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.  

My Story--The Fire

          It was 4am before the flames were high enough to rouse the neighbors.  Sirens rang as truck after truck sped through the streets to reach the raging fire.  The neighbors stood in nightgowns and thrown together layers of clothes, starring in awe as the 1929 Tudor structured clubhouse burned out of control like an angry lady poking a stick at mad dogs.

          With water hoses surging full blast from all angles, photographers shot pictures of the fire in the night, while word spread throughout Miami, Oklahoma that the club was burning.  Shortly after sunrise it became clear that flames had reached the fifth floor and were screaming through the roof.  Windows had exploded floor by floor, and the town had turned out to see the event, like a circus train unloading lions and tigers.

          It wasn’t known how or when the fire started on if anyone was inside.  The housekeepers from time gone by no longer lived on the fourth floor.  Cars had sometimes been left overnight by members too drunk to drive.  Had the men gone home or stayed behind to win a hand of cards?

          For me, the club was like a home, my touchstone of who I was, who I could be, and eventually who I would become.  We moved to Miami, Oklahoma in 1954 a few years after the flood of ’51.  As a child of five my greatest regret was that we missed the flood, but oh did I ever soak up the stories and seek out proof of flood lines on homes at every outing.

Ladies on the practice green on the north side of the country club.1960's

          My dad was the golf pro at the Miami, Ok. Golf and Country club  and the greatest teacher I would ever know.  In turn, I played golf and loved the fresh air, but it took hours of my life to prepare for tournaments.  Practice was my life as a teen, whereas, my sister was a natural and still has an easy flowing flawless swing. (I must confess we both worked hours on the practice tee. Golf is never easy, even for a person with natural swing.)

 

1967 South-side main entrance with our blue station wagon that would take me to college in 1967 sits to the left of the entrance.

         I went to work in the golf shop at thirteen.  Tuesday through Saturday I opened the shop by sun up in those summer months.  From 2:00 till dinner I played or practiced my golf game. By the time I was a full-fledged teenager I had very little time to drag main, shop with friends, watch “As the World Turns”, or date. What I did have were the friends I made at golf tournaments in those years and the experiences of playing at the highest level of junior golf in 1960's before Title IX.

          Part of me always wanted to be like everyone else, but the other part was willing to stand alone and just be me.  I didn’t know who me was or would become.

          At nineteen, 1967, I left home for college at LSU to complete a teaching degree. Being immature, thinking I was smarter than my professors, I came home in the summer of 1968 married and left home for Ft. Hood, Texas.  Five years later I was a mother of a beautiful child, but divorced, uneducated, and alone. I left home again, and worked my way through college and degrees.  As a librarian, teacher, and mother I began to entertain and teach through storytelling and puppetry.  And we laughed.

          The stories told, laid the next layer of asphalt for the road I would take.  I found those universal truths of stories to be healing for the human spirit.  Listening to the laughter of the crowd rejuvenated me.  Listening to my daughter mimic me as she retold those stories to her dolls and friends, also made me realize how our children watch in detail our every move.

          It was the stories that led me home that weekend the club burned.  On a Sunday July 16, 1984 I drove from Norman, OK in a green Toyota loaded with kids, puppets and books and drove straight to the club.  I needed to feel the soil of my soul and show my children a part of me.  On the horizon I saw only two chimneys.  One four story chimney stood in the center of the broken brick shell, ashes smoldering, people still standing rows deep in the drive way watching. The second chimney stood alone on the west side of the building that connected the dance floor and porches to the main building.  Fire trucks and traffic blocked my entrance.

 

North-side from the putting green.

          I parked on the street and walked quietly cautiously toward the smoldering structure, my broken lady. My children ran ahead. 

 

July 23, 1984 Dad, Johnie Stapp, myself, daughter Katy Rains, and stepson Michael Watt.

     When my father saw me, the tears he had held off since the wee hours of the morning fell down his cheeks in rivulets flowing haphazardly.  The hugs and tears came from all directions.  All any of us could do was stand, stare, until at last we began to share.

          On Monday after teaching summer school at PSU, I returned to the club and parked near the yellow tape on the south side.  I followed the tape around a giant circle to the north-side and the entrance to the pro shop.  No lives had been lost, but, oh, so many memories danced in the clouds.  I stood outside the yellow tape. Then I heard a choking voice coming from the ashes that were heaped where the golf shop once stood, supporting the lofty building. From an angry grumble I heard these words,  “Where are you?  I know you’re here.  You’ve got to be here.”

          Quickly, I crossed the line and hollered, “Who are you?  What have you lost?”

          A deep angry voice returned, “It’s John.”

          “Dad?" I rushed through the door frame,  "I thought you were at home.”  

     Stepping into the ashes of golf shop door, I saw a bent over white-haired man swinging a rake wildly at a pile of ashes.  I thought for a moment his khaki jumpsuit was streaked in blood, but my imagination was vivid and dried red paint had the same effect.   Then I realized it was another man, named John, not my father. 

          “Oh my gosh, John, this is Letty Stapp, the pro’s daughter.  What have you lost?”  I asked fearfully.  He stopped, turned at me, and hollered,  “I’ve lost my putter.  She burned up, but I know I can find the mallet head.  Come here and help me, now.  You know where my bag was stored.”

          With two of us digging, and my clothes already covered in ash, we found the mallet head, no wooden shaft, no grip, nothing else to be retrieved.  With rake and mallet in hand we walked to the outside of the ropes and behind the yellow tape.  No words were spoken as we turned to look at shell.

          At last I said, “You know she was my home, my touchstone.  I can see myself and your children, all of us up there in the attic playing and spying on the world below.”

          “It was my home, too,” he replied.  “My father and George Coleman had her built.  I grew up there.  I know every nook and corner like the back of my hand.”  One by one we shared our stories through tears and laughter that spanned six decades.  Secrets had been shared.

          Then he placed his arm around my waist and said, “I’ve always said a man is just as old as the woman he’s touching.”  I laughed, for he was known to be a fox around women, but I knew that for a few moments in life we were both younger and shared a deep feeling for a burned out building called home.

 

*A true story by Letty Stapp Watt, as told for three decades on storytelling stages throughout the Midwest. 

**Later that week John Robinson drove to the farm where my parents lived and asked dad to remake his mallet head putter. It took a few weeks before my father found a wooden shaft that would work. 

***Sadly, my mother had finished updating the Miami Ladies Golf Association scrapbooks and delivered them to the ladies locker room a few days before the fire. Without pictures in that scrapbook I thought I had lost a part of me, but the memories floated back easily. In retirement, I took up the mantle (or mallet head) and wrote the history of my club from 1916 to 1984.

****Luckily, the club rebuilt and there are more stories to share.

Miami Golf and Country club Reunion UPDATE

 

Rockdale Country club about 1935 facing the south.

MIAMI GOLF AND COUNTRY REUNION July 25, 26, 27 in conjunction with Tom Walker’s class reunion, golfers, and friends. Letty has been compiling the history of the Country Club from 1916—1984 when the club burned to the ground. https://mgcchistory.blogspot.com The years from 1985-2010 will follow. Click on this link to see the history.

July 25, 2024 We have 5 tee times reserved starting at noon for those interested in playing golf at Shangri-la Resort, plus a package offer to stay and play. Contact McKayla Rutherford 918-257-7779 to reserve rooms for the Miami Country club event. $77 plus tax for golf.

July 26, 2024 We have 8 tee times starting at 10:00 at Peoria Ridge golf course. $45.00 for golf. We can play in 5’ somes so we have room for 40 golfers. We must have names ASAP…

Letty Stapp Watt must be notified if you plan to play golf at either event. lettywatt65@gmail.com

July 26 evening buffet at Peoria Ridge for MHS “A Gathering of Wardogs.”  *Contact Tom Walker through Facebook “You Know You Are From Miami Ok When….” Or Letty

July 26 and 27 Miami’s Heritage Fest will take place through the two days on Miami’s Main Street. There will be a huge stage for performers, BBQ competition, and food trucks. 

July 27 Jonya and Letty Stapp will host a Meet and Greet at Dobson Museum 10am—4pm. This is to celebrate Miami’s rich history thanks to leadership 100 years ago and for those who knew the golf pros at the club from 1954—2010. Please bring stories and memorabilia to share with all.

July 27 Tom Walker is planning “A Gathering of Wardogs” luncheon at Peoria Ridge community room and an evening buffet at the Peoria Ridge golf course. Donations accepted for the Wardog meals. Please let Letty or Tom know who is planning to attend the luncheon and or the dinner. Also, give your graduation date.

 

 

1966 Dickie Neel's Story From a Friend's Point of View

 1966 Dickie Neel's Story From Dick Lillard's Point of View

 

Some thoughts about my best friend Dick Neel. Dick was one of the finest men that I have ever met.  Dick had so many friends and I never knew a man, woman or child that did not like Dick Neel.  I moved to Miami and May 1963 and I met Dick that fall playing in a pickup basketball game, Dick, not being very tall was still good at that game as he was in all athletic endeavors. In that first meeting he found out that I liked golf, he said he played a “little” himself and we met a few days later to play our first round, of so many I cannot count, together at Miami Golf and Country Club.  Yes, he played a “little”! I was 24 at the time and Dick was 21, he was certainly the one best players I had played with or been around.  He was never one to brag about his accomplishments on the golf course even though there had been many before that time and many to come after as well.

I later found out that Dick along with his friend Bob Hill (an exceptional person and an exceptional golfer as well) had won the two-man high school state championship for Miami High School when they were seniors. It turned out that athletic state championship was the first state championship of any kind won by Miami High School.  Dick attributed his skills on the golf course to lessons learned from his father, brother and Miami Golf and Country Club Pro Johnny Stapp.  One of his proudest moments was being named the golf pro at Miami Golf and Country Club.

 

Thank you to Dickie Neel's family for sharing the photograph albums with me.

Dick and I played some winter golf that same year and, in the spring of 1964, Dick began to play “the circuit” of Invitational’s held by the country clubs in the four-state area. I had no idea that this occurred but it was a wonderful way to spend a weekend if you loved to play golf and if you love to have a great time. Dick won many of these tournaments that were usually just Saturday and Sunday events. I think Twin Hills country club in Joplin Missouri was a three-day event. He would usually sell the merchandise he won, that was an additional source of income at that time.  Another source was taking more than a few dollars gambling on golf games.

Dick won the Hickory Hills tournament in Springfield at least twice.  I know he won the Baxter Springs tournament two or three times and our local Miami Golf and Country Club Invitational.  He also won tournaments in northwest Arkansas as well as others here in Oklahoma. I believe it was 1966 or 1967 he talked me into playing the Baxter Springs invitational.  When my round was over in something like B Flight, I rushed to watch the conclusion of Championship Flight because I knew Dick was close to the top. Championship Flight ended in a tie between Dick and another gentleman forcing a sudden death playoff.  Dick asked me the caddy for him for the playoff.  His drive on number one was perfect, it ended up about 15 yards short of the green. The other gentleman was farther away and his next shot ended up about 20 feet from the pin. Dick pulled out a putter, I was a little shocked but he explained that the ground was smooth from his ball to the green and that the greens were mounded and he thought this was his best chance to get the ball close. He stroked the putt from off the green and it ran up the slope to within about 12 inches from the hole. The other gentleman missed his put.  Dick for a birdie for the win.  I shall never forget that day because Dick’s winning prize was a new set of Titleist irons.  He gave them to me. He knew my set was old and a mixed match.  He knew I could not afford them.  He had such a big heart.

I was in Dick’s wedding in 1966 and he was in mine in 1967. We played golf together almost every summer weekend until his death in 1994. He loved the game so much; I was always impressed that he never lost his temper he just tried to hit the next shot better.  In the early 1970s my golf game had improved. My uncle was a member at the Oaks Country Club in Tulsa and he invited Dick and me to play with him. I remember it well because I parred the first four holes and was four down because Dick had birdied them all.  I think he shot 67 and it was the first time he had seen the course.  Another very important golf story with Dick that shows his character and the kind of man he was happened years later when he and I were playing against two other gentlemen. We were up quite a bit and they pressed on the 18^th hole.  Our drives were both good and as we sat in the cart together, he said quietly they cannot afford to lose this amount.  I asked what he wanted to do and he said I’m going to miss the next shot on purpose, he did, we broke even for the day and our opponents were elated to have tied and they never knew how kind Dick Neel was to them that day. It was a teaching moment for me and another view into his soul.

It is been 28 years; I miss him and I shall never forget the kindness he showed to me. He was a fine golfer but an even better person. 

 

*This is part 1 of Dickie's story in golf. Part 2 will follow in the 1970's after Dickie earned his PGA card. 

Yours Truly,

Dick Lillard

(shared with Letty Stapp Watt 2023)

 

 

1955-1963 Crab Grass Picking Parties

 

Often times, in the humid heat of the summer, when I bend over and pull weeds from my garden,  I recall pulling grab grass at the country club. In the late 50's and early 60's my dad, and the board of officers would host one or two "Crab Grass Picking Parties" at the club during the year. 

*To read the "bag worm" story click on this link:Bag Worms, Really!

Dad and his team marked off rows on every green and families were assigned a green and could pick any row. Every hole on the golf course was worked by at least two to four families on these nights.  In the evening we would all gather near the clubhouse, go to our greens, and pick crab grass together.  Most tools were simply pocket knives or pairing knives. The men made sure to show their wives and kids how to dig in around the grass and pull.  Rebecca Mirjanick recalled that her family sat on hole #4 green and they brought their white handled serrated steak knives from home to cut out the crab grass. When the wind blew out of the south it certainly made our evenings more enjoyable. Grilled hamburgers were served either before or after the party.

fresh crab grass  

My most vivid memory occurred on hole #2 a dogleg right over a creek and around trees. One sweltering summer evening I remember my family sitting on green #2 on our paper folded pads (thank you Girl Scouts), knives, cans in which to toss the weeds.  The Sam Fullerton family arrived and sat down on their row with mats, towels, and tools. The Fullerton's were very wealthy and owned a large cattle ranch, and the land north and east of the golf course. Besides being well-known in town for the wealth and power, Sam was a Judge. They had a son, Billy, my age who was my secret boyfriend. We were in grade together at Roosevelt elementary.

I admired Ruth Fullerton with my child's heart and soul. Her face covered in cosmetics and face powder, never sweaty and oily like mine. Her clothes stiffly ironed and proper. Her voice soft, nearly whisper soft. That evening she sat down on her towel, tucked her skirt up under her side bottom, leaned over and began to dig and pull. Her grace and beauty left a smiling heartfelt memory with me. Later, when I was a teenager, she enjoyed playing golf with me, usually just the two of us.

Ruth once told me that I was lucky to have oily skin. (Imagine my mind spinning with that thought, when I thought I suffered through pimples because of the oily skin.) She went on to point out that I would not have to deal with wrinkled skin when I was older, whereas, she covered her wrinkles with layers of make-up. (Fifty plus years later, I am often reminded of her words when I look in the mirror after a round of golf. She may have been correct.)  

Ruth and Florence Dawson were the only two women at the country club to play with a full set of "woods" long before we had rescue clubs or hybrids.

Miami Golf and Country club--Thank you to the Dickie Neel family for sharing their photographs with me.

 **I find this story slightly ironic. By using our hands, knees, and knives we did not have the need or use for chemicals. I have no memory of having bug spray to kill mosquitoes, either. Mother treated our bug bites with "pink stuff."

Only a few years later, synthetic herbicides became popular for killing weeds. Even with the banning of some herbicides and chemicals like DDT, the shelves are still full of chemicals for killing weeds and insects.