The Birthday Challenge--What Will You Do?

Christmas and birthdays have always coincided in our family. One of the funniest things about Christmas birthdays is that birthday cards trickle in from the beginning of month to the New Year along with Christmas cards.  As the "Family Circus" cartoon shared this week when the little boy looked at the calendar and saw that his friend's birthday fell on the 26 of December. He said, "He just missed being Jesus."  We all missed that mark, but it made me smile at his innocence.

As adults we understand why our birthday gifts were wrapped in Christmas paper, and why birthday parties during the holiday season are rare. This year a SURPRISE greeted me at the door. An opened door revealed two friends, standing in the door way holding this note:

Two friends presented me with this Happy Birthday message, chocolate mousse cake, birthday cards both sweet and naughty, and a gift of teas for my BIRTH-TEA. Before I knew what happened we were singing, laughing, and wiping chocolate off our faces like little children. 

Kim Stone, Letty, Beth Brown

Tears trickled down my face as I laughed. My friends had gone out of their way to make the moment special for me. My heart was filled with love and happiness. Thank you, dear friends, for sharing your time with us. 

More often during the holidays Jack and I enjoy sitting quietly, reading, watching birds out the windows, and playing with Murphy Doodle. Winter solitude fills my soul with peace and a deep sense of gratitude for the world around me. I make time to relax and listen to the morning chirps of the robins after sunrise. 

This week I read the sweetest reflection on sisterhood. It did all I asked of a book. It made me smile, laugh, and think. 

Challenges are something we all face and learn from. This story shares my challenge to each of us in the coming year. Barbara Piece Bush, and her sister Jenna Bush Hager together with others founded the Global Health Corps in 2009. Their mission to develop a generation of leaders committed to realizing health as a human right across the globe. In their book Sisters First (2017. Grand Central Publishing, p. 234) Barbara describes a memory that has stayed near to heart about a child living in Burundian.

Alida grew up with several brothers and sisters; many of them were the children of friends that her parents had taken in during hears of bloody civil war. They treated all children equally, regardless of whether they were related. On birthdays in her family, rather than being showered with presents and treated as someone special, you were asked to make a case of why, in the previous year, you had lived the best year that you could. You did get a cake, but first you had to share what you had done for other people and how you had contributed. 

I was struck, she continued, by the profound idea, even for little kids--the concept that you needed to make a case that you were living life in a way that was worth it, in a way that was giving to others. You are here for a reason, and you should be grateful for every year, and be ready to do the most with the next one.

This story humbled me greatly and yet filled my heart with hope and respect for those who make a huge difference in our world. I thank all  the people who share their lives with the less fortunate. Reflecting on what I might have done in the previous year helped me clear my head and heart. I hadn't lived up to a worldwide standard but I had stepped in and helped others. 

As my new year continues, I will keep this thought in my mind, "I am here for a reason and will do my best to help our community be a better place to live and show respect for others." A plan of action will follow this. 

What will you do? 

 

I LOVE LIVING

Fall trees at Dillon Nature Center, Hutchinson, Ks. 

We met that fall morning in the parking lot outside the hospital. She reached in her trunk to pull out a basket of scrape booking materials. "Would you like some help with the basket?" I asked.  

"No, I'm fine today. Thank you." With a heavy breathe she continued, "I may not feel this good after the treatment today. The days get really long for me."  

My heart took a double beat with her heavy sigh. Here she was smiling and looking at the sunlight. With a joyous expression on her face and a glisten in her eyes, she looked around at the hospital complex, of concrete, bricks, and asphalt, and then the sky. "I love living, Letty. I don't want to die." 

I LOVE LIVING

"So do I, Sue. I love living." But the words stayed on my tongue. I wasn't strong enough to repeat her words. I knew her cancer was more serious than we wanted to acknowledge, and I cried inside for her. For her zest for life. For her abundance of joy that she spread to all around her. For her family and selfishly, for me.

Prairie Dunes Country Club, Hutchinson, Kansas

It was a cold January and we were celebrating our sixtieth birthdays at Prairie Dunes. Sue was a friend who laughed like I did when it came to telling stories about plucking hair from our cheeks our round table of women took turns topping each others stories about aging, and asking over and over 'what next.' We laughed especially hard over the long black hairs that hung from our chins. Gads! you could see the look of agony as personal stories flashed through our minds of chin hairs. The next time it was the pitiful stories of shaving our mustaches for the first time.

Here we were at sixty trying to laugh out loud at our new 'old' bodies. Month by month we poked fun at our fragilities from puffy eye bags to sparse eyebrows; from wrinkles to 'wisdom spots' on our faces and arms.  

The friends all joined in the laughter with stories. "Ladies," one woman who confessed to being older than sixty placed her arm on the table, rolled up her blousy sleeve and continued, "This is why we wear long sleeve blouses all year long." Then she curiously rolled her skin back and forth using her index finger. She even went on to show us how she could pinch and pull up loose skin. We snorted we laughed so hard. I think it was after that story that the club gave us space to gather away from the lunch crowd. 

Perhaps we had shared a bottle of wine or beer at the luncheon that day. We seemed louder and funnier than ever, when Sue dropped her voice, gathered our attention and then pointed at her chin. "Look. Look at me." In silence we looked. "See."  She pointed to a camel colored mole, then she began to wisp two white hairs back and forth. Her cackle erupted, "I have become a HAG and I'll pull your little hairs out one by one."  Our table roared with laughter. We loved to be in her audience.

WE LOVE LIFE.

Months passed. Things happened.

I often arrived to sit with Sue on Wednesday afternoons for a couple of hours.  Sometimes I helped her paste things into her scrape book for her children. Other times we shared our joys, sorrows, funny moments we experienced from golfing with other women, all told with a desire to share our lives and love for living. We still played golf on warm summer days. We saw hope on the horizon.   

Prairie Dunes Country Club, Hutchinson, Ks. 

On a late spring day, I walked her to the car to say our evening good-byes. Tears I'd never seen before began to flow. Catching her breathe between sobs she said, "Here. I have to show you something." I watched closely as she put her basket in the car and pulled out a plastic sack. Shaking and crying she reached inside and pulled out an object that looked like a prop from a HALLOWEEN movie. It was a brownish toned mask with tiny holes along the forehead and down one side to the ear. 

It was my turn to gasp and catch my breathe. Holding the mask away from her like a dead animal she sobbed, "The cancer has metastasized in my brain. They told me that I now have to come back for radiation."  I reached for a hug. As she rested her head on my shoulder, she sobbed, "I don't want to wear that mask. It's dark. It's ugly. I don't want sting rays shooting through my head." We cried. 

At last she sobbed, "I just want to live. Doesn't God know that I LOVE LIVING?"

I don't remember being able to come up with words of encouragement. I do remember we continued to share what we loved best about living, to the point that we compared our crooked toes right there in the room full of patients all receiving chemo. 

Sue Wagler

January 23, 1948 - September 03, 2010

Surprise Lilies by night 

Dear Sue, 

I hear your words "I love to Live. I love living," ringing in my head these days. I noticed out my window that a few bulbs are reaching up through the cold mantle of earth. Our perennials. Sue, you are my shining example of a Perennial. I pray that I may never forget how much joy living brings us. Did I ever tell you that I LOVE LIVING, too?

A View of Life as a Perennial

Click on this link to read another story about living and loving life as a Perennial. 

The Address Book

The old and the new.

My address books may not have carried much value over the years, except at Christmas when I yearly mailed cards and short stories to friends and family.  The year my parents died a few months apart, my sister and I felt abandoned and lost when Christmas time came.  Someone else lived on the farm, and the Miami Country Club, our second home, had burned to the ground.  In the midst of my Christmas heartache I found Mother's address book, with names and addresses of hundreds of friends they had met over the years.

That December I used my mother's address book and began sending cards to many of my parent's  friends, along with a short typed note explaining that our parents had died unexpectedly that year.  Most every person I contacted replied, and many of them shared hand written stories or pictures of mom and dad.

That year I learned the value of personal address books. In a distant way it kept my parents memory alive.

This year my old address book looked more like scribble than readable address. In the decades of that book friends had moved several times, some simply lost touch, while others died. I couldn't even read some of my own handwriting, as I searched for people and addresses that were current.  A simple solution, I bought a new book, one with a shining cover. Then began the task of writing out names and current addresses of people with whom I shared Christmas, birthday, or anniversary cards  With each and every name in my book I see that person and for a moment my brain scans through times we shared, through tears, hysterical laughter, somber moments, tough talks.

One year LaVonne's letter shared how her son had run through a plate glass window. When other people might have been shocked or worried, I laughed. Our son, Michael, had once run through our sliding glass door without bloody injury the day before we were to leave on a two week vacation in the yellow van. We had to hire a house sitter for a day or two until the glass company could be there to fix the door. Oh, such memories. 

Christmas cards are pictures on a world of people who have walked through my life and made it better.

That should have been the end of the story except this time, more people had died than I ever realized. It rattled me to realize how decades had passed.

I posted on short note on Facebook sharing my feelings. Barbara replied, "I hear you. We are at that age where we have friends dying all too often. I replaced my address book last year for the same reasons you mentioned."  Her words lifted my spirits.  Someone else shares my feelings. Her words were echoed through out the list of replies.

Still there was no answer for my heart on what to do about all the names of people who have died. Then another friend posted the answer that put me back on track. Debbie wrote, "One of my least-favorite book work tasks. I feel I am disrespecting a friend or loved one by marking out their name or deleting their phone number on my phone. I can't do it. In time, I start a new address book but their phone number will remain in my phone until I need a new phone..."

Thanks to Debbie's words, I noticed a place on each tab page of the new address book that stated 'Quick Reference.' A perfect place to list a name and hometown of a friend who has passed away from this earthly life.  Now for the next few decades my friends will have a new home in my address book, and a smile from me when I see their names.

Thinking back about address books and writing this story, I realized that there is more to the value of that book than just printed names. Addresses write our history. My stories come from 209 H st. N E,  3030 Oakland, Nebraska st, Canterbury st and more. We didn't have many pictures, so our words had to tell the story.

August 4, 1911, Hulst Holland, Peter de Bakker, Prosperity Mo, Amerika

Place was how families stayed connected with oceans between them. Letters told of babies dying, people moving, aches and pains of growing older, and other news of the day. The stories of our families, our genealogy are directly tied to place and time. 

I started writing pen pals letters in 5th grade  through addresses found in My Weekly Reader.  Then on vacation in the summer of 1959 at Branson, Missouri, I met the Kuhlman family. Susan and I immediately became friends and pen pals until the 1970's when we both had children and lost touch.  A few years ago during a trip that Jack and I took to St. Louis, I saw a highway sign that showed Mexico, Mo. I wondered whatever happened to my friend Susan.  Over the next week of traveling, thanks to Facebook, I found my long lost Pen Pal. A year later we met up in Mexico, Missouri and told stories all morning long.  Sadly, Susan in now in hospice care. I heard the tinkling of tiny china bells the other day and wondered when or if Susan had received her angel wings.

The ebb and flow of our lives will continue in the book of life. 

If you like this story you may also like these stories. Simply click on the link below.
Postcards from the Wild

Postcards from the Road


Postcards from Alaska

Pen Pals Lost and Found

Consumed by a Story

A Butterfly in the Cosmos

We are like butterflies that flutter for a day

 and think it is forever. 

Carl Sagan

After nearly three months of deconstructing the flooring, adding new 18" tile, new carpet in three rooms, new bathroom counter top and painting the hallways, we created a new refreshing home where the sun radiates warmth from East to West. In the midst of this chaos we took time to gaze upon a moment, to show gratefulness for this opportunity of construction, to smile and give thanks for being here at this time, at this place, with these people we love. A simple delight like a butterfly examining my hand refreshes our souls and creates an energy that can uplift each of us in special ways. For this I am thankful.

For creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through LOVE.  C.Sagan

Walking in the fields on North Base with our Lucy dog offers us a tiny speck of the immensity of our earth, that often looks so flat.  The skies are criss-crossed on clear winter days with contrails from the jets, and for that we are filled with gratitude that we stand where we do and see God's beauty through space. A tiny dandelion grows in the middle of the jogging path, the only flower to be found in a sea of grasses. When do I ever say thanks for that bright yellow weed, except on a winter's day?   Gracias

 

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere.  C.Sagan

Perhaps this is where Frodo may have lived? Behind "tiny doors" who can tell. Look around, you might be amazed to find a tiny door opening your mind to the world.  Kansha (Japanese) 

Most of the people I deal with are human, so I've had a lot of experience with that. C. Sagan

One cold windy day not long ago I played golf  in The Trails Club Championship with my friends.  It was so cold we laughed at ourselves for being out there. When we reminded each other that a truly blustery north wind would soon arrive we played even faster which caused even more laughter, because my tight warm winter pants began to stretch and slide down my hips.  The faster we played, the faster I found myself hiking my now very loose fitting pants before I could take a step, before I could swing, before I could putt, before I could step out of the bunker I had to jump up and hike up my pants. Now that is not a lady like way to play golf, but oh so funny. We laughed so hard that day that we paid very little attention to the stress of a club championship.

Being only human on this tiny speck of dust, standing with my pants gathering around my ankles I never worried about my swing, or hurting my back. On that day I won the Club Championship at age 70. We all cheered with laughter for finishing the round before the bitter winds swept through, and I turned my eyes to heaven and said thank you. In my heart I gave thanks to my parents who worked so hard to raise the woman I am today. Daily I give thanks to all of the people who are a part of my life.  S'gi (Cherokee)

Look at that dot. '  That's home. That's us...every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there--on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.  C.Sagan

It is the sunbeam I appreciate from day to day. Even when I cannot see it, I know it is there. 

"Go raibh maith agat" Irish for "May you have goodness."

Oh, Chihuly

OKC Museum of Art, Chihuly centerpiece

Chihuly floor to ceiling 

Playfully reacting to art is how I define a memorable moment in a museum.  Even though Chihuly Art * strikes me as "Do Not Touch" glass, in reality it's expressive nature demands more than a stance and stare by viewers.  Dale Chihuly tempts and teases me to reach out and touch, "I dare you."  But years of my mother's quick arm lashings and Do Not Touch scoldings prevented me from doing something costly and stupid. 


While touring the OKC Museum of Art with friends Lora and Leah, we were delighted to walk through the Chihuly gallery filled with illuminated colors of topaz, gold, scarlet, silver, cobalt blue, emerald green, and shapes that shift like in a dream.

The three of us did our best to be content with looking from various angles at the colorful structures of sapphire, amethyst, canary, and indigo. When we walked into a hallway leading to another room filled with bold designs, we were stopped in our tracks.  The lighting in the ceiling flooded the hallway in streams of colors from the Chihuly art hanging above us. Our mouths dropped open in amazement.  Not being satisfied to stare with heads leaning backwards we took our own bold move, and sat ourselves down on the floor at the far end where no one would walk on us, merely by us. From sitting we finally built up the nerve to lay on the floor. 

3 L's laughing not lounging on the floor

A ceiling filled with Chihuly's colorful designs. 

We laughed, pointed, admired, and gazed at the incredible art illuminating the hallway.  Dale Chihuly's art gave us a moment to remember. His designs and colors still float serenely through my mind's eye leaving me with the desire to discover more  Chihuly at Crystal Bridges, Bentonville, Arkansas.*


The temptation to touch, to peek, lurks within my spirit. On the cruise ship last year a magnificent blue glass Chihuly stood in the middle of crowded room. Since no one seemed to notice the art amidst the throngs of people and with an ever so slight desire to touch the magical art, I walked over to view the glass tentacles of twirling blues and greens.  Suddenly, before I could reach out to touch two little girls scooted in front of me pointing, twisting their hands and arms like licorice, and giggling at the glass work that sat on the floor reaching upward to five feet in the air, just the right size for children.  It was their giggling that caught my attention, so rather than touch I giggled. After all, the glass work demanded a show of spirited feelings.  

Similar to the swirling art on the cruise ship.
It can be viewed at the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. 

So, until I win the lottery and buy my own Chihuly to touch, I will continue to giggle in delight, twirl in circles like the swirls in his spherical shapes, and admire the glass art from a distance.

**Please click on the colored links to other sites. 

This is what we have to look forward to at Crystal Bridges.
Thank you Annette Mackey for sharing.

What a Way to Go!

 The crisp winter sun warmed a living room filled with grown nieces, nephews, greats and grands, and a tree brightly gleaming for an early Christmas with Aunt Pat’s family.  One by one the children opened their gifts with joyous shouts, the adults chimed in as gift by gift opened to surprises.  Pat laughed and continued to direct who would open the next gift.  We loved her skills at directing the chaos of Christmas,  a classroom, or a school filled with teachers, children, and parents.  Pat took charge.

Her golfing friends from Prairie Dunes lovingly nicknamed her Madam President and Lemmon Drop. When she'd hug someone she admired she might say with a giggle, "I bet you've never been squeezed by a lemon before."  She loved it when we teased her because she understand that we knew her deep down inside.  We knew she loved children; she loved life; she loved organizing people. Her commitment to Civic Duty in Hutchinson, Ks made a positive impact for many.

More than anything she loved to play golf and bring friends to Prairie Dunes.  As the sometimes self-appointed greeter for generations of people coming through the doors of her beloved golf course, Pat beamed with pride. She was never short on her opinions.  One of her proudest achievements in golf came when she won the Jeanine Washburn trophy in 2003 and 2009. It had been her idea to celebrate her friend, Jeanine, by creating a trophy for the Senior woman who played the best in the annual City Tournament.

Trudy, Pat, Letty, Doris, Manon, LeeAnn, Pat Lemmon 2003

Putting was her favorite part of playing golf, and she secretly carried on conversations with the original designer of Prairie Dunes, Perry Maxwell, about the dastardly breaks and nuances of the greens. When her golf ball rolled in the hole you could see her blue eyes sparkle in delight.  However, her golf ball sometimes went sideways instead of straight ahead, causing much laughter by those of us in her group. One time she hit the ball on the heel of the club causing the ball to eject behind her on the left side. In a heartbeat Trudy and I leaped skywards avoiding a sharp blow from the golf ball.  As we stood stunned Pat merely looked at us and asked, “Why were you standing there?”  Why explain that we thought standing behind someone and a few yards up was generally a safe place to be!  After stunned silence there was laughter, and with Lemmon Drop you could count on her high pitch laughter. 

Ike, Pat Lemmon, Sonja. Book Club dinner

At book club she regularly  had a point to make. When we heard her words, "Now I have something to say."  We all turned. She waited until the room was silent, then with her strict teacher/principal look she’d hold the book up for us to see and state her mind. We might have disputed her opinion from time to time, but we remained focused on her when she spoke.  Madam President knew how to control the situation.

That early December afternoon after kisses and hugs had gone round the room for thanks and love, her niece Susan stood up to bring in the fudge that Pat especially loved.  Within the moment, Pat Lemmon, my friend, a woman respected by thousands, closed her eyes and slumped in the chair. A massive ischemic stroke had closed her eyes forever. 

I wasn’t there but I can only imagine the beauty of her smile and the gentle touch from heaven above.  She never regained consciousness and died one week later. Oh, what a way to go. 

How ironic, that her death found a way to lift my spirits and belief in the almighty’s timing.  We are watching my mother-in-law travel the long painful road to heaven, and our hearts  break each day as we see her life slowly fading away.  “Why,'  I’ve cried to God so many times, “Why does my mother-in-law have to struggle and suffer this long slow aging process.”  After hearing that Pat Lemmon, was uplifted in such peace and glory, like The Little Match Girl, I realized the truth in these words from Ecclesiastes 3:

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven;

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

Thanks for the memories Madam President.

Obituary for Pat Lemmon

The Byrds-- Turn Turn Turn

The Golf Gypsy: Full Circle

Golf a four letter word.

A few weeks ago my friend, Leah Jackson, and I went out for dinner.  There in her car was a large lavender marble painted gift sack stuffed with colorful tissue paper. Before we pulled out of the drive way Leah said, "This is a Susi Gift for you." Where upon she added, "Open it now before we leave."  

I queried her about a Susi gift, and she said, "It is an old Southern tradition.  Simply a gift for a friend..."

With happy hands and a smiling face I carefully pulled out the colorful papers to find this photo framed and staring at me.  I laughed, "Golly, Leah my parents used to have a picture like this hanging in the den.  I haven't seen it in years, but I love it.  Where ever did you find it?"  

With sparkles in her eyes she said, "Turn it over."  There on the back of the wooden framed picture were my father's words and my mother's words, in their handwriting, and dated.  Before I could speak I cried, and even cry now with tears of happiness as I relate this tale.  

A gift returned forty years later.

In dad's handwriting it reads, Oct. 1975.
In mother's handwriting it reads, 

                                           12/21/75
To Jack and Norma ___
      The number one couple of the Miami Country Club.  
      May the worst thing in your lives be a single bogey.

  Johnie and Helen Stapp


Leah married Scotty Jackson, son of Doc and Norma Lou Jackson from Miami, Oklahoma.  As the years passed we attended the funerals for Norma Lou, Doc, and many of our Miami friends. Then nearly two years ago Scott Jackson died, leaving Leah and her two children.  We moved back to Norman shortly after Scott's death, and Leah and I have become dear friends.  Leah and Scott cherished this photo after his parents died, and now Leah has given the photo back.

We both cried and hugged that evening before we even left for dinner.  It's not often life blesses you with friends like Leah and the Jackson family.  

The old cherished picture has a new place in our home, right where we can see it every day after a game of golf, after running errands, after spending time with family and friends; it is there to greet us, and remind us to laugh.  

May the worst thing in your lives be a single bogey, dear friends.  

The Golf Gypsy, Letty

Old Friends Lost and Found

One blazing hot Saturday afternoon while relaxing and watching golf on TV, I checked my facebook account, probably during commercial, and found a message asking, "Are you Letty Stapp from Miami, OK who played golf?"  I glanced at her name and immediately responded, "Yes, Yes, Yes!" I screamed excitedly through the Internet, "And you are my long lost friend Vickie Bell from Blackwell."

In a matter of seconds we were chatting back and forth.  At last my fingers were tired of talking and I sent her my phone number.  I had last seen Vickie when she lived in Dodge City and I lived in Greensburg.  We had young children and new lives. I moved to Norman, Ok and now live in Hutchinson, Ks.  She moved to Wichita, then to Phoenix, and is now back in Wichita.   Our children our older than we were when we last met.  Nearly forty minutes passed as we played catch-up with our lives.  At last I asked, "What are your plans for Sunday?  Can we meet in Wichita for lunch?"

Just like the old days, smiling and laughing.

During lunch at YaYa's Bistro she confirmed, in front of my husband, one of my many golf stories.  Yes, she indeed had been hit (indirectly) by lightning on the golf course at the Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, CO.  We chatted until the noon buffet was closed that Sunday and still have hours of our lives to share.  Even now I'm thinking of all of the stories I can tell about us and our teenage travels as young promising women golfers.

Our connection on facebook?  She's from England!

Golf Gypsy: Orchestrating the Swing

I felt the quiver and tremble on the practice tee that first day in La Quinta. No earthquakes were reported, but I knew my body had made a seismic shift from the bitter cold winds of Kansas to the warmth and sunshine of the Coachella Valley. My body was stretched from pilates and was warming on the practice tee with the sun on my back.

My practice routine is simple: stretch and warm up those muscles first; then swing the short clubs and listen for the swish of the club sweeping the rye green grass; only then do I advance to hitting a practice ball. I enjoy watching the arc of my golf ball when it's struck solidly by a short iron. Once I'm comfortable with the rhythm of my short shots, my body and head orchestrate the music for the day. Singing simple songs to a four/four rhythm clears out those negative words and keeps other thoughts from tangling up my swing. Yes, words can reek havoc on a golf swing.

At last my body is ready for the big swings of my woods. Instead of the beauty of persimmon woods my eyes now watch geometry in motion. My 5 metal wood (what ironic wording) is a 3D triangular shape with the base being large enough to make solid contact with the ball and the tip pointing along the target line. The 3 medal wood is square, who would have thought a square club could work so well. But my medal Driver is the beauty in the bag. Her black sheen glimmers in the sunlight and her shape is like the waxing moon, threatening to return. Oh, does she shatter the silence when she strikes the ball squarely. The new medal clubs nearly create their own band of music on the golf course. Even errant shots off the heel of the clubs broadcast sharps and zingers off key.

Palm trees can keep a ball forever!

The last stage for practice comes on the sloped putting green where my eyes notice the shade design of the palm trees standing nearly still as sentries guarding the tee box. For a time my mind and eyes wonder. I gaze toward the dry rocky mountains, and then to the south where the mountains disappear and the Salton Sea captures the desert. I hear in my mind, "All putts break to Indio." Indio is a small town on the way to the Salton Sea and seems to be a more rhythmical rather than mythical answer to missed putts.

I bend over with putter in hand and drop three balls onto the putting green, one "pinkie" and two nondescript white balls. Playing golf with colored balls is like filling the pages of a coloring book when a child doesn't always stay within the lines. They give me just a little lift! Sometimes "pinkie", as my balls take on nicknames, travels 18 holes and returns to the bag, but in time even "pinkie" strays out of the lines and finds the mesquite bushes, tall grasses, desert cactus, or fresh streams of water.

I laugh in my mind as I write for here on paper, as on the golf course, my mind rambles and I digress from putting. On the green, sometimes the putter pings just right and I know my ball will remain true to the line. In golf as in theatre there are interludes, and for whatever reasons my rhythm changes and my putter sounds dull as it thunks the ball too softly to reach the hole. The ball rolls nearer the hole but not near enough, so I putt again.

Letty, Peggy, and Manon on PGA West.

Suddenly, my friends call from the tee, "let's play golf." I pick up my balls and saunter to the tee box. Game on.

Letty Stapp Watt
historian, golfer