the day ends. Wherever I went with Dad, there was always a lesson to learn or a story to tell. Thank you Dad.

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian