GOLF GYPSY--UP TO HER KNEES

 

"If your knees aren't dirty by the end of the day, you ought to seriously re-examine your life."  Bill Watterson

I ponder whether this quote is meant for gardeners or golfers.  I do, however, have a golfing friend who found out the hard way what it means to have your knees dirty by the end of the day. 

During a warm fall day, she (who will remain nameless) duck hooked her ball into a nearly dry pond on hole #8 at The Trails Golf Course. Normally, this pond is full of intimidating water, although I personally believe that the water table rises in the summer and spring because of all the golf balls that are covering the bottom of the water. 

Playing with her son and best friend, she was determined to hit the ball, lying 20 yards away, out of the drying sucking muck. Her first mistake was thinking she could even get to her ball. The muck showed prior footsteps that a dinosaur could have made squishy sticky and deep. 

Her first steps were down the embankment covered in grass and rocks, allowing her to sidestep any slippery slope. Her next few steps were sticky and slippery. Luckily, she carried her 8 iron with her for balance and to strike the ball. She took another few steps confidently getting deeper into the muck allowing her to walk and not lose her shoes.  She knew she could hit her ball out of the muck and onto the green grass near the hole. 

In the final approach to her ball, she began to tip from side to side while her friend and son looked on, already realizing that she might be in trouble. 

No one remembers whether she hit the ball or if she even reached the final destination. What they do recall is her sudden high-pitched scream heard 'round the golf course, "I can't move! My feet are stuck!" 

"Seriously," her friend called out, "pick up your feet slowly, one by one, and turn around."

"I can't," came the scream.  Like Tonto sinking in the quicksand, they watched as she mucked around shoeless and sinking deeper with each step. The Lone Ranger was not there to rescue her. What were her friends to do?

It was serious enough that no one bothered to take a picture. 

Her son grabbed his driver and slowly made his way towards his mother. Her friend took the arm of the son and a saving lifeline was created. However, it was noted that the people playing on the green on hole #7 watched and could not or did not choose to help. An imagined cartoon picture shows the on lookers laughing and pointing in disbelief.

At last, her son hollered, "Mom, this is serious. Forget your shoes and turn around and grab the driver." 

"But my hands are sticky, and I'll ruin your new club." She replied. "I can't balance myself enough to carry my club and reach."

"Mom, throw that club up on the bank after you take two steps toward me."

Whether in anger or fear, she took two sucking steps and threw the club out of the mud hole and past the golf cart to the middle of the fairway, and in the same action grabbed her son's club head and nearly fell face forward. 

With the strength of Sampson her son stood still and pulled slowly allowing his mother to take one small step at a time until the ground could hold her. 

Slowly methodically two people stepped backwards crawling out of the mud and muck, while the golfer stepped forward toward the shoreline. 

When all were safe on the dry fairway their laughter could not be contained. 

Her knees were dirty brown by the end of the day.

As she thought about her decision to hit the ball out of the mucky pond, she could only laugh. Those of us who witnessed the event or heard about it from others, who saw and heard the live action, won't forget the sight, and recognize that only a truly dedicated daredevil golfer would ever attempt that shot and we love her for that reason. 

**For images of Bill Watterson quotes click on this link Calvin and Hobbs

Golf Gypsy--The Early Years

 

1951 Independence Country club, Independence, Kansas

            North

            West                      East 

             South

The facts are few of my early childhood living on the golf course at the Independence, Ks. Country club, but the stories are full.

My parents were in their mid-thirties when I was born in Arcadia, California in 1947, and a long ways from their Kansas roots in Wichita. In those short years in the late forties both of my grandfather's died in Wichita, Kansas leaving behind two elderly grandmothers. Before long my parents made the decision to move back to Kansas and be closer to home. My mother always told me that when the earthquake that knocked her baby daughter off the bed in California she decided that Kansas and its tornadoes were where her family needed to be, not California.

By 1950 we moved to the small square house, shown above to the right of the water tower and hidden by the trees. Behind and to the right of the house was the working barn for all equipment.  The bowling alley was the long building on the West side, and the golf shop was the building south of the bowling alley.

The clubhouse on the North was magnificent from a child's point of view. The dance floor hosted many a Saturday night dance party. Mother could wear her mink stole to the dances. At Christmas times they decorated trees inside that glittered with icicles. 

The Easter bunny not only came to the country club for all of the boys and girls, but he even came into our house. He was as tall as the door and carried a basket of eggs. I think they were for my new baby sister, Jonya Lea, who had been born December 11, 1951. 

Mother said when came home from the hospital my first words were, "Put her down on the floor so I can play with her." That didn't happen on that day, but later we played outside. My favorite time with her was playing in the sandbox by the golf shop. We had two babysitters, sisters, who often watched us when mom helped dad at the club. One time Paula brought a gift she won in a Cracker Jack box. She quietly secretly took me into a closet. When it was just the right time, she opened her hands and inside was a glow in the dark skull. I screamed with excitement and ate Cracker Jacks for the next decade looking for glow in the dark toys.

Alex, a black man who was shorter and rounder than my father must have been dad's right hand man. When I wanted to learn how to bowl, at age 3-4, Alex set up the bowling alley so that my small body could roll a ball a few yards down the lane. I was always happy in the bowling alley, and the odor of the bowling alley, cigarette smoke and chalk powder, has stayed with me all of my life. Alex let me follow him around the golf shop, too.    

Mother taught me that rolling thunder in the storms was really "the potato man in heaven pushing and dropping cart loads of potatoes to the ground." As proof one day, we drove by a downtown grocery store and outside in a bin were fresh potatoes, arriving after a terrible storm the night before. Yes, the potato man had delivered them. Proof enough for a three year old.  The grocery store was owned by Vivian Vance's father. She was better known as Ethel Mertz on the I Love Lucy Show.  Mother thought that was very special.

Although the golf course was only nine holes, it did have an enormous practice area. The large green to the east of the clubhouse was part of my playground. Dad allowed me to putt and roll golf balls with my hands, but never to run on the green. With a golf club in my hand, I tramped around the rolling golf course alone or with the caddies. Playing golf kept me busy outside and near my father. 

1952 August 9

1952 The Independence Daily Reporter

(Winners of the kids' golf tournament at Independence Country club under the supervision of Miller Harmon on the left, and Johnie Stapp on the right are: four year old Letty Stapp in the Pee-Wee division... The youngsters were given theater passes to attend the Booth Theater, as prizes and also golf balls. The older set received golf merchandise at the club.)

Behind our house is where I learned to ride a two wheeled bicycle down the hill. Dad pushed me off and away I went. Like my daughter in the 1970's I crashed, busted my knees and jumped back on the blue bicycle. It didn't take long to learn to ride and enjoy the freedom that came with it. While others walked the golf course, I could sometimes ride across the fairways away from the lake area.

In the spring of 1954 my father took a position as golf professional in Miami, Oklahoma. We moved leaving behind precious memories of my times playing in sand piles behind our home; learning not to eat the beans from the Catalpa trees; discovering that snakes really do eat golf balls; loving our country club stray dogs and cats; and learning not to ever sit on a pop bottle, even if the big boys can sit on one, because the red juice at the bottom of the empty bottle might just have a bumble bee down there and bumble bees sting right through clothing and hurt a little girl's pride. 

Golf Gypsy's Mantra

During our time of Covid, I found time to rest, to heal, and to clear my head of cobwebs and focus on a thought, an activity, a moment.

I found in my quiet time on the golf course the need to focus. To focus on one shot at a time; to focus on my breathing, my stride, my rhythm.  The beauty of the trees filled with green leaves and the songbirds surrendered calm. Because of Covid I often played a few holes of golf, alone, and then came home. I was happy and relaxed. 

I can hear the pro say, strengthen and straighten that left arm.

Slowly, I began to piece together my thoughts. Why do I walk and enjoy walking without talking, without music, without listening to a book. The search for silence, yes, but....what was missing?

Tai Chi has been a call and a need that I have enjoyed because it requires s l o w  flowing movements.. (Slow is not part of my lifestyle. I walk hard and with purpose.)  Tai Chi is often thought of as moving meditation. After a year, then two years, then well into my third year I knew the 24 moves, but could not, absolutely could not, memorize them. I always needed the teacher to call the next step. 

In my childhood dance classes I never had that trouble, but then I could follow the steps by the beat of the music and found success. Tai chi doesn't go by beats or music. It has its own flow.

One day, my teacher suggested that my eyes follow my hands in movement, to focus on the movement. In other words, she was saying to me, don't think of what you need to do after class. Don't write a story. Don't create a grocery list while practicing Tai Chi.

    Inhale as you raise your hands, exhale as you drop them. 

Move the body as a unit.

Let the hands follow the movement of the waist (core, sacrum). 

With the thirty minutes left in class that day, I focused totally on my hands, and felt the movements of stepping by leading with the core. I had found focus but no words to describe it. 

Sleep is a solvent for most of my woes. In sleep, in rest, and in good health the answers flow like spring water bubbling up from the ground. In my writings this spring, In Search of Light, and Listening in Silence,  I found some answers.

The next day on the golf course, there was noise everywhere around me, a distracting noise but fun because some people prefer music, others like to talk, and others like to talk on their phones. My head was spinning and I wanted to leave. In a moment of grace I heard my own voice say,

"This is where I am. This is what I do. This is what I enjoy." 

So simple.

Walking to the first tee, with all of the distractions around me, I smiled. My lips synced in rhythm, "This is where I am," in a slow breath. 

As I bent to tee up the ball, I continued, "This is what I do," in a slow breath.

With both eyes on the ball, I hummed, "This is what I enjoy." 

Watching the ball fly down the middle of the fairway has its rewards. Later, even topping the ball or pulling it left, which sometimes causes me to grinned my teeth, still brings a smile to my face because 'this is what I enjoy.'

I am still practicing this mantra, and even though my golf game is no longer a practiced and steady game, I still am finding the need for this mantra. It may be age or maybe lack of practice, but my focus is most certainly lacking on the golf course and in daily life.

When I do focus and repeat the mantra, I hear no words, no music, only the birds. I am only there in that moment, surrounded by fresh air.

What could be more beautiful?

The Trails Golf Course

This is where I am.

This is what I do.

This is what I enjoy. 

Younger Longer: Hamstring to Damnstring

 When it hurts it is horrid

 but when it works it's glorious.

In one simple bend or squat my older body can go from agile and flexible to humble and bent. Perhaps a more humorous outlook is to call staying healthy as we age "a real pain the butt!"

Lining up a putt at Quail Creek GC.

I have enough difficulty sitting that is simply inborn in me, but when I sit to write or sit to read and my hamstring is tight it pinches my sciatica and butt! Sitting and bouncing in a golf cart can be surprisingly painful. All the more reason to walk, now that we have survived the 100 degree days. Most of all the shortened or inflamed hamstring pulls on my back. When that happens I cannot rotate my hips properly. Often the painful hamstring causes me to sway instead of rotate allowing my arms and shoulders to take over.  

My thinking is to never let pain be in control of my life.

My mother taught me that WHERE THERE IS A WILL, THERE IS A WAY.  

So, once again with the help of physical therapists and exercise options, I now incorporate "the pigeon stretch" nearly every day.

 

Step One! bend at the hips, not the back. 

 Step Two! Reality test.  Stop when it hurts.

It will get easier. 

Another step to keep the body young and agile is to learn the flapper step. When the quadriceps or hamstrings are tight the dance step is short and slow. 

 OR

When the quadriceps and hamstrings are agile look what can be achieved, if you can laugh at yourself and be proud.

 Letty's version of the flapper dance.

Most importantly keep moving, wiggling, giggling, and kicking.

The Dancing Flapper Girls  Click on this link for a flash back in time.

And remember the words of George Bernard Shaw:

"This is the true joy in life, the being used

for a purpose recognized by yourself

as a mighty one...

I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the

community, and as long as I live, it is my

privilege to do for it whatever I can. 

I want to be thoroughly used up when I die,

for the harder I work, the more I live."

Golf Gypsy: As Only a Mother Can

My mother, Helen Stapp, died unexpectedly nearly twenty-four years ago, and yet I miss her hugs, smiles, and cryptic words of advice daily. We didn't always agree on life's journey or how to best pursue the future.  In our family Mom and Dad had their hands full with two hundred and fifty Miami Country Club members, and two little girls; one adventurous and daring, the other a quiet observer.  My little sister, Jonya, most closely stayed within their boundaries of comfort.  She was a beauty queen and State Amateur Golf Champion.  We both played on the men's golf team at NEO, and made our parents proud when we completed our college degrees (mine just took 10 years to finish.)

USGA Jr. Am. 1965

My childhood days of golf were intense and emotional.  Winning was not something I experienced.  I often missed qualifying for championship flight because of raw nerves, and lack of focus.  Every summer I asked for tennis lessons, swim lessons, diving lessons, anything new on the horizon.  Dad's words were simple, "Tizzy, you need to focus on one sport at a time.  Developing muscles for swimming or tennis might jeopardize your golf swing."  So, I played golf and practiced hours upon hours.  The solitude of practicing became my escape from pressures.

It was the trips to the Jr. State Amateur I loved the most.  Teeing off #1 at Southern Hills and hitting a straight and true shot down the middle is a memory I will carry for a lifetime.  Shaking the hand of a match play opponent at age 14 will also stick with my gut;  "Good luck," I said sincerely as Rita and I shook hands on the first tee.  "Thanks, you'll need it.!" She won the match on hole 14.  Maybe, Dad knew me better when he nicknamed me Tizzy or tried to explain that my golf game seemed lackadaisical.  Maybe, I overheard so many ugly comments by women in tournaments that I thought no one liked a champion?

It was on mother's shoulders that I cried and sobbed with defeat.  Year after year I lost, and yet she held firm in her belief that I could win.  Dad was the teacher, but mom was the counselor, the healer, and the one who uplifted me and told me over and over that I could win. I finally won a Club Championship once before she died, but I was nearly 40 years old.  My family and friends were proud.

Only recently did I realize how much a mother's love and faith in her children can make a difference for a lifetime of learning and growing.  Over the 50 years since my teenage golfing debut, I've learned that it was confidence that I was lacking, not skill.  But it's not enough to have other people believe in you when you don't believe in yourself.  "Oh, well," is such an easy reply to a disappointment in life, whether it is in a career or sport.

A few weeks ago as I walked to my golf cart, before I teed off at Prairie Dunes for the Hutchinson Women's City Championship, my heart was pounding and my stomach lurched.  It was a match play event, one on one.  Now I needed to win one more match for the championship.  I began to question myself.  Did I care enough to focus?  Did I really just want to win, but not fight through my nerves to win?  Will people still like me IF I win?

Helen Stapp probably giving advice.

Like a cloud passing over I heard a whisper, "Letty, I believe in you and always have. Now go out there and prove to yourself that you can play great golf."

My knees buckled and I looked around with tears in my eyes.  "Mom?" my head whispered.   "I'm watching," she replied, and I heard the pursing of her lips.  When her whispering cloud passed over, my shoulders suddenly lightened and memories were filtered.  I knew that somehow I could win that day, and maybe win again while I'm still young enough to compete.  On my golf ball, that day, I wrote these words, "Almost Heaven."

I only hope and pray that I've been that kind of mother for my daughter, one who believes in her child without a doubt--As only a mother can.

*Letty Stapp Watt
daughter and historian

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