The Power of Words by Joyce Bump Milliser

Joyce and I met for the first time at Lincoln Elementary school in Miami, Ok. in the fall of 1952 in second grade. We were so proud to be in a brand-new building that year. 

I find it ironic how many first names I can recall and like every other super senior I forget faster than I remember. First row: Rosaline, Tony, Jackie Trask, Letty Stapp, Mike Stevens, , ??,
 Row two: Raymond, Joyce Bump,, Carol Cosby, Donald, Homa June Jamison,  ? Ronnie, ,?.
Row three: Cooper, Kay, ?, Linda Sellers, Bradley Karnes, Lawrence, Jackie Smith., ? Sue. 

Although, we never became close friends, because my family moved before I entered fourth grade, we met again in junior high to high school. Now, thanks to reunions and social media have come to know each other, and more importantly share some of our stories and laugh over our gray hair and wrinkles. 

This is Joyce's recent story, and one that many of us have experienced, as we have learned that words can hurt or be filled with kindness.

I had a yearly dermatology appointment today. When the doctor came in and started examining me the first thing, she noticed was the mole on my face. It has been there for as long as I can remember. 

She asked if I’d like her to remove it. I’m thankful I didn’t tear up. I said “No. Let me tell you why. If your dad or grandad ever watched Gunsmoke you’d know who Miss Kitty was. She had a ‘beauty mark’, my dad called it, on her face and he always said mine was my Miss Kitty mark. So I’d feel like I was losing part of me if you took it off.” 

I thought she was going to tear up. She apologized and said “Well, now you have convinced me not to take it off because I’d feel guilty.”  

Through the years I’ve been very aware of other people's reactions to my mole. Kids especially. They’d ask where I “got it” and I’d always tell them “God gave it to me.” 

One customer asked why I didn’t have it removed and I jokingly said, “because it doesn’t bother me like it does you.” She laughed, not realizing I meant it. 

I know women especially who would have it removed in a heartbeat just like wrinkles or gray hair. I’m not those women. I’ve earned my wrinkles and those gray hairs. Why try to hide something that’s so natural. My mole is very natural to me. 

I’m not upset. It just makes me aware of how powerful words are to a child and how words can influence their thinking about themselves. 

I’ll always be thankful for my daddy’s sweet words.

The Journey follow this link to another story about the power of words. 

FLUMMOXED

 

Our elevated garden under the Birch tree is a delight for me and 
the upkeep is simple because the soil is not clay.

Our four front yard gardens vary in degrees of stress and beauty. Consequently, my brain is completely flummoxed and my body is weary. My platter and palette are full: rounds of golf with friends, books to read and discuss, walks to take with Jack and Murphy, time to read, furniture to be painted, stories to write, research to continue, naps to take, time with family and friends, and meals to fix. Then there is the house to clean and clothes to wash. 

Nothing new in my life, except that as I grow older my desire to create and play is still strong, my back and joints are not.

The wilted stalks will produce the "naked ladies" 
sometime in July. Thanks to fertilizer we grow
daises and lilies three feet tall. 

This spring I planted the last few perennials in our front garden to showcase our elevated addition to the flower bed. The End.

I imagined that slowly year by year the garden would grow and be less demanding, giving me more time to relax. I imagined less gardening and less pain in my hamstrings from bending and pulling.

If only the Sweet Woodruff had not drown in wet clay, if only
we had dug up all of the clay in the garden eight years ago,
if only we had elevated the garden. I am quite sure on a warm
 sunny day I will come up with a plan. 

The rains came and gave our trees, bushes, and grasses a new life. They also drowned my new perennials. Yearly, I am reminded that I no longer live on rich black Kansas soil. Our Oklahoma clay retains water, thus saturating my plants and leaving me perplexed as to what to do next. Now I have another project on my list.

While the grasses and weeds were growing this spring, my bookcase, hand made by a music teacher in 1979, looked at me one day and said, “I need to be cleaned up and given a new life.”

One more coat or maybe
the darker yellow?

“Sunshine,” I told the bookcase, “we need more sunshine in our playroom/computer room/atelier.”

“Atelier?” the bookcase replied, “You have never called me that.”

“No,” I explained, “You cover the wall in the room where I write, color, draw, and dream. I think that makes this room a studio or atelier.”

“By all means paint me yellow and watch me enjoy how I brighten our studio. Please don’t call our room an atelier. It sounds old and dusty.”

Selecting the color that works in a soft green room is not easy, and timing is everything. After much thought and way too many yellow paint chips to view, I made a decision to purchase two quarts of various tones of yellow paint. Within a day of moving the bookcase to the garage, our three week rains began and progress slowed dramatically.  Having the bookcase back in the studio by the end of May is the plan. Meanwhile, the books are scattered over the bed and down the floor line, leaving me confounded when I walk into the disarray.

The last time I painted furniture it didn’t bother my wrists and shoulders, it didn’t leave my shoulder throbbing, nor did it affect my golf game. Thank heavens for Aleve.

Meanwhile, one of our other gardens grows Nutsedge and a wild spreading violet, which is beautiful when in the correct space, but a nuisance as it spreads its dainty heart shaped leaves where I don’t want them. Bending and searching for roots I can rid the garden of nutsedge with the herbicide specifically to kill nutsedge. As for the violets, the directions say wait till fall to kill the plant or dig, dig, dig…..What to do? 

How to get rid of Wild Violets

I would rather write. Sitting here I can watch the birds at the feeder, people walking by, children on bicycles and skateboards, the irises that have bloomed, yellow day lilies in bloom, purple salvia, and rabbit’s ears covered with purple stalks of color and surrounded by bees. I like sitting here. It doesn't cause me any pain. 

Our ceramic bunny lost his ears over the years. The lizard is covered with salvia, and the ground cover wound its way through the Never Die, sedum. 

A break in our day as we met Leah Jackson for lunch at Baguette. 

Time has passed and I have yellow on my hands from giving the bookcase another coat of paint. I opened Facebook and read that it has been 58 years since the Class of 65 graduated from Miami High School. Hum, that may be why it’s not so easy to work on all of my projects.

Later,  I will return to the studio and continue the research on the Miami Golf and Country club 1963 (Miami Golf and Country club, History )

Tomorrow is filled with a round of golf with friends. I love life. 

For more gardening stories click on these links:

Life as a Perennial

Twenty Minute Gardening

Hands in Time: Miami Memories

It was her hands that I saw today as I quickly stacked and sliced the sandwiches for our lunch. Slow, deliberate, and graceful were her pale white hands as she delicately sliced the toasted tuna salad sandwich. How often in my life I have imagined her hands, as I hurried from one task to another?

 

Delzel's Drug Store from 1958--1965, next to the Coleman Theatre.

  

She worked at the Delzel's corner drugstore, just south of the Coleman Theatre. During my freshman year in high school, my girlfriends and I would run downtown for lunch. The first students to arrive always ordered and saved a table for others. There we were, already training our bodies and minds to rush, organize, eat, and run. 

She was never in a hurry. Each order was written carefully as if by hands and nails that had just been painted. Then I'd watch as her soft, wrinkled hands slowly stirred the tuna or chicken salad. The mayonnaise, not ever mayo, was drawn by a rounded butter knife that made curved strokes across the face of the bread. She scooped up a perfect serving size and spread it on toasted white bread, as if it were frosting on a cake.  Rarely did we order lettuce, but when we did, the leaf was sure to curl like a lace between the slices. My mind was sparked by a stark contrast when those same soft hands picked up the butcher knife to halve the sandwich. The knife seemed awkward with its hard black handle resting in her soft flesh. But, like an artist, she placed the knife at just the right angle, corner to corner, then carefully, with her left hand on the tip of the blade, she applied pressure, and with the right hand, downward went the knife, slicing the sandwich neatly in half with no meat bulging from the side. 

No matter the number of orders or the time restraints we operated under, her schedule never varied--one perfectly-formed sandwich at a time, picked up like fragile glass, placed on a thick white plate, decorated with an even number of chips and one sweet pickle. She hand-delivered these sandwiches to each of us as a mother might prepare for a family she never had. 

After school we'd often stop at the drugstore for a cherry coke, and she'd tell us about her nephew who was about our age. We wondered if she had a husband, or if she was a spinster. Did we even know her name? 

Today, I saw my her hands in mine as I pulled out the lite mayo, relish, and celery from the fridge, opened the can of tuna in water, lunged for the bread in the cupboard, and then began an unmeasured mixing of flavors and colors to build my own tuna salad sand. Just then the phone rang and Murphy Doodle, our puppy jumped to help me find the phone. "Unknown" strikes again. I growled at the phone like a dog with a bone. 

 
Then I turned back to the tuna, washed my hands and took a deep breath.  "Slow down," I heard a voice inside of me whisper. I looked down at the counter and saw my hurried hands. They suddenly looked older, softer, but scratched and scared with time. Brown spots covered the back of my hands, blue veins stood out creating an unevenness in my thin skin. 

With a deep breath I found myself remembering and chuckling over time. . . seven grain bread on our plates, no white bread for decades. Lettuce fresh from the garden topped my husband's sandwich, and filled my salad bowl (no carbs, no bread). I stopped, smiled, turned to a drawer and pulled out the ice cream scoop. Slowly, I picked up the tuna and placed it perfectly on top of my salad, then I gingerly added sliced almonds and yellow banana peppers for taste and color. A smile crossed my face, and memories danced in my head. I saw her smile at me. 

She had watched us grow, graduate, and take on the world, but I don't believe we ever said good-bye, so I cherish her memory. 

 

The Timeline of building occupants connected to the Coleman Theatre. Thank you Ron Enderland at Miami Oklahoma History

 

Vanity is Sanity

Dance Recital at the Coleman Theater.

All these many years my legs have pulled me through the

  times of growing pains and comparisons.

A Twiggy or Brook Shields I will never be.

When pimples and body fat appeared on my body,

  I winced and groaned as I looked in the mirror.
Sighing heavily, I shaved my legs while humming:

     

     “What the world needs now is love sweet love.

     It’s the only thing that there’s just too little of…”

                                 Lyrics by Burt Bacharach and Hal David

                                   What the World Needs Now (click to hear the music) 

USGA Jr. Girls Championship. 

  
Through childhood and college years these legs kicked and danced in recitals and drill teams.

They walked golf courses and campuses supporting golf clubs or books.

During the decades of raising kids, it was my legs that pushed me forward,
  that withstood days when I felt like buckling.
Our family Saturday outings took us to the Duck Pond where we jogged
  around the workout/walking path or ran the track,
Teaching our children the importance of commitment to fresh air and
  movement.
My legs glistened in the summer heat,

  reminding me that they held me fast to the ground, like roots of the trees.

Watching a lengthy downhill putt on #6 at Oakwood CC, Enid. 

For a decade I wore short skirts, just to show off my legs,
  a mere glance at my vanity. 

The next few decades I wore mid-length skirts and shorts, but by my fifties
  my knock knees caved inward, my feet gave out

  with arches falling and toes twisting.

What’s a girl to do?

"Vanity is sanity," the older women told me when I was young.

 I began to understand.

 

I dared myself in my sixties to wear skorts on the golf course,

  and sometimes felt self-conscious when I bent over to line up a putt.

I looked around and gained confidence watching women carry themselves

  proudly on the golf course in stylish clothing.

Vanity is sanity, I began to see it in their faces and posture.

Letty and Dawn laughing and posing in
 Bitch Wings at Belmar CC. 

One day, as I danced a step of joy after making a lengthy putt, my left heal 

  kicked my right shin bone, oh ouch!

It bruised immediately showing a bold blood red and purple splotch. 

  What happened?

Another day my dog pawed me with affection leaving a streak of dark

  red bruising down my leg, the next day it was my arms that bruised.

The decades were showing signs of aging, my skin was no longer lush 

  and rich with collagen. 

Don't they make a pill for this, I screamed in my head.
  It was pills for back pain that thinned the skin!

Vanity is sanity. Now I understand.

No defeat for a woman who walks with confidence.

     “I am woman hear me roar….

      You can bend but never break me

      ‘Cause it only serves to make me

      More determined to achieve my final goal

      And I come back even stronger

      Not a novice any longer

      Cause you’ve deepened the conviction in my soul.”

                                             Lyrics by Helen Reddy and Ray Burton

                                               I Am Woman (click to hear the music) 

There are clothes for this:  fitted pants still show the legs but not the scars.

These legs of mine stand strong but bruised.

  I work them out regularly at the gym keeping my posture upright.

Then treat them with tender loving care and lotions galore both night and day.

Vanity is sanity. Now I understand.

MHS Class of 65, Letty and Donna dancing the golf rock and roll. 

How long these legs will carry me, is one of the mysteries of our lives.

I can't prevent the effects of aging but I can love who I am.

Heading into the grays of the approaching winter days and decades,

  I am proud to be a Baby Boomer breaking in another decade.

Now I understand. Loving yourself is not vanity, it is sanity.

Glancing out to the North Sea off the coast of Scotland. 

Goals from the Heart

We were there,
the top of the Empire State Bldg.

Sometimes I have to look back to see where I want to go or what I want to do.  Setting a goal for the New Year involves the same steps.  Looking back at 2015 and the decades before, I find my need for friendship and relationships with others tops my lists. For the last week in December the morning shows share ideas on how to set goals and keep them.  The lists often seem the same--lose 10 pounds; travel; exercise; eat healthy; give up sugar; organize the closets, and more.  These I label as paper goals, certainly achievable with willpower and a plan. When I'm faced with these issues, I find books like Willpower  by John Tiernay very helpful. 

These days I'm looking inward, searching  for a goal that resides in my heart, and resonates in my core.  Last year I wrote a simple mantra, as a goal, and posted it to my calendar. Every two weeks these words pop up:  See the Beauty and Grace in Everyone, rather than being judgmental. Believe it or not this simple mantra lifted my heart and brought a smile to my face each time I read it.  It also achieved the goal of tempering my words.  I'm still harsh, and blunt from time to time, but I hope that every year I'm less harsh and show more grace. So I thought, if something that simple lifts my spirits why not dig deeper and discover other beauties of the heart. 

After many hours of reading and reflecting I recalled a phone conversation several years ago from my friend

Manon Bradbury and Letty in the desert.

Manon.  Lamenting that her girls were constantly texting and chatting without ever listening or hearing the voice of their friends, she said, "I much prefer to hear from my friends by phone!"  She's right.  I thoroughly enjoy our few conversations during the year because I get to hear her French Canadian accent and the zeal with which she lives and breathes.  I can't hear that in a text. 

With a zig and a zag, my mind flashed back to that November three years ago when I began calling classmates I had not seen in nearly 50 years.  What joy to hear

Lynn Farrier, Letty  MHS Class of 65

their voices and stories.  Thanks to those phone calls I've personally reconnected with my childhood friends. Now I know their spouses and a few glimpses at how they've lived over these decades. 

This year my goal is simple but sincere.  Pick up the phone and call a friend once a week. A phone call connects us to the heart of the person, much like using a puppet to communicate. My joy of being a puppeteer came

from observing the eyes and hearts of the children as they gazed in wonder and belief at "Book Dog", "Squirty", or

Book Dog

"Frisky".  Every now and then a child would say, "That puppet's not real.  You have your hand inside of it!"  I smiled and responded gently,  "Sometimes we all need a little help. This puppet is no different than I am because it speaks and listens with its heart."

So this year, I will use the arm of a puppeteer and call someone weekly. Yes, I will continue to text and email, and oh, how thankful I am that we can use technology for staying connected. My Facebook friends know I love to chat online, and my Instagram followers see that I like photographs that offer a moment to ponder.  I will continue to send postcards from afar, because I know from experience that they remind us that someone is thinking about us.  

What will you do?

What goal from your heart could make a difference in your life or someone around you?

How will you act on this goal?

Central Jr. High  (Miami, OK) late 1950's

WarPups:  Pieces of Memories (1959-1962)

Why this story is hard to write is a conundrum. Fifty-six years have officially passed since my mother bought my seventh grade books in the basement of that cornerstone building.  I must have walked past that building hundreds of times from my home on H. Northeast.   Walking West on 2nd NE street took me over the railroad tracks, the truck route (D. st),  past large two story homes, the corner Christian Church, the brick wall surrounding our school, the Candy Shop from where this photo must have been taken, the red brick public library (that once kicked me out with my little sister when she would not stop crying during story hour; where I began my career path as a librarian) and onto main street where I walked to the movies and other places with friends or looking for friends. I spent six active years on that block, and then ironically, another year when I worked for HUD in the 1970's in the old pink building that held over flow classes.  I watched that brick building being torn down, slammed to the ground and bulldozed into history.

This photo now stands in our memories as a record of our time and place. A glance of whom we might someday become.

I've searched my brain, and the internet for memories.  This site is particularly accurate if it is facts that are needed for research for a particular year: The People History .  Printed neatly and orderly, it serves as a refresher for where we were in those days, what we were doing, songs we listened and danced to, plus the current events.  

But for my heart which leads my fingers across the keyboard, my connectedness to those early years seems blurred. Six short years slowly crept by, three divided in Jr. Hi years by Central/ Will Rogers, then blended as the true spirit of being a WARDOG. These are the years and dates for "reunions", but not always the reasons.  

Nov. 14-18, 1960

Rather than stories with heart and soul, my memories run randomly, much like notes across a napkin.

   With a last name of Stapp, I often sat near some very ornery boys in our ABC ordered classes;  I learned in Mr. D's science class that Richard Spencer could draw gorgeous lettering called calligraphy. The beauty of those letters stayed with me and finally, when I was in my thirties I learned calligraphy.  Bill Smiley, Bill Smith, and John Stansell kept me distracted in math class, in geography, in history class, but did I ever have fun laughing and passing notes when I should have been paying attention to Mr. Hammons, or Mr. Teal,  Mrs. Vanetta,  Mr. Campbell. Miss McCoy and Mr. Akers, however, scared the fun right out of me on more than one occasion. They seemed to think that I was occasionally disruptive in class. I explained I always had help in the disruptions--like Vicki Newell, Nancy Burnes, C Ann Richards or those boys.  (They didn't realize that that phone call during Mr. Teal's math class in 9th grade was an offer for me to drive to El Paso, Texas with the Newell family to look at a race horse.  The truth is that we also toured a private girls school that Vicki would attend.  We even flew back to Tulsa and Opal drove the car with a new horse in tow, but in the end my friend Vicki left the halls of MHS, and I lost a friend.) I should have learned then not to blame others for my actions, but that would take a few more hard lessons in life.    

Stashed in a box of memories, I found my blue vinyl "Dear Diary". I did write something on nearly every page of that 1961 diary, but the adult English teacher in me went ballistic with that little girl's grammar errors.  
      January 27, I went to Mutt Hutt, danced two times, and played ping pong.
      February 8, We had an aptitude test from 9 to 3 in the gym.  Had to carry our chairs up and down three flights of stairs.
      February 14, Well, Patrice Lamobaba (Lumumba) was killed. We are having a lot of trouble with them.  Kennedy Pres.  Well, I'm going to the Mixer--Valentine Dance....I had a lot of fun. (I attempted to use different handwriting to denote time or mood changes.) 
      March 17, Mother and daughter banquet
      April 29, I went to see Gone With the Wind.  Wow, was it good.  Clark Gable xxxxx
      May 22, 3 1/2 days left.  Well, I got my wish.  I got to usher at the ninth grade promotion.
      May 26, Out of School.  Going into the 9th Grade.  Went to the lake at Grand Point and had lots of fun. (If memory serves me correctly I seriously sunburned myself.)
      May 28 Went to see the movie Cimmarron, the story of Oklahoma territory.  (I later showed that black and white film at an elementary sleep over in the 1980's and promptly put everyone to sleep on the gym floor.)
      June 7, Dress rehearsal for Virginia Lee and Tom's dance recital.  I'm an Indian in Peter Pan.
      June 13, Jonya had her eye surgery in Wichita.  Freddie fell on the picket fence and cut open his leg.  It made me sick.
      June 20, I played 18 holes with Daddy.   Daddy bought me a new tourquoise golf bag and a new wedge and putter. 
      September 9, Hurricane Carla hit Texas.  The worst so far of the twenteth century. 
      October 6,  Sat with Bill (guessing on the brick wall).  Went to Mutt Hutt.  Bill came in sat and danced with me about 10 minutes (I don't like him.) I finally asked Blaine Taylor to dance.  Wow.  
      November 8, Rainbow Dance is coming but I don't know who to invite.  Bill?  Tim?? 
      December 16, Went to see Blue Hawaii.  Mary Dahl and Judy Scruggs stayed all night with me.  I don't think Tim likes me.  

What I do remember with heart and soul are the memories we shared after the school day. Ironically, I carry fond memories of watching TV with my family and eating our meals on TV trays. The Ed Sullivan Show was my favorite, but I rarely missed Bonanza,Gunsmoke, Candid Camera, Andy Griffith, or Alfred Hitchcock. I discovered "As the World Turns" and other soap operas thanks to the lunches we shared at Judy Scrugg's house. Judy and I cried together at the drive in movie when mother took us to see "West Side Story."  I just knew that boy didn't die, even though mother and Judy let me know I was wrong.  

Eighth grade became a pivotal time in our history, and my parents took the Soviet threats seriously. Driving the Muntz, Dad's race car, my father made it an adventure to find shelter and safety for his family. By summer of 1961 a "bomb shelter" had been dropped into the

The awning covers the bomb shelter entrance.  

ground at 209 H NE.  Mother filled it with the proper foods and toiletries. (We didn't know all the dangers.)   It was my job to remind her to change the foods every six months.  It was a schedule we kept throughout my high school years.  And, yet, I only wished to live to be 16 and legally drive a car.

Fear comes in strange forms, and I suppose I never really thought I'd live to see the world, raise a family, much less enjoy a reunion fifty years after graduation. Like my diary, the count down has begun....11 days.    

Miami Oklahoma Class of 1965

P.S.  Doug Gosney, looks like I owe you a nickel.  

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian

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.