GOLF GYPSY: MORNINGS IN THE GOLF SHOP

1962 the last girls team to win Oklahoma High School State Championship before girls golf was no longer supported by the State High School association. 

        Being the only girl golfer in my high school class, 1965, tended to set me apart from others. In the golf shop, Old Bill most certainly stood apart from everyone.  In my teen-aged eyes he was an old bent man, who worked hard, did his job, then went home. His face was shaven closely, his eyes set deep below his brow, leaving him to appear as if he continually cast his eyes downward. How was it I wondered that his cheeks could appear soft, unblemished and nearly youthful, when his body told another story?

        He wore heavily starched and uniformly pressed khaki pants with a matching long sleeve shirt every day, no matter the weather.  By ten o’clock in the morning he was wet down his back from sweat, and often his sweat smelled like pure garlic.  The hotter it became during those summer days the shorter his temper grew at me and towards many of the club members.  I didn’t understand why it was so important for me to be “kind” in my thoughts and words, when that didn’t hold true for Bill. 

 One evening when my dad and I were out chipping and picking up range balls I asked, “Dad, why is it that Old Bill is allowed to grumble and be rude to people, and I’m not?”  My father showing no attempt to be patient, tilted his head downward glaring at me, and exploded, “Tizzie!" Dad's eyes nearly teared up in his anger,  "Bill saw action during the War in the Pacific. You will never understand what he has been through."

Time hung in the air as I stood at attention. My father continued, "He is retired now, and his pension does not provide enough for Bill and his wife.”  

“Wife,” I interrupted!  “Some woman is married to Bill?  He stinks to high heavens; can’t you smell him when you walk into the shop?”  I’ve never been one to think about my words before they spewed from my mouth. 

I saw the growl forming on my father’s face before I heard his words, “This man will work for me as long as he needs a job.  Don’t you ever say another word about him.  That’s final!” Our lessons about World War II were not in the textbooks.

1967 North View of the Miami Country Club

          In the stifling heat of the summer, the golf shop repeatedly reeked of “Old Bill” and his ancient cures for aches and ailments.  Finally, one day, when I knew Dad wouldn’t be in the shop for another hour or more, I turned to Bill and in a kindly manner, “Bill, I know it’s miserably hot here.  I sweat just like you, but you smell like garlic and sometimes like rotten eggs.  Why?”  In defense of my teenage ignorance, I had often heard the women golfers complain about Bill’s body odor.

 One time I remember LaRue Gaines (Mother of Steve and Cassie Gaines, who died in the 1977 plane crash of the Lynyrd Skynyrd Band.) marching into the golf shop after a round of golf and a few beers. With a swirl of her body and arms flattening on the glass display case separating the costumer from the employee, she flippantly remarked to Old Bill, "Why is it, we come in from a round of golf in this heat only to have you, the golf shop, and locker rooms smell like garlic?” 

Bill mumbled something like, “You don’t smell so sweet yourself!”  Then hunched his shoulders, and turned his back to walk off. I watched LaRue's nostrils flair and then surprisingly, I heard a high pitch giggle like a horse neighing, and she smarted back before he could leave the room, “Well, at least you won’t ever catch any germs smelling like that.”

          Standing solidly, I awaited his reply. He turned, lifted his chin and looked her square in the eyes,  “I ain’t ever been sick in my life." With an awkward grunt he continued, "Working in the public like this puts lots of germs in the air.  I don’t ever go to the doctor for medicine ‘cause I wear this garlic pod around my neck.”  Clutching his chest his deep set brown eyes starred down at me, and for a minute he almost smiled.  

    LaRue turned to her left and exited down the two giant steps to the basement and the cool air of the ladies locker room. 

In that moment, the character, Penrod, in  Booth Tarkington's book that my eighth grade teacher read aloud to us, flashed back to me. My eyes and mouth both popped open. I popped off to Old Bill, but this time sincerely stating,  “I thought just old timey people in stories wore things like that to ward off sickness.  Does it really work?”

“Seems to work." His voice stopped. After a gulp of air he continued, "Ain’t never sick, neither’s my wife,” he replied. 

“You mean your wife wears garlic, too?” I asked incredulously. 

With each word spoken like a directive, he replied. “No." Again a long pause as if he needed to think of the next sentence. "She don’t go out much, but she cooks with garlic, and we eat our greens every day.” 

          I had to ask, “Can I see it?  What does it look like?”  Without answering he walked to the back room with me following like a little puppy dog begging for a bone.  He unbuttoned his heavy khaki shirt part way to reveal another heavy men’s white t-shirt equally wet and smelly with garlicky sweat.  He pulled up on a cord that hung around his neck, and out popped a pouch made from cheese cloth and sure enough inside the bag were several pealed fresh ripe pods of garlic. With curiosity killing me, I wanted to ask a dozen more questions, but thought maybe I should let the subject drop.  Mom constantly coached me on appropriate behavior, “Just let the subject go, Letty. Tomorrow’s another day.” 

Miami Memories: Heroes

Johnie F. Stapp

The news of the world
celebrates the Invasion of Normandy
and the strength and determination of
our troops on this day 70 years ago.

I awaken to crackling lightning
rolling thunder and gushing rains.
I'm thankful for this blessing from nature
and for those men and boys who
walked this earth 70 years ago.

This life I've lived, this life I know
dramatically paved by the efforts and
bloodshed of the Armed Forces throughout
 a second war
to end all wars.  I'll never forget you.

My father, Johnie Stapp joined the Army
December 23, 1940.  He went to war a Sargent,  came home a Lieutenant.  He toured the Pacific from the Aleutians to the Philippines.
He came home.

My father-in-law, Albert Watt, joined the Marines, a rifleman.  He saw the bloodshed and fought for the beaches at Iwo Jima.
He came home.




I heard stories of those Japs the good and the bad from my dad.
On a tour in 1995 of Japan I met a man, older
and more crippled.  He asked to touch
our hair.  I knew from his eyes he'd seen the death on the beaches.


Forever and a day my father kept his secrets.
The young men whose lives we'll never know
are buried deep within each of us whose father's
were the Greatest Generation.

Now in silent reflection we must carry on the values of
dedication, resolve, and patriotism
handed to us through the lives of our youngest
and bravest men and women.

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian
 

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