Reflections on Cool Clear Sunday

Storms flew through last night with no damage to report, thank heavens. 

Talking to a friend the other day, I made the comment, "I'm still mad at myself for not going to the
National Cowboy and Western History Museum to see the Spiro Mounds exhibit when it was there this last winter.  I know I had good excuses, but I really wanted to see it." 

Missing out on events bothers me more now than ever. I may not have another opportunity to see that exhibit. The feelings became rather visceral in me as I pondered how to live the next thirty years of my life. Yes, I'm an optimist and have plans for this one wild and precious life, that poet Mary Oliver so aptly described. She also wrote:

"Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it."

I want to remember LIFE and LIVING, and it would help if I started with yesterday, or what was I thinking about doing before I sat down to write?? This is how and why I began this weekly column: Reflections on a Rainy Summer Sunday

The Trails Golf Course, Norman

Three of us played golf Saturday, and noticed four baby mallards wandering around without mother nearby.  A couple of hundred yards away lay their dead mother mallard  Dead from hitting the power lines, not an errant golf ball.  Her neck was broken and our hearts cried.  When we drove by there an hour later no one had removed her body. So with prayers in our hearts, I walked over, picked her cold body up with a towel, then carried her to a graveyard of tall grasses.  "Bless her gentle soul, dear Lord, and watch after her babies." 

I know this is nature as it is meant to be.  Many times in my childhood I recall my father bringing home a nest of wild baby bunnies  We worked so hard to save them,, but wild bunnies are not meant for children and neighborhoods without fences.  

How sad, I think, what life must be for children and parents living in Afghanistan, and other parts of the warring world.

First bite of the season.

The best news of the week is that our garden burst open with fresh tomatoes. I know it is truly summer when I can eat our very own tomatoes while standing over the sink to make my juicy mess, like eating watermelon. 

I picked the rhubarb and made two pies. Yummy yummy sweet and tart. My first rhubarb pie since I left Kansas. 

The Norman Art Walk always brings delight, even more so when Jack and I are joined by Leah and Bobby. We began the evening at The Depot, where Jack and I were truly impressed with the artwork of Joey Frisillo from Tulsa.

Landscapes by Joey Frisillo, of Tulsa

She remarked about how much she likes our Oklahoma winters, and the friendly atmosphere.  Secretly, that makes me proud when people who have traveled and lived elsewhere make positive comments about living here.

Jack Chapman, The Bone Blossom
Prophecy

Then we discovered in the basement of Scratch, a restaurant with fine food and fresh drinks, a new room called the Speakeasy without the smoke and gangsters. We relaxed awhile with a drink in the cool quiet area. 

Over several thousand steps later we meandered through art walls of various pieces, people enjoying the cool evening outside, food trucks, dogs both large and tiny, delicious German food at Das Boot, Apple Tree Chocolates, and more art.  

WAIT WAIT...WHAT ABOUT ME?

I went to the doctor place this week . I weigh 24.6 pounds. That's like a lot, but then the man showed me a big dog (standard poodle) that had my color of hair. He said I might be that big someday. Letty made a funny sound.

Usually, all I hear from her is "OFF"  "STOP"  "NO!"  I listen and I try to not scratch and jump, and bite, but I want to be a flyboy when I grow up. I want to leap off couches, jump over tables, fly over gardens, and run faster than rabbits. I can already dig a hole to China, whatever that means. She says that if I don't learn to "come" when they call me then I will have to go to doggie school. My favorite thing to do is go for walks with Jack because he lets me sniff and tinkle when I want to. If I walk with Letty, she says, "Let's go Murphy...come on...keep up."  Sometimes I just sit in the shade on soft green grass because it feels good on my tummy. I know they like me  because they rubs my belly and my ears anytime I want. 

Murphy and the rabbits.

Oh, my name is Murphy Doodle and I am four months old. My mama is an Australian Shepherd and my daddy is a black poodle. I think I am important to Jack and Letty because I make them laugh at me everyday. 

click on this link to laugh more about Murphy Doodle

“Keep some room in your heart for the Unimaginable”

Mary Oliver, poet

The Happy Story of Murphy Doodle

As all great stories begin, "Once upon a time there was a great woman...Her name was Murphy Doodle." Two little girls met this colorful red-headed woman when they were only youngsters. She laughed louder than the other women, she smoked longer cigarettes than the other women, she wore higher heels and carried a large leather purse. In her heels she stood above the crowd, or so the two little perceived. People noticed this woman. When her friends wore hats to lunch at Inness's Department Store in downtown Wichita, Kansas, Murph, as her friends called her, wore a daring or unique hat.

Irene B, Mother, and Murphy Doodle playing pool after working all week at Boeing. c1942

Our father said that Murph had more freckles than any woman he'd ever seen, and with a pool stick could find a sucker to beat in a game of 8 Ball.  We thought she was the finest example of who we wanted to be someday. She gave her nickname, Murphy Doodle, to us, and we felt special. Where did she get the nickname, I'll never known, but I think perhaps her father teased her with that name. 

The obituary called her Marie Murphy, and stated that she was a secretary at Boeing, and then for a law office. She and her sister, Inez, lived their lives together as old maids. How sad the two grown girls, my sister and I, felt, that she hadn't been given credit for being the life in a crowd, for saving enough money to buy and restore an old home on Riverside Dr. in Wichita, for caring for her sister, and for dearly loving those two little girls.

Mother, Murphy Doodle, and a friend

After fifty years of storing this wonderful character in our hearts, we have given life to her name once again. 

Before we met our dog that Saturday in May, I named him Happy, because he made us happy just thinking about the joy and excitement that would be living with us. 

His playful moves in between our legs, the circles he raced chasing his tail, and the moment he discovered he could bark kept us in constant laughter the first week. 

 During that time we began to experiment with other names like;

Tippy, because he would run fast in the yard, stop and then tip over his head because he couldn't figure out how to stop his movement. The tip on the tail added more reason to this name. 

Sleepy from Disney's Seven Dwarfs because puppies can fall fast asleep anywhere in any position. Of course, we name ourselves Sneezy, Grumpy, Happy, and sometimes Dopey, so Happy or Sleepy would fit right in.

Caddy and Calloway were options, but I already knew friends who named their dogs after golf.

Now Wattson had possibility. I thought it was unique, but Jack didn't agree, even though he grinned at the name.  

A week into the name game, my sister said, "Letty you have to name him Murphy Doodle because he is part Doodle, or Poodle, which is it?"

Immediately, my heart when back to a time when I played on the ground with dogs, cats, baby rabbits, injured birds, toys, trains, dolls, lady bugs and four leaf clovers. Just then I laughed as loud as I could at this silly Happy puppy who tried to jump into the bird bath only to have it tip over and spray the water all over his face. He shook but his body didn't quite know how to shake from front to back. His shook so much he fell over. 

Instantly, I knew my sister had chosen the perfect name. Murphy Doodle may not laugh or act like the real Marie Murphy Doodle, but he makes everyone around him laugh and giggle like we are children, like a lady who laughed her way into my heart seventy years ago.

For more stories about dogs and adventures click on my links below:

Postcards from the Wild: Skagway, Alaska  

  Lucy Goosey      

Lucy 

For other dog stories by Literally Letty please click on the links below:

Ticky

Puppy Dog Love

Meaningful Moments

November brings sunlight, migrating birds, and a chill in the air, and yet this glorious state of Oklahoma can find summer days in November. Next week we have planned golf tee times for four days out of five. It is refreshing to enjoy so much sunshine and warmth after the ice storm of October, that has left our landscaped scarred. The rising fear of COVID 19 once again has settled into our souls, and we are looking for chances to enjoy friendships in the sun. 

Taking time to breath and relax after chopping, pulling, tugging, and tossing tree limbs, Jack and I took a long walk over the hidden hill, up and down, breathing deeply and laughing when we tired so quickly. On the last hill upward and homeward bound we saw a giant 'kissing tree,' or at least I saw a giant  tree on the horizon filled with mistletoe the size of leaf bags. Needing a chance to slow our pace, I gently tugged on Jack's arm and pointed upwards. He looked at the mass of mistletoe and smiled saying, "I love you." I returned his smile but didn't budge.

Once again pointing upward I asked, "And what is the custom when standing under mistletoe?" Without another word he pulled me into his chest, covered my body with his arms, and planted a sloppy loving kiss on my lips. I just love being in love.

During this week when the world whirled with Presidential controversy, we said yes to babysitting a Goldendoodle puppy nearly four months old. No cliche of my mother's could describe the hysterical mayhem that existed in our quiet home for two and a half days. So innocent, little Miss June Bug appeared.

Her puppy energy flowed indoors and outdoors. Like we did with Lucy, we went outside with our puppy and played ball. It didn't last long because she discovered the torn tassels of the pampas grass broken and strewn all over our yard by the storms. Junie B, as I nicknamed her, carried the flowering tassels in her mouth and ran in a gallop back and forth across the yard. Tiny fluffs of pampas grass floated into the air like children blowing bubbles.

On day two I drove to PetCo and bought chew toys, and oh, did she ever love to tug, growl, and bit at anything that moved, including our feet and ankles. We never quit laughing.

On day three I attempted to sit in on a Zoom meeting. What was I thinking? I did my best to pay attention, but Junie B had other plans, like chew on a golf ball. Not good I tried to explain to her, then she found a squeaky toy that I keep for kids to play with, not good I explained and grabbed it from her.  At last she found a workout ball that she could chew, and occasionally found my sock and ankle to chew on. I lasted forty minutes on Zoom. I can't imagine the view my friends had of me as I continually dropped away from the computer screen to pull something out of the dog's mouth. 

That afternoon, I invited our neighbor to bring her six month old puppy over to play.  

Quinn, Australian Shepherd looks so regal on his footstool, but in action he runs like an Oklahoma dust storm in constant motion, never missing a swirl.  

Watching Junie B trying to run figure eights was a riot. Quickly, Junie B caught on that she would not be able to keep up the race, so she stood crosswise to the running dog and took the passing blows of Quinn, leaving both dogs to roll and tumble. For nearly an hour, Linda and I sat in lawn chairs watching the dogs play. For a moment, I thought back to the days when I sat in the park, a proud young mother watching her daughter play on the slides and swings. She was always a dare-devil in the spirit of play. 

Our minister called to check on us this week. It filled my heart with joy to hear his voice and concerns. I explained that even though we felt apprehensive with the coming months of indoor activity, we had managed to play more golf this summer than in the years when I felt younger. He wished he had an escape like golf.

Ironically, I have golfing friends who sometimes say things like; I am really not competitive, I just like to play golf with friends and be social. I just laugh, because I know that deep down inside each one of my golfing friends has a competitive streak. 

On a warm day this week, with only a hint of a breeze three of us teed off near the ten o'clock hour. Even though I thought I hit the ball with zing and power I found that my short game stumped me. On hole nine, I chunked my favorite chip shot to the green and my head dropped in disgust. "That hurt my ego," I expressed out loud. We laughed. 

On hole thirteen none of us went in the water, but Donna, our five foot tall dynamo out drove me, on a great drive I might add. She nearly danced a jig she was so proud. Naturally, we took a photo with her showing her bitch wings and me pointing to a ball not even in the picture.

Being a non-competitive group of ladies, and that's a tall tale, we continued on our lovely day in the sun sharing stories. On hole number eighteen, the last hole of the day, we teed off and each of us found the fairway with our tee shots. Being able to say that our tee shot is in play (in the fairway), is a great line to use in golf, especially when the leaves have fallen and the rough is littered with brown crumpled leaves that hide golf balls from men and women alike.  

"Ah ha!" Kathy yelled pointing her finger toward the ground, "Look what I did. I just out drove both of you."

With a little imagination look for three golf balls, 
foreground, middle left, and front. 

I am sure glad this is not a competitive group of women golfers, but they are some of the greatest ladies I have ever been blessed to play golf with regularly. And that is most meaningful for me.

Saying Goodbye

Each room in our home is emptier now, since Lucy Girl died.  Our "Loved Dog" said her good-byes to us over a three day period of sickness from which she could not recover.

We knew, as we sat on the floor with her. We knew. She Knew.

She knew. Our time together was short, and like every day of her life and ours, we made the most of it.  Our neighbor, Julie, walked slowly with tears in her eyes after I called and said, 'please come say good-bye.' Even then Lucy shared her kisses and found one last bounce in her step for Julie.

  The Joys of our silly cow dog:

 

I once wrote that I might never have become a blogger if it hadn't been for our silly dog (click on the link to read the blog) Loosey Goosey

 

Silly, curious, like every dog, she explored her world with zest and gave us hours of laughter, stories, and memories. First Contact

She discovered the most remarkable trails in our journeys across the middle states.  Guard of the Plains

I-70 Eisenhower Interstate

Even in the garden I find it empty without her curious nose into every plant, bush, and possible rabbit trail. Always near my side she became My Shadow

sixteen stories including our good-bye. Perhaps my favorite was the most recent, as Lucy was 'OUR' companion, not just mine.  Puppy Dog Love

Today, I sat alone in the closet pulling on my walking shoes. Her nose was not there sniffing my shoes, pawing at me to hurry. "Hurry,  let's go walking and exploring."

 So a toast to Lucy....I will think of you each time I put on those old walking shoes. I will look for you under my feet. I will look for you following Jack from the Kitchen to the table. I will miss you at Jack's side. I will look for you in the 'man cave' keeping an eye on Jack, an eye on me, and an eye on the front door. Our great protector is gone.  

 

 Now, we will see her among the flowers. 

 *RIP Lucy Girl, September 10, 2020

Other Lucy blogs: 

First Contact on Becoming a Dog

...And My Shadow

Thunder Is Not Just a Basketball Team

The New Addition--Scooter

Postcards from the Wild: Skagway, Alaska

A Vast Silence reigned over the Land.  The Land itself was a Desolation, Lifeless without movement, so Lone and Cold that the Spirit of it was not even that of Sadness...It was the Wild. 
                                                     Jack London, White Fang

 Wild sprung up around us as the small white bus
 climbed the mountains away from Skagway. 

Switching toward the water's edge and away,
back and forth we bumped and swerved onward to the last port of the Alaskan Gold Rush, the ghost town of Dyea.

We were not seeking gold in the Klondike,
nor hiking into Canada;

Merely dreaming of  a snowy Alaskan dog sled run complete with Huskies and Malamutes.

Alas, there was no snow, no blue-eyed dogs of old who carried with them bold attitudes and acts of defiance.

The new breed, smaller slender and more eager to  run.

Rains gently fell soaking our smiles of delight as the dogs pulled and tugged at our sleds.

Yapping continually, they seemed to generate even more energy. Winter in Aspen couldn't come soon enough for these sled dogs.


Mud, low clouds, and ferns greeted us, not snow.
That wouldn't fall until September. 

Mushrooms, ferns, and rain forest plants lined the
slippery muddy track, but no one complained.
Mushing through the Tongass Rainforest opened our senses to smell of mold, of moistly cushioned leaves and dying debris. 

Our upwards hike opened vistas of the salt water
inlet that carried thousands of souls on their perilous journey North.

Treacherous terrain grabbed our attention at every step,
and awe of the mighty mountains.

Imagining the cold, shivers ran up our spines when we thought of  White Fang and Buck in Call of the Wild.  
Breathing in the cool air and emptiness of the space, my heart beat for the man, too cold, to empty, To Build a Fire. 

The warmth of sunshine in Skagway greeted us upon return.

Old codgers in their rocking chairs nodded to the tourist, as they showed off their dogs. 

Tibetan Mastiff

Sipping on a beer and sharing a meal, we reveled in our experiences: I could lick the clouds in my face on the mountainside...Wasn't that merely mud from the dogs?...Can you imagine traveling upstream in the bitter cold current...The desolation and fatigue killed so many...The cold.


At day's end, we marveled at the size of our ship,
and sighed in gratitude for living and traveling in 2016.

Skagway and Dyea map of the Gold Rush
*For more information on the Klondike Gold Rush please click on the link above.  It is one of the best sights I've found.

Miami Memories: Tick Tock

One of the saddest days of my life occurred on a hot summer Monday at Elk River in Missouri when I about ten years old. Our family had enjoyed a relaxing day of swimming, light fishing, meals of campfire hot dogs covered in mustard and relish, and baloney sandwiches with dessert of roasted marshmallows on gram crackers (the chocolate Hersey bars never lasted till evening). My sister and I had spent hours in the cold waters of Elk River trying to catch perch in our summer sand buckets. Oh, those wise parents of ours, who convinced us that we could catch them in tiny little buckets! What we caught, in the end, was a good night's sleep. Our little dog Ticky accompanied us on our Monday outings and never strayed far from our campgrounds. Late in the afternoon with the campfire roaring and sticks ready to grill the hot dogs our little dog failed to appear.

Ticky, our pet, had found us one summer evening a few years before, and I knew in my child's heart he'd find us again. This stubby short brown haired dog with the face of a pug that had been pushed out from the inside appeared in our backyard one night on E st SW about the time Dad hauled out the homemade trash barrel BBQ grill. The grill must have smelled like a dozen nights of steak and hamburger drippings. This nameless stray dog plopped himself down by the grill and watched Dad's every move.

Mother reached down to pet the little stray just as I picked him up. Then I heard her screech, "Ticks." Too late. I carried the dog in my arms over to my dad, who was now seated in a lawn chair with a beer in hand. On the ground beside my father I placed the little dog like an offering to a God, all the while my mother screeched in the background, "He's covered in ticks, let him go." At my dad's feet, this little dog began to scratch his belly and with his bucky teeth tried to clean himself before the man who might have a hand out. Even dad's hand jerked away when he saw the revolting ticks on the dogs back. Then we realized the poor little dog was covered head to toe in ticks.

Dinner was delayed that night as a team of surgeons went to work on the dog. Dad put some gasoline in the bottom of a coffee can, then Jonya, Dad, and I sat down and pulled ticks off and dropped them in the can. The fat ugly ticks squirmed in the gas until at last they sunk to the bottom, dead! Mother stayed in the kitchen. The stray little dog waited and wiggled patiently as we worked to clean him up. At long last the poor dog was somewhat presentable to mother. When at last dinner was served the little dog was rewarded with table scraps of hamburger and a steak bone, and our little dog, Ticky, had found a home.

But now time was ticking away for our lost little dog.

But now time was ticking away for our lost little dog. Mother and my sister, Jonya, who had the melodramatic voice of a heroine tied to the railroad tracks, yelled for Ticky, while dad and i walked to every camped area asking and calling for our ever faithful companion. It wasn't like Ticky to leave Dad's side, he was a daddy's dog. The four of us choked down our hot dogs that night between tears. After dark we'd given up hope, and I saw tears stream down my dad's face as we packed the station wagon for home.

We all gave one last tearful call for Ticky and then two little girls, crying their hearts out, were loaded into the station wagon. With windows down we screamed, "Ticky, Ticky, Ticky," all the way to the highway. Just as the dirt road stopped at the paved highway, the headlights of the car spotted a little brown dog sitting off to the side of the road watching every pair of headlights driving by. I've never seen my father so jubilant and teary eyed as he jumped from the car, nearly forgetting to put it in park, and picked up that forlorn little brown dog with dark woeful eyes. Happiness flooded our car that night as we sang "How Much Is That Doggie in the Window," and every other happy song my mother could remember. Truly that was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Letty Stapp Watt
storyteller and historian
 

Up the Tree (First Contact continued)

Our street ends on the North with a country road. As my friends who’ve visited here have noted, “You really do live at the edge of town.” It is on this edge that my dog, Lucy, and I frequently walk.

Because she runs along the hedgerow with her nose to the ground, we often stir up rabbits, quail, squirrels, stray cats, and some unpleasant critters. Only a few nights had passed since we’d

made “First Contact” with the new cat in town when “Lucy the flying goose” as we sometimes call her, disturbed a cat hiding in the hedgerow and caused quite a ruckus in the neighborhood. Molly the blond lab, Finn the golden retriever, Zoe and Gracie the pound puppies across the street often send out the word that Lucy’s on the run. Their barks cry, “Go Lucy Go. We’re your cheerleaders, wish we could be your backup J.

It was an ever so slight rustle in the bushes then suddenly, the chase was on. I’ve noticed that dogs

Cat is one jump higher on left.

bark with zeal as they chase, but cats reserve their energy for the climb or confrontation. This time the black cat found an old cottonwood with a low outstretched arm. With the grace of a sprinter the cat clawed its way up the tree and then stopped. At another “Y” branching limb with room to perch the cat turned to face the barking chaser.

One heart beat behind Lucy raced, while I jumped and ran with the grace of a cow. Lucy reached the tree barking, then circled it twice giving herself time to create a strategy. I stood a bush away watching and waiting to see how long Lucy would circle and bark. The black cat blended in quite well with the spring branches and leaves. The story might have ended here had the cat not risen on it’s legs, arched it’s back, and hissed.

The challenge was too great for Lucy to ignore. She leaped like a fox straight up into the first fork of the heavily barked old tree. From her new vantage point she could see the

cat. Forgetting that she was a dog she climbed that ‘Y’ shaped branch. Then like the cat a few nights before, she slid back down.

By now the corner neighbor ventured out to see what the commotion was about. “Well, I never seen a dog climb a tree like that,” he laughed. Over and over Lucy climbed, slid, fell to the ground and started again. The cat now in a perched position continued hissing tease and seemed to watch the show with glee.

My mind flashed back to a scene from Where the Red Fern Grows when the boy tried to call off his dog from the treed raccoon. I saw that determined look on Lucy and at last walked over to her. “That’s all girl. Let’s go. You did really well. I’m safe.”

Game is over.

She stopped barking. I put the lease on her collar. This time Lucy walked off with her tail wagging, leaving the cat to watch her swagger.

Scarface

I set up my blog site with the mission to laugh and entertain. Literally, it was designed for me to share my experiences learning, living, laughing, and loving life. But the other day I found myself wanting to rant and rave about an issue in our community and schools. I was ready to write an Op-Ed article stating my point of view. Luckily, my heart won out. In an attempt to keep my site lite, I threw on warm winter clothes and huffed out the door with the dog on lease. What a great relief to be able to walk down country roads babbling in my head and occasionally out loud, so that before long my issues had been streamed away by the cool winter blasts.

Just like that my eyes were opened to adventure. Walking West down the dirt road I am always glancing for oncoming cars and trucks and birds of our prairie gracing the low skies. Lucy, our blue heeler mix, runs pell-mell every which direction with her nose to the ground. I become her protector from traffic while she chases field mice, birds, cows, horses, and oh yes, dastardly squirrels.

Eyes opened wide. 

Lucy's Birdseye view of the pastures.

 

At that moment two squirrels were seen in the distance hurrying and scurrying about the field. Lucy froze, which way to run. Both squirrels managed to deceive her when they ran in opposite directions and then back to the row of trees protecting them. Lucy's run was in vain, except for the blessing that it reminded me of on a summer day a few years ago when we both literally, came face to face with a daring squirrel.

Far down the dirt road away from the tree line we spotted a squirrel skittering around. As we walked closer I noticed the horses in the field were mesmerized by the critter making her way hither and yon on their grazing turf. As the horses closed in on two sides Lucy and I closed in leaving only high prairie grass for escape; the nearest telephone pole was a ways down the road. Just then the squirrel panicked. Her short attempts at escape from the chasing dog and formidable horses took her nowhere. Then suddenly she noticed two tan legs that must have looked like saplings. In an instance she was scrambling up my left leg.

My eyes met hers then a frightened scream and frantic leap erupted from my rigid body. The squirrel flew from my thigh to mid air and down. In passing she took a swipe at Lucy's barking nose. With blood now trickling down my leg and dripping from the dog's nose, the distraction gave the squirrel a chance to run the fence line and up the nearest telephone pole.

From the top of the pole she had the nerve to chatter chatter spit on us as we limped by. By the time we wiped our bloody wounds with last year's Kleenex and walked on home, all signs and thoughts of frustrations and worldly issues were far from my mind. We both healed with only a few scratches to show of our encounter, but we did call Lucy "Scarface" from time to time. Luckily, adventures don't happen just once. They live on in our minds to rescue us from moments of thoughtlessness.