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 102 copies. Stepping up to the counter I plopped down the packages of books to be mailed 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. 

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

My personal blog is "Literally Letty" where I often write as the 'Golf Gypsy'.  To read those stories go to <www.https://literallyletty.blogspot.com>  In the search bar type in Golf Gypsy or Miami Memories.

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 address 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.  

1970's Playing Golf with John Mirjanich

THE CHALLENGE by John Mirjanich

When I read Sandy, Debbie, and Billy’s memories about MGCC, I couldn’t be out done. 

Let’s tee off and play a quick nine holes.

Number 1:  I recall walking through the driving range area and seeing all of the STOLEN FROM JOHNIE STAPP golf balls with a red ring around them and the metal  yardage signs every twenty-five yards in bold print 100, 125, 150.

When I finally reached the green there were the two flags, one white flag for the front nine and one red flag for the back nine.

Number 2:  The real power hitters like Dick Lillard and Tom Forbes could cut the dog leg by hitting over the trees.

Number 3:  The pretty par three creek hole took a strong drive to miss the trees on the Calcutta (Fall Festival) I remember being a ball spotter. We wadded in the creek all day long locating golf balls hiding under rocks. The real money bags, John Robinson Sr. would give us a dollar tip for spotting the ball and retrieving it. That was big money back then.  

Number 4: To the north of the fairway and rough stood an old white house and storage shed where the mowing equipment was stored and that old blue tractor with mower attached to the back stood off to the side when it wasn’t in use. I recall this because my ball often landed near the shed. I had to walk over there and then hit over the trees to get back to the fairway. Least us not forget the old gravel dirt zig zagging road that cut through the golf course on holes one and four leading to the greens-keeper’s house and the barn. 

 

picture courtesy of the granddaughter of Bud May, Stacie..

 

Number 5: A really long  tee shot could land the ball right in front of the creek where the opening between the trees gave us a shot to the green, and I could then hit a five or six iron to the green for my second shot. (If, however, the drive strayed right or left then the next shot was over or between the trees.)

Number 6: That was one long par five that seemed to be uphill all the way when I carried my golf bag. It took three straight strong shots to the green. Very few, but those who could, hit the tee shot over the fairway bunker that had the low dip in front of it.  It was a big deal to see the long hitters swing hard trying to go over that bunker.

Number 7: In golf, I learned that I should never think about where my shot might land. Sure enough, when I thought about my tee shot flying over the fence into Fullerton’s pasture, the ball invariably flew left over the fence line and out-of-bounds. How many times did I crawl through that barbed wired fence to find my ball in the cow pasture? It cost an extra stroke and often a lost ball to recover from that errant tee shot.

Number 8: The was a long hard par three with two dangerous traps, one on each side of the green, that seemed to catch my tee shots often. It was a small opening to the green making it even harder to roll on. I thought it offered great potential for a hole-in-one, but it never happened to me.

Number 9: It was a slight dog leg to the right with two very difficult “sand taps” on the right and one smaller trap. What I remember the most were the benches sitting alongside the clubhouse, under the bar room windows. People often gathered there in the shade to cool off, or people could sit upstairs in the bar with cold drinks and a cigarette and knock on the windows to get your attention or clap and cheer if you made a good shot. Occasionally, a bar room window would be knocked out by a long shot over the green. 

 *Sorry John, this is the only Yearbook picture I have of you.