Have a Blessed Christmas

On a cool rainy day in April 2018 we walked the hills of Augusta National Golf Course during The Masters Golf Tournament. We felt truly blessed to walk these ancient lush green hills filled with a nursery of beautiful trees, bushes, and grasses.



Part of a day in Atlanta we spent time in the Jim Henson Puppetry Museum.What fun to see his  imaginative work displayed for all of us to enjoy. In person the puppets are incredible works of art. 

This painting is done using architectural
pieces of design to cover the canvas.

The Jimmy Carter Presidential Library in Atlanta gave us the opportunity to walk the halls of our living history, and be reminded of the energy crisis we faced in the mid-70's. How cold I remember my home in Greensburg, KS the year we were asked to keep the temperatures at 55 degrees.  Our bathroom/shower was screaming 
cold when we stepped into it.


We continued on our southern trip with a drive up mountain from Atlanta to visit friends from college days at LSU, who now live in Blairsville, Ga.  Mountain fog may have kept us from scenic views, but laughter and giggles from the shared experience will chime in my ears for time to come.

A month later we drove to Houston for our niece, Sophia's, graduation and wedding. Oh, such fun for all of us. Being around young people who are majoring in Stage/Acting/Directing made us feel so young and energized.  






Homeward bound we stopped to visit the GHW Bush Presidential Library, and burial site for the family.  The literacy work of Barbara Bush proudly filled a large section of the library. Her smile was so contagious.

Feeding and petting a Stingray.

In July we met kids and cousins in Omaha for a four day weekend. It is a great way to share a vacation with sons who live in New York City (Matt) and Dodgeville, WI (Mike, Ann, and Isaac) and our four nieces.  We were mesmerized by the statues and artwork all over downtown Omaha and the river-walks, but overall I think we all agreed that the "20% butterfat ice cream, made-from-scratch and slow-churned"  from Ted and Wally's was the Best. 

"The abstraction is often the most definite form for
the intangible thing in myself that I can
only clarify in paint." G. O'Keefe 

Jack and I took off several days in August to tour Crystal Gardens Museum in Bentonville, Arkansas where they were hosting a Georgia O'Keefe show. Then we drove to Glenwood, Arkansas to spend a day with our Stapp family members, who have become close family now. 










Home for the fall and winter our days have been filled with football games, gardening, working out, walking Lucy,and adding new tile throughout the halls, kitchen and dining room, plus carpet in three bedrooms, a new counter-top in the guest bathroom, not to mention the painting, and cleaning up process. No wonder we slept so well with shorter days and longer nights. 

The tiling transformation is awesome.

Somehow, we played many rounds of golf this year. Jack won The Trails Cup by winning or placing in many weekend golf events, while I won the Women's Club Championship this year. We both laughed over our surprising wins. As we know, age can be a state of mind or condition of the back, the knees, the shoulders, etc. etc. etc.

Most of all, we feel fortunate to be alive and share our moments and memories with all of you, our friends.

Happy New Year.  
Letty and Jack

Golf Gypsy: Words Matter

The first of February I began to workout four mornings a week. Today, I added a new routine on the mat--practicing the bench (Plank) hold.  In order to really build strength in my core, it is important to strengthen my core by holding myself up in a plank position for two minutes from arms to toes, and two minutes on each side for three sets. Holding each pose for the first set lasted sixty seconds and gave me a red face. On the second set I began to shake and quiver from tired muscles, so I rolled over and said, "Oh, Well!" 

I walked away and began to roll up the mat. Luckily, I have an inner spirit that yelled at me today and said, "It matters. Now get back over there and finish the routine."  To my own amazement, I did and like a child, I smiled at myself in accomplishment.  

Focus helps.

I learned a decade ago that "Oh, Well" demoralizes my golf game and my spirit.  It's like the "I can't do it" phrase, and it sets up failure. Now I write single thought words on my golf balls, like "It Matters," "Level Hips," "Swing and Sing," or "Giggle Inside." These are thoughts that keep me focused. 

The Pro giving lessons 1954. MGCC

I also know how to live with my golf scores. If I am a 10 handicap then I know that on my best day I will hit at least 10 bad shots. Notice, that is on my best day.  So on those days when I experience some "Crazy 8's," I can say "Ok," not "Oh, Well." I feel the difference inside of me with the words I chose to say.  It Matters.

It matters when I write, even if I've not finished that book.  I'm careful to say, "Ok" I can live with this because writing is a process that I practice nearly everyday. The quote above my desk reads, "What lies behind us and what lies before us...are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."

I love my brain (most of the time), but it stays in constant motion.  When it's good it's really really good, and when it's bad, it splashes in the bottom of a deep black well (Oh, Well.).  That is why I've added meditation to my life.  I know better than to say that I will meditate  everyday because I will fail.  Instead, I have agreed with myself to practice mindful meditation at least twice a week.  When I meditate more then it's like icing on a cake, and it gives my crazy brain a break.  

Our words matter.  Let's be kind to ourselves each day.

It Matters.

We all have stories to tell.  What words motivate you? You are welcome to leave comments below where the blue words say "comments."  Those comments come to me to read before I publish them.  

   

Mountain Magic

Last year this time we were all basking like lizards on a desert rock with temperatures raging in the hundreds.  Some might prefer that I say,  "baking like steaming hot biscuits or sizzling like hot grease in the scalding temperatures."  Either way we each remember the heat wave of last summer and of the last few weeks.  My body and soul like the heat, and I will not complain when the temperatures soar.   However, even I will admit that a week long golfing trip to Beaver Creek, Colorado last July soothed my soul and calmed the spirits.  The first photo I took and posted on facebook was of the temperature near a ski lift.  My hope is that by sharing this story and posting these pictures we may all refresh ourselves when we think of cooler temperatures and memorable vacations.

We'd driven from Hutchinson to Colorado in two hour shifts.   Even with air conditioning in the Explorer we were four toasty companions driving along waiting like children to see who might catch the first glimpse of the mountain peaks.  My shift was the last drive of the day up the winding mountains, but first we needed to stop for gas and check out the outlet mall near Silverthorne.  Suddenly, the clouds dropped over the mountains and misty cold rains spilled down our dry hot backs.  We ran and giggled from the rain, jumping puddles unsuccessfully, until we were under an awning.  At that moment I knew we were on vacation, the worries and the weight of everyday life were washed away with one brief cold mountain rain.

Even if we hadn't played golf I think I would have been content to sit and absorb the calmness of the village atmosphere or read and look up at the mountains.  




But it was friendship with Tony and Lora and the delight of golf that had brought us to Colorado, plus the fact that Red Sky Ranch offers two outstanding golf courses just 10 miles West of Beaver Creek.  We were up early in the brisk morning air eating a light breakfast and jumping in the car with energized  bodies to greet the challenges of the golf course and the mountains.

Tony and Jack up mountain or down?

Golfers have their own language when it comes to making decisions about where to play the ball and line up a putt.  Suddenly, flat was not not in our vocabulary, but words like side hill uphill, side hill downhill, up mountain, down mountain, off rocks, over trees, along with the binging sounds when our golf balls crashed into the rocks and boulders all came into play and our vocabulary.  However, I must admit there were a few times when just plain exasperation could be heard in our voices with such phrases as, "Am I putting up mountain or down mountain?"  or "No, it can't break that way."  "Would you look at that!"

The golf course designers, Greg Norman and Tom Fazio, must have been devilish in their delight to stump golfers as they carved the golf courses through the mountains.  Lora and I found ourselves gazing at the surrounding beauty from time to time, and laughing at ourselves or our shots.  What else can you do?

Up here "Mountain Magic" really exist, not just in folktales and children's books.   Long tee shots found the fairway and rolled to our next challenge, and then just like magic the next shot went it's errant way off the mountain, never to be found again.  Trees and bushes would reach out and grab our balls in flight like the reach of the mighty gnomes of old--where did they go?    When we'd finally reach a green we were either already humbled and just happy to be there.  Pride and greed took their strokes, a corner cut to short the price was paid or a putt lined up and not struck with authority often taught us that we were lucky that we didn't five putt!  My imagination wondered as often as my golf shots, and I'd catch myself gazing at the formations in the clouds and not focusing on the shot.  Oops! 


At the end of the day we'd return to our loft "to take the edge off" as Tony and Jack called it.  When we were once again mellowed and refreshed, we'd wonder through the village atmosphere of Beaver Creek.  One evening while walking we witnessed this charming scene.  Observing the young girl daring to pull the arrow out of the bear's bottom touched my heart:  for her innocence, her concern, her spirit and boldness;  for the imagination of the artist; and for the pure "magic" of the vacation.  I think God was chuckling when she reached for the arrow, I'm sure I heard his belly laugh as the mountains rumbled above.

Statue near the St. James Hotel in Beaver Creek, Colorado.

Play Each Shot As If It Will Only Happen Once

Alexa Osborne and Letty Watt

This past week I had an opportunity to play some of my greatest golf shots and to enjoy and follow up on many awesome shots played by our youthful Kansas Fore State team. I am also fortunate to have the opportunity to play golf at Prairie Dunes Country Club (Hutchinson, KS) and to be acquainted with the cleverness of Perry Maxwell's golf course architecture. His par 3's can humble the best of players either with gaping bunkers lining the front and sides of the holes; lakes beckoning the golf ball to cool off; tall prairie grasses that offer permanent shelter to wayward golf shots; winds that blow the balls off course; or trickling creeks and out of bounds stakes defining the direction the ball must fly to reach the undulating greens.

My last hurrah at 2011 Fore State came on the par 3 hole 15 at Hardscrabble Country Club (a Perry Maxwell design). I was one down and Sidney's tee shot was sitting pin high on the green to the right. I inhaled the humid Arkansas air, smiled at the beauty of the hills, the trees, the lakes and green grasses then starred down the par 3. "Perry Maxwell," my focused words spoke, "you can't scare me." My tee shot took dead aim at the pin and dropped eight feet short of the hole leaving me a simple uphill putt to win the hole and go even. Sidney missed her birdie putt. With focus and confidence I stroked the ball toward the hole. My head stayed down listening for the rattle of the ball in the cup, that didn't come. My birdie putt strayed slightly to the left and sat there peeking at the empty cup. I thought I heard an old man's voice chuckle, "You didn't see that tiny touch of an uphill break did you?" "No, I didn't," I thought in reply, "but it was a hole well played." And then my 63 year old bones and back began to quiver with exhaustion. Hole 16 passed in a blurry tie.

Next, I found myself on 17 still playing and thinking I could win. After dunking my tee shot in the water to cool off, my next shot landed on the green pin high to the right. I needed to make the putt to tie. For one brief moment in time I tied the match on the 17th hole, but the putt had been hit with too much authority. I saw the blood drain from the young Oklahoma player's face, as she, too, thought I'd drained the putt. "Hit the HOLE, " I yelled. And it did, hitting the bottom of the cup and then bouncing out. In that hop the hole and the match were lost.

I could only smile, proud that I'd played as well as I could. She beamed with delight as we shook hands, and I congratulated her on the win. Her Oklahoma team eventually won Women's Fore State 2011 that day. Our Kansas team returned the trophy from last year's win and walked away standing tall, with pride, spirit, grace, and youthfulness, knowing we'd all done our best.

Twenty-four hours later I was sauntering through the field north of our house with Lucy, when a cool gentle breeze stirred a vivid memory.

The Women's Oklahoma Golf Association State Championship was held at Oakwood Country Club (a Perry Maxwell design) in Enid, Oklahoma in June 1967, and I was a competitor for the championship that week. In an early round of match play I played against an "old gray haired lady" who nearly beat me, a youthful strong determined 19 year old golfer. We tied our match at the end of 18 holes which meant we had to continue on until someone won the match. On the 19th hole of "sudden death" I finally chipped in to beat her, doing what she'd done to me all day--chipping and putting like a pro. She smiled and walked toward me with pride and grace that day. In her firm handshake of congratulations she let me know age was not a hindrance for a determined mind.

I could never image at age 19 that I would be standing in her shoes on the 17th hole at Hardscrabble Country Club at age 63 shaking the hand of a 19 year determined college student.

So to those who've gone before; the golf course designers, the dreamers, the club pros, the parents, the coaches, and especially the women amateurs and professional golfers who've given us their best, who've laid the groundwork for our programs and tournaments today, I bow my head in silence and say thank you. My hope is that through our continued dedication to the game of golf that some young girl golfer may write the sequel to this story in another forty to fifty years.

Picture of 2011 Kansas Fore State team--front row: Krista Peterson, Katy Nugent, Letty Watt, Lauren Falley, Jennifer Clark, Alexa Osborn; back row: Becky Tetrick, Hannah Martin, Kelsey Jensen, Michelle Woods, and Capt. Julie McKinnis.

Kansas Women's Golf Association
Women's Oklahoma Golf assocication
Missouri Women's Golf Association
Arkansas Women's Golf Association

Miami Memories: The Pro

On Father's day I sat down to find a picture of my dad to put on facebook. Due to lack of patience with technology on my part, the task did not go as planned. In the moment of frustration I realized it was not the photo that was so important, it was the memories of the man who was my father, Johnie Stapp, PGA Professional at Miami (Oklahoma) Country Club, 1953-1977.

People might recall what a dynamic teacher he was when it came to the game of golf. He loved this sport and believed that it was a metaphor for life. It was his competitive spirit and tenacity to learn that significantly shaped the lives of his two daughters, Letty and Jonya, who would go on to become lifelong teachers themselves.

The Old Pro, Johnie Stapp

So much of the man he became was a result of a childhood accident that could have left him crippled for life. He was fourteen years old the first time the matches lit more than his cigarette. He was a curly dark haired boy with crystal blue eyes, who loved to keep his hands busy smoking or working on automobiles, one of his lifetime fascinations. He was working under a care when a dog came along and teased him. While working and playing tug with the dog his matches fell out of fa pocket and somehow were scratched, causing a fire to ignite on the garage floor. In his attempt to extinguish the fire his arms were burned from the finger tips to his shoulders.

The treatment for burned skin in the 1920's was nearly as painful as the burns themselves. Dad spent fourteen months in st. Francis Hospital, in Wichita, KS with his arms bandaged. However, being a good looking young man he charmed the nuns and nurses, and so as grandmother often chuckled, "they spoiled him rotten,"

The bandaged burns and several surgeries left both of his forearms drawn at forty-five degree angles, and his finger tightly curled inwards. It left him unable to hold a pencil, handle tools in the garage, or do much more than rake leaves. One of his doctors was a golfer and took an interest in his young patient. In the beginning, the golf was prescribed for therapy. The doctor taught him how to grip the club properly, which meant painful gripping and twisting to his hands and wrists. While still in the hospital dad practiced how to grip a club, giving his hands and arms the muscles needed to once again become useful. When he was released from the hospital he would meet his doctor on weekends at a nearby golf course. Eventually, he learned to swing the club. While the recovery was painful, it also proved a new playground for the then sixteen year old. The pro at Sims Parks suggested that Johnie become a caddy, which would give him an opportunity to make money, and play golf one day a week.

Through perseverance and the guiding hand of a loving mother, my father's young arms and hands responded to the golf swing treatment. He became fascinated with a game that would provide a lifelong source of income, enjoyment, and success.

Like so many fathers of my generation, he was a World War II veteran, who rarely spoke of the battles in the Pacific, but he did share stories of the peoples he met throughout the war. He spent time in Japan after the war. Thanks to his friendly nature and genuine smile, he met and stayed in touch with several Japanese families for the next twenty years. This friendship provided the opportunity for me to share unique items, such as cards and handwriting in Japanese, during Show and Tell. During my childhood there were many adventures with my father: we drove and raced the mustard colored Muntz; dug a hole for a bomb shelter to protect our family; spent Monday's at Grand Lake fishing, swimming, skiing; traveled extensively to play in golf tournaments and take vacations. We met many of the great LPGA golfers (Marilynn Smith, Patty Berg, Mickey Wright) and the PGA pros (Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player). Thanks to those experiences of my father, my sister and I learned to stand in front of an audience and tell stories.

My fondest memories are of the summer evenings we spent together shagging golf balls on the driving range. To make it simpler for us to pick up the balls he would place a half-dozen metal baskets around the range. My job was to go out and chip balls to the baskets. Over and over we would chip balls to the designated areas until they were close enough to shag, or pick up by hand. It was a special time for me, as I rarely got in trouble, and I learned how to share a job making it easier for everyone. I also learned to keep my head down and finish the job. I observed the forces of nature in the winds, clouds, the life cycle of animals, and I learned to whistle a tune, sing a song, and relax as the day ends. Wherever I went with Dad, there was always a lesson to learn or a story to tell. Thank you Dad.

Letty Stapp Watt
Johnie Stapp's daughter and historian

S'No Golf

I've spent the day standing, sitting, starring out the window as the snow accumulates. In a more positive mood I jumped out early this morning to shovel snow from the backdoor to the hot tub and out the front door to the drive. Silly me. The blowing snows of blizzard conditions quickly covered my hard work. The noon forecast still read 2-4 inches of snow and we had seven inches already on the ground. So once again I'm content to read in the warmth of my home or to listen to the jazz music in the background and reflect on other snows and memories.

Without hesitation my first memory of living in Hutchinson was the winter we moved here in 1996. I spent our first snow storm unpacking, the second storm was pure wind chill and a touch of snow that set me to peeling baby blue wallpaper from the dining room. The third snowstorm I just stood at the five paned front window starring out into snow that never touched the ground. It went straight south for hours until I discovered the term snow drift! I called my family in Oklahoma numerous times that winter to give updated weather reports from Kansas (not unlike today and other days this winter). Without a job to pull me out of the house I was beginning to think of Michener's book Centennial and the isolation of the dust bowl.

At last in mid February of '96 the sun rose warmly one day. I called the Highlands Golf Course, where we had joined but had not visited, to see if any women played golf there and whom I might meet. The pro said he'd call a lady golfer to get in touch with me. Within hours a delightful exuberant lady name Trish Becher called me and invited me to play the next day if the forecast was true that it would be in the 60's. On that warm winter day I arrived at the Highlands with a small bag of clubs, no handicap, and several layers of clothes to play golf with new people in my life. For three or four days in that week we played golf in February. I was thinking Kansas wasn't so bad after all.

My first and most lasting memory of the Highlands Golf Course was playing hole six, a severe dog leg right, over water if you weren't careful. But on the first two days I was inaugurated the water was frozen, and so those little colorful golf balls (mine being pink, of course) just bounced out on the ice and sat there. Oh, how tempting to walk out on the frozen pond to collect golf balls. I even ventured down the bank one time in a vain attempt to reach a ball, only to figure out it was frozen into the water and probably every foolish golfer who had walked by that day had made the climb downward to retrieve one lonely ball.

The last two days we played there in February the water was thawed except for one small frozen island in the middle of the pond. It had only a few balls sitting on it, but it would have been a great camera shot with the correct lens, fresh pond water lapping at the edges attempting to wash the balls away. In the background a brown bank and trees awaiting spring. Little did I realize that March would soon blow for thirty-one long days and it would be April before I played golf again.

I can see for miles across the prairie.

The few days of golf that February gave me hope that Kansas would be a good place to live for a few years, thinking always that we would move on to somewhere else. Here we are fifteen years later. The wallpaper has all been peeled, we repainted every room twice, the kitchen is new. Gone is the robin egg blue toilet, sink, and tub along with the rose colored toilet and sink from the two bathrooms. Hard wood floors gleam where old Berber carpet had lain. Our new insulated windows keep out the bitter cold allowing me to now sit and watch the little birds fluttered in the snowy wind, and as we learned a few springs ago, the windows are so well insulated that we have to bend an ear to even hear the tornado sirens.

In Kansas it's important to hear sirens and keep out the cold. The weather keeps us on our toes, always alert to changes, always looking ahead to the future forecast. Next week, they say, the highs will be in the 60's. Golf weather for some of us. But in the meantime, I'd like to think I've learned how to enjoy each and every day. And as for Kansas, it passes the test. We've enjoyed these fifteen years and oh, so many friends who have come and gone through our lives and those who grace us with their friendship, laughter, and stories. With any luck at all this frigid winter weather will break long enough to find me out on a warm golf course for a day or two with friends. Out of 150 years Kansas, we've enjoyed a slight 15. Happy Birthday Kansas.