The Gift of Music

The Gift she shared. 

My mother-in-law, Alleen Watt, believed music could start a conversation. Music did more than start a conversation in her life. People in her audiences were given a chance to dance, share stories of times passed, laugh and clap to the beat, and rejoice in the moment. She was blessed with an ear for music called 'perfect pitch.' Playing the guitar and piano came easily for her, a talent she inherited from her Papa, Charlie Morris. So many times as Alleen and I sat together in those last few years of her life, her sentences began with "Papa used to...."

Growing up in Little Axe on a farm during the depression, she and her sisters picked cotton and helped in any way possible. I felt the struggles she endured as she shared her memories, but more than anything else I felt the lasting love that her Papa had given her with the gift of music.  

Her Papa was born in 1878 in South Texas. During his eighty one years he rarely missed making music at a Saturday night dance. In her papers I found these words to a song she wrote to honor her Papa.

The lyrics are written from his point of view growing up dirt poor in Oklahoma.  

There were many times we were so hungry.

There were many times we were so cold,

When we lived there in that old half dugout

Back in those hills so long long ago.

       We came here from way down in Texas.

       Thought life would be better for sure.

       The farm we got kept us from starving,

       The bad times we learned to endure.

Papa had left us for heaven.

As the oldest child I took his place.

I was young but grew up in a hurry,

When I found out what we had to face.

       We hadn’t been long on our homestead

       When measles came to call at our home.

       Mama and sister joined Papa,

       Leaving me and two other brothers alone.

We had an old guitar and banjo,

And a two dollar fiddle and bow.

Soon we were playing for dances,

Then the time didn’t go by so slow.

       We’d ride those old horses bareback.

       Didn’t care how far we had to go.

       Those dances might last until morning,

       And oh, how that moonshine did flow.

Yes, times were hard and we did struggle.

Didn’t dwell on what might have been.

Just thanked God for all of our blessings,

And started all over again. 

*words by Alleen Watt, 1980

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.  

Moving On

One fall while teaching in Norman many of us were struggling with changes in curriculum and administration and Dr. Judy Ford, principal at Eisenhower elementary, reminded me that every fall was chaotic with new things to learn and that change was the only constant thing in life. I've never forgotten the smile or enthusiasm she shared when she said that.  I always felt change was a good thing in life, IF I were in charge of that change in my life, but perhaps that is a universal feeling or frustration as we all grow and face the changes through the years.

After eighteen years of living in Hutchinson and many changes in those years, some that we chose and major ones that others chose for us, Jack and I have decided to move back to our Oklahoma home and family in Norman.  Once we decided our hearts were lifted and we were happy until we sat down to reflect on our years in Hutch and the friends we've met around the state.  Now it's been tears of sadness and heartbreak when talking with friends, followed by tears of joy when I chat with my sister and daughter.  Our hearts pound with emotions.  Change is difficult even when it's our choice.

After Jack retired we traveled south and southeast looking for future homes and warm moist sunshine.  Marana and Tucson, Arizona also beckoned us to enjoy it's warm dry desert sun and the lizard inside of me said, "Yes.  Please let's sit on a rock next winter and be warm."  

Imagine the warmth.

But the heart of my family quivered and spoke, "Let's go home first, while we are healthy enough to start a new life and be part of our families lives once again."

Our secret search began before Thanksgiving as we drove around Norman reacquainting ourselves with a home we'd left.  By Christmas we were house shopping and in mid January we found a house with windows, sunshine, extra bedrooms, and a big backyard. Still we kept our secret and that hurt most of all.  We had our reasons for keeping it a secret, but now I realize it might have been easier to have started the dialogue earlier.  I wrote about our tree in the field growing old and dying and cried to myself inside as I knew when writing it that this would be our last winter to experience the life of that field.  I haven't been able to write since then on my blog, but I did send a story to "One Woman's Day" about Keeping A Secret....<http://onewomansday.wordpress.com/>  It helped me to tell my story, just as this story does.

Mike, Isaac, Ann, Jack, Letty, Jonya.

Yes, we are moving on, but not so far that we can't return for celebrations of friendships, rounds of golf, or just because we miss this home.  Sometime in March we will begin the moving process with hopes of being settled by Easter so our sons will have a home to come home to for Easter and other holidays; so our daughter and my sister's family will be near; so we can help Jack's mother who is moving slowly now in her 90th year of life; so we can gather with Jack's family and share stories and be there to help each other; and, so we don't have to travel far for those OU home football games!

It will be an adventure, and one that will create a few stories to share.  For those of you who follow my blog, I want to thank you and to say, I will continue to write.  It just feels good, and even better now that I have shared what's really happening in our lives.  

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
 

Miami Memories: Norse Stars

Oh, such bitter cold blowing snow outside. The shivering little birds are lined up on my south window ledges hovering out of the storm. Their heads bobbing up and down create an appearance of conversations from facebook. "Golly, can you believe this wind."
"Why didn't we go South for the winter?"
"Too late now, we can't see past the bushes."
"I was too hungry to sleep in. Now here I am foraging for food on the ground."
"What about a zumba or a line dance to stay warm?"

Then just like that they danced, fluttered about and took off. Maybe it's warmer down under the bushes where I stashed their food.

Three Norse Stars who danced in the cold: 
 Letty Watt , Charlotte Rosier, Cindi Lillard

Now I sit and shiver even with a heater at my feet. The cold just seeps in through the glass. Fetching a blanket for my shoulders helped conjure up a frigid memory of being a member of the Norse Stars drill team at NEO A&M.

We were a proud college drill team of well figured young girls. Virginia Lee Wilson worked us hard so we'd be proud to wear the costumes of leotards, tights, vest, fringed skirts, boots, topped with white felt hats on the football fields, basketball courts, or in parades. Our performances took us to such great cities as Coffeyville, KS, Hutchinson, KS, Trinidad, CO, Lawton, OK, and Kilgore, TX. Winter storms during football season or Christmas parades only served to make our performances and travels more memorable. We danced for the big shows at Christmas: Miami, OK; Vinita, OK; Joplin, MO; Seneca, MO.

The college dressed us well in costumes of blue and gold, or for special shows our white Indian guise. One Christmas parade in the tiny town of Seneca we marched in our Indian Headdress costumes. The white feathers on the headdresses were old then and oh, so very fragile. We truly handled them with loving care and only placed them on our heads moments before our lineup. Each of us held our heads high proudly strutting and supporting a full regalia of white Indian feathers that trailed down our backs nearly to the ground. Our white leotards were the base for a highly decorated fringed vest and skirt that didn't cover much. Tan hose covered our bare legs and a pair of socks protected our feet in those golden tasseled white boots.

But on this particular Saturday morning Mrs. Sandmire and other mothers followed our bus to Seneca to help us dress for the bitter winds. It was the invention of saran wrap, laundry cleaner plastic bags, and cellophane that saved our skins and allowed us to march that day.

Oh, what a scene that bus must have been as sixty girls unwrapped themselves from the heavy blue/gold woolen blankets, pulling down leotards and hose, exposing already cold body parts to the world inside the bus. With the help of a few mothers we, one by one, began to wrap each other in clear sticky saran wrap and plastic pieces. The windows steamed over with the heat of anticipation. With the frantic yelling of Virginia Lee and hand clapping of Mrs. Sandmire we at last, one by one, emerged from the bus layered in cellophane, two or three pair of hose, cotton in our ears, and as many socks as our boots would allow. Our smooth youthful bodies looked a bit lumpy under the leotard and adornments of fringe and feathers.

With proper counting, clapping, and training we lined up to march down the narrow main street lined with parents holding blankets around two or three shivering little children. The band's music traveled forward with us in the wind and helped us to keep a steady beat that day. Hearing the crowds clap and cheer kept smiles frozen on our red faces, and helped to propel our legs and nearly numb feet forward with kicks and marched steps. In the end we were greeted by a warm bus, blankets, and a cup of hot chocolate.

It seems only right to say we danced and kicked passionately that day and gave the parade onlookers our best performance ever. Just like the little birds that fluttered away, we, too, fluttered and danced till the performances of our youth gave way to the lives we lead now.

Letty Stapp Watt
storyteller and historian