Our Shared Reality

One late toasty-warm August afternoon when pancakes baked on the sidewalk, I stood in line at the post office, enjoying the cool air while waiting to mail a large stack of my Miami Golf and Country Club History books that I self-published. I was weary that afternoon but still my adrenaline flowed from the excitement of selling nearly 100 books. 

I only printed 30 to begin with and never expected more. It took two more printings to have 100 copies. 

Stepping up to the counter I plopped the packages down with relief. With a tired but proud smile, I looked at the lady in white and blue and stated, "I'd like to mail these books in media rate, please."

She returned the smile, placed one on the weight machine, checked the location and zip code and while placing the stickers on the the package she asked, "Are you an author?"

The question caught me off guard. Two book signings, one in Miami, Oklahoma and the other in Tulsa, were most successful for me and for the people who dropped by to purchase the book, but I never thought of myself as an author. I was a writer, yes, but an author is well-known, has books in the public libraries, and makes money. 

After watching her weigh the second book and checking the address I finally replied, "Yes, I am an author and this is the history book I wrote about my hometown, the golf course where I grew up, and the people who were a part of my life."

Letty Stapp Watt, Vicki Martin Reynolds, Jonya Stapp Pry, Dobson Museum, Miami, Oklahoma

 

In full conversation by now she replied, "Oh, I wish I could write the story of the mountain in Washington state where I grew up skiing every winter and the lodge we called home." 

I saw her name "Cori" on the top left shelf of her post office station. It was a painted brick with her name engraved in stylish lettering. No one else could claim that station and her name. I liked her creative and individual taste. As she finished weighing and marking each package the doors to the post office locked, but we continued to talk about our shared histories and how people had come and gone in our lives. 

Even though we were separated in age by twenty years and 2,000 miles growing up in Washington state and Oklahoma, we found a common bond. 

Judy Woodruff said after a story she shared on PBS, 

"The need for a shared reality is one-way stories and history bring us together."

Authors, writers, journalists, storytellers, teachers, parents, ministers, historians, civic leaders......all possess the power of words to bring us together. We often look for stories that touch us inwardly, that connect us to others or another time and place.

I found this to be true, when a few days later I asked for help in the Hallmark store. I explained that I needed thank you notes for the many people who helped me publish the book and who encouraged and challenged me to finish it. The ladies looked at the various boxes that I had picked out and we talked our way through the best choice (I bought two boxes of Thank You notes.) 

One lady** asked what I had written. I replied, "I've collected stories and created a timeline of the last seventy years of the people who built my town and the golf course where I grew up."

She lite up, "Are you a golfer?" 

I laughed, "Yes, I am and have been since the time I could walk."

"Oh, you lucky girl," she pipped. "I have always wanted to play golf, but never found the time. I watch it on television on the weekends and once went to a championship in Tulsa."  We chatted a few more minutes and then she asked, "May I buy one of your books?"

"Let me bring one in for you to see," I suggested. A few minutes later, she sat down with the book and thumbed through the pages. "Where are you in this story?" 

"Starting in the early sixties," I said, then turned a few pages until we reached a decade she recalled. "I want to buy your book. How much?" 

I was stunned. This lady didn't play golf nor had any connection to it, like I might have thought. "The book costs $35."

She took $35.00 out of her purse and asked, "Would you autograph it me."

As I was leaving the store, she said, "Thank you. I want to read about others who have lived during my time and understand what it was like." 

I beamed with gratitude and felt tears well up in my heart with her kindness and soft spoken words. 

(**The one lady, a perfect stranger, at the Hallmark made a difference in my life by asking to buy my book. A book that I thought would not be read by others. She and I now know each other by first names. Thank you Sandy (Beach) Patterson for sharing your life and stories with me.)

I became a storyteller decades ago, thanks to a job at the Miami Public Library, because I saw people laugh and connect with the personal stories that I heard at the Miami Golf and Country Club, the stories my parents shared about the depression, the war, and the people who had come and gone in their early lives. (Some of the stories might be called "fishing for a good line or lie." I was never sure as a child how to take that.)

George Haralson and Thursday

One of my favorite memories to share is of an English bulldog named Thursday, who roamed the club in the late 1950's. His official home was on Yale Street and his backyard became the golf course and the clubhouse. One July 4, I witnessed Thursday run with his short legs and full body to catch an M-80 thrown by one of the club members. Oh, my... 

The rest of the story can be found on my history blog Thursday's story

The homepage for my history blog is: 

<https://mgcchistory.blogspot.com/>

Miami, Oklahoma Golf and Country Club History

If you enjoy my stories please copy and share this website with your friends. Blogging is becoming a thing of the past and I could certainly use help for my readers in sharing these stories with your friends and family.  

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

Story Beans and Golf Balls

In my early childhood we lived on a golf course in Independence, Kansas.  In the spring the land came to life. Lilac and forsythia bushes surrounded the old clubhouse, filling the air with sweetness and beauty just perfect for a five year old who loved to sit in the shade to play. The fence behind the bowling alley and golf shop was overgrown with creamy yellow honeysuckle and orange hummingbird vines. These vines not only attracted me, but they invited bees and wasps.

Catalpa bloom

However, it was the catalpa tree that fascinated me the most because of the long green string beans that dropped from it. The caddies and I called it a bean tree. 

Nearly a child of the prairie, I discovered that I could suck the honey from the honeysuckle, eat the tiny yellow weeds, the flowers on the clover, mud pies made from scratch, and the beans from the bean trees.  When no one was looking I'd open the pod and pop a bean into my mouth. 

Then swirled the bean around on my tongue until I swallowed it, but those beans didn't go to my stomach, instead they went to my head and stirred up my imagination. 

Later, I discovered that they weren't edible beans, they were really story beans and every bean held a story.

One day I heard a lot of screaming down by the lake. I ran down and saw the caddies rake a large black snake out of the lake.  Right in front of me they cut open its’ belly.  Finding the belly full of golf balls, I screamed with fear and delight then I reached out to feel the snake’s insides, and couldn’t wait to tell everyone what I’d seen.

Running uphill and tearing through the screen door yelling, “Mom, Mom, Mom,” I was met by a stern look with pursed lips followed by a shushing sound. My mother told me to hush as the baby was sleeping.  That baby sure got a lot of attention, I thought.

So the next day, I told the nun at school and was greeted with much the same sternness. "How many times do I have to tell you that the truth is what I want to hear from my students, not made up stories!"

Very few teachers ever appreciated my stories, but golfers and fishermen have long been storytellers or fibbers, as my dad often called some stories.  From that time on beans have been a part of my diet for good health and perhaps just a taste of humor.

So, imagine my delight as we walked “Amen’s Corner” this year at Augusta National.  Oh, but that’s another story. 

This story is dedicated to Diana Marie Latta (1945-2011), a teacher friend who loved to hear me tell about the Story Beans, and to Ruth Ann Walenz (2015-) a curious adventurous no-fear young girl. 

Inspiration--A Story A Story

Rainbows over the Highlands.

It’s been several years since I told stories professionally.  Now I tell stories through my blog, through social gatherings, quietly in my head, on pieces of paper that I eventually lose, and sometimes for organizations who want a 30-60 minute speaker.  I like it best when there is an audience; where eyes and hearts will interact with the stories I share, but I beam with joy when someone replies to a blog posting that reached out to them.

        Like storytellers for eons of time, I believe that life’s sorrows, worries, triumphs, and joys can be endured when told in a story.  “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t

Book Dog

remember who we are or why we’re here.”  (Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees.)   Sometimes stories lie way down in my belly and other times they drift through my head like spinning spirally clouds.  It’s when they are not surrounding me that I feel most alone.  That’s when I reflect and turn to a place or time for inspiration.  

I needed to refresh my brain with stories and memories, so I went to my book cup board to search.  Books have always taken me vicariously through life, often giving me new roads to explore.  When the cupboard opened there sat my puppet, Book Dog, cramped in a corner but happy to see me.  I laughed because I was confident that I had not left him there.  What mystery of life had taken a puppet out of bag and set him in front of a door for me to see at this moment?  Ah!, yes, a house full of children one weekend played with the puppets and helped me rearrange the shelves.  The laughter of seeing the puppet, the memories of children’s voices asking for

Jefferson puppeteers

Book Dog, and the stories themselves began to flow easily through my mind’s eye. 

I took a notebook filled with my favorite stories, and headed to the patio to sit in the sun and read.  Inspiration with each story took me back to a time when stories came to life in the eyes of the children surrounding me.  A tear trickled down my face and I smiled.  The children who inspired me to share stories

Prairie Hills Middle School Storytellers

of laughter, of sadness, of courage, and to take those unexpected journeys in life are now grown.  To all of you I say, “Thank you for sharing your enthusiasm of life, your imaginative thoughts, your real life adventures, and for opening your hearts to a well told story.”

A story A story, Let it Come, Let it Go. 

P.S.  After posting this story only 24 hours ago I have been in touch with two of my former students, who were storytellers.  We can't imagine how much difference we make in each others lives by simply sharing a story from the heart.  



*Thank you Cindy Dale for this beautiful photo of the double rainbow over the Highlands.  

*students from PHMS: April Whittington, Becky Walenz, Ben Rawlins, Lindsey Snyder, Omid Heidari.   

Miami Memories: A st. stories

Dr. Pepper memory from childhood

I'd like to blame my love of  Dr. Pepper on my college life, carrying a heavy load of college classes and needing a sugar/caffeine boost every so often, but the true story is that I first discovered Dr. Pepper when I was in 2nd grade at Lincoln school. We lived on the corner of A S.W. across from Lincoln.  My upstairs bedroom window overlooked the playground, and best of all the drive through at Doc's BBQ and Gene's Tarry-A-While.


I learned a lot about life from that upstairs window. The family up the street from us, the Cantrells, had six children (later seven), but we called them the sixes.  Many summer days one of the sixes would let me tag along

Courtesy of Ron Wagoner.  

as we'd go over to Doc's or Gene's in the daytime and share an ice cream cone or Dr. Pepper.  We never had much money, so we shared and pooled our resources.  (Later as a teenager I looked at Doc's differently and my memories are more emotional.)

Thanks to  MHS Class '64 & Sammie Ketcher

My storytelling days were also born on A street.  With my tiny upstairs window open in the summer nights I could listen to the music blaring from Doc's speakers, and with Dad's binoculars I could spy on the lovers in the parking lot.  We were never allowed to go over there at night! Sometimes Sherry and Judi and I would sit on my bed and take turns watching people. Kissing was absolutely disgusting, and I could not figure out why anyone would cuddle under a hot sweaty arm of a man on a hot summer night, much less put lips together.  Just the same, we laughed and giggled when we saw the moves coming.  

My favorite song of all was "Davy Crockett King of the Wild Frontier."  Even then I was part feminist because I wore a white Polly Crockett hat, not the brown one made for boys, but poor Polly never had a song named after her.  Fess Parker sings Davy Crocket  Sherry and Judy Cantrell and I ventured off to the Neosho River, and walked up and down the banks of the muddy flowing river. When it flooded it was even more dangerous and more reason to walk to the edges of the swirling river.  Most homes didn't fence off their backyards, so we thought it was safe to tread on their property, even the magnificent homes north of Route 66 along the river banks. Carol Cosby lived very near the river, and we often stood on the bank throwing sticks into the water and searched for snakes. Don't know what we would have done if we'd found one!

My mother had a kind heart and my father was a flamboyant man who loved to tell a good story and drive fast cars, but it was a hobo who spent an afternoon with us on the doorstep that sparked my imagination and opened my eyes to the wide wide world.  We were only a few blocks from the railroad tracks, and it was not uncommon for hobo's to hop on and off the trains passing through.  Mother would always serve them soup or a baloney sandwich, and I would watch from the screen door as they ate alone.

1985 Matt, Michael, Katy, Letty.  

Clouds building in the Grand Canyon

 

t

One time a hobo told my mother that he'd once lived in Wichita, Kansas.  That was her home, and she smiled and listened as he told his sad story.  When he sat down on the steps to eat, I asked if I could join him.  Mother watched out the kitchen window, as this seven year old girl sat beside a stranger one afternoon and listened to his stories.  He pointed to the straggly elm trees along the street and said, "Imagine walking into a forest where trees grow so high they touch the sky, and where they are as wide as that garage across the street."  From his stories of giant trees and red golden gorges dug by the hands of God I began to see the world.  He painted a world that I wanted to see, and he was just a hobo, a man, who made a difference in this child's life.  

Hope all of you see these wonders in your lifetime, and toast with a Dr. Pepper to memories.  



This is a link to a great old photo of  Gene's Tarry-A-While in Miami, Oklahoma.  Thanks Fredas Cook.  

A Story Within a Story

A story a story, let it come, let to go...so begins my storytelling shows at schools and with adult groups.  A few weeks ago I had the privilege of sharing my stories with students at Lincoln and Faris Elementary in Hutchinson, KS.  It had been nearly two years since I'd "been on stage" telling stories and I was honestly quite nervous.  Since I'm no longer teaching full time I discovered the pleasure of practicing my stories without the pressure of still teaching.  My mind was clear to visualize the stories, to practice voice, to pretend, to pace, to play with dialogue, and of course, to pull out my frisky puppets and listen for their input.  

Once I began the journey back to storytelling my heart and soul were fluttering with excitement.  Over the last four decades I've learned and forgotten many many folktales, short stories, poems, and humorous dialogue with my puppets.  Now I could truly concentrate on a few stories that would be ideal for children in grades K-2, 3-4, and 5-6.  Somewhere in the timeline after my parents died in 1989 my stories began to develop a more personal approach, my mind would simply, on its on, float back to a childhood memory and a story just flowed  from my inner self.  I smiled and learned to let the stories come as they chose.  

Once upon a time...

Now my stories may include folktales from the Americas to Africa, from Japan around the globe to Russia, or from my own imagination and experience.  We once lived in a home on A st.S.E. in Miami, Oklahoma that had been in a giant flood.  Oh, in my child's mind I could see the flood line and imagine what creatures still lurked in the walls.  My imagination was fueled by "a raw and bloody bones" painting in my attic closest, by the hobos who jumped from the nearby train tracks and begged at our kitchen door for food, and by a lady next door, who had died by hanging herself over the basement!  For one little second grader this was a gold mine of future stories.  Before long we moved to H st. N.E. and new elements entered my life--a bully, and a neighborhood that encompassed blocks upon blocks of kids all nearly the same age, all playing outside in the evenings on those hot muggy summer nights.  We kicked that can, chased that ghost, and forced ourselves through strangle holds in Red Rover Red Rover.   I still have the scars on my knees and arms from falling hard on the asphalt streets, concrete, and gravel driveways!  Tar creek and spring floods also lurked in our lives along with the darkness of tornadoes.  The next thing I knew I was a grown up with a husband named Jack (right out of folktale, I tell you), children, travels, pets, and new memories.  Now they are all a part of everything I do in life.

Future writer and storyteller Jose Saul Torres.

It was some of those stories I shared with the children that day at Lincoln school.  As I peered out to the audience of 5th and 6th graders I took sheer delight in their facial responses to my stories that caused them to jump, scream, laugh, and groan.  Their attention was gift enough for me, but a few days later, I received a truly greater gift.  I was visiting Lincoln to sub for a friend, when another teacher explained that one of his students had something for me.  A sixth grader named, Jose Saul Torres j.r., presented me with a story that he had written.  He said it was gift and thank you for my storytelling.  I was speechless and humbled that a young boy thought enough of the art of storytelling to share his personal story with me.    His story begins, "This is me Jack and my dog named Major...we played tag, soccer, football, anything together...until Major got lost...days later a muddy scratched up dog found his way home...I gave him a nice bath.  He didn't like it because he was bleeding.  After a couple of days he'll be up in no time."  I must go back to Lincoln and have Jose Saul Torres autograph his story and take a picture of us.  I may have met a future Jack London, and all because of stories.  

A story a story, let it come, let it go, take some with you, bring some back.

De Clutter

The new year begins at last with my pink room clutter free and portions of the house the same. Clutter is a huge issue in my brain, my soul, my home, and in my creative process. I allow it to get in my way. It stops me from writing, playing, reading, and other adventures I seek.
I do wonder why? Why do I seek to clean and sort when I could be creating? I can think of several reasons: I love to check off a completed task, no matter how simple; I enjoy closure; I like the physical experience of work and reward; My eyes need to see the simple beauty in this world. I know there is some theory that talks about the need to finish easy doable tasks rather than climbing the mountains. For me, at least, there will always be a mountain range of climbing.
I vividly remember one experience in teaching in which clutter stopped me in my tracks. It was the first day back for teachers on a hot August morning. I was returning to a classroom without windows, with nights and weekends lost for ten months to grading papers, but luckily, the days would be filled with intelligent, inspiring, energetic, and delightful seventh graders. Instead of pacing myself that morning to get the bed made, dressed, make up applied, or fixing a breakfast that's not overcooked, I stood in my bathroom and soaked then washed my jewelry. Yes, it was dirty, but it had been all summer. Just like that I checked it off my mental to do list and life was brilliant for a moment. Breakfast was not. I arrived at school with not a moment to greet friends or leisurely enjoy the moment. Within three days though I was back in the swing and climbing a new mountain with a goal of improving the reading and writing skills of willing students.
Upon reflection I can see that each year of my career in education I climbed a different mountain, with different paths, different kids, and often different settings. I liked it that way. Lesson plans were always new and fresh which kept me intrigued and eager to teach. Along with each mountain came piles of books, papers, and learning. I suppose in the end I was always the one to learn the most about life, perceptions, and learning.
One evening on facebook I received a friend request from a student I had in the 70's. He refreshed my memory by saying how much he enjoyed those experiences in the storytelling bubble. So my mind wondered through the faces and lives of every child I may have touched in Greensburg. Yes, there were mountains in Greensburg, some real, some imagined. From every path on every mountain I have highlights, delights, scenic sights, but no dead ends. One brief note from a "friend" can send my mind searching for that face, that encounter, the laughter, or sometimes even the books we may have shared. What fun to have taught children and been involved in books and learning ALL of my life.
And now a new year is upon me. I think I've said goodbye to the classroom, but not to children or learning. I 'm a Youth Friend now; involved with numerous book clubs; always learning technology through my Blackberry and computer; exercising my body and brain; and have dreams of developing a writing club.
Today's been good. I can honestly check off a written thought. So now I'm back where I started, but I've decluttered some wondering thoughts and composed a simple story.