1964-68 Mornings at the Club--A Personal Story, part 1

 

Letty and Faye Berentz, 2013 Such stories we could tell....

     Often my mornings began with a cheerful boot out of the car and my mother’s words, “Smile and be kind to everyone today, Letty.”   With sleepy eyes I wondered toward the golf shop.  The sun was usually on the horizon, and the grass was wet with morning dew, as I stumbled toward the golf shop scratching my tight pony tail.  Old Bill would already have the shop doors open and the basement wall fan turned on sucking in the cool morning air like a giant windmill.  I did my best to give a cheerful “Hi, Bill, how’s it going?” but was most often met with a reply “Morning.”  His words rolled from his mouth like thick molasses.

I was fifteen the year I began to open the golf shop and work from early morning till 2:00 Tuesday through Saturday in the summers. Prior to turning 15, Westphal's opened the shop and I showed up between 7-8, but now they had retired. On busy summer days one of the boys would work the morning shift with us. My favorite co-heart was Bobbie Ballenger, but it was a young man named Dale who sent me my first flowers. I think he had a crush on me.

 My first job was to help Bill set out clubs of the early morning regulars, the dew sweepers as we called them.  Hattie, Evelyn, Faye, Yvonne, LaRue and the men from Goodrich who played golf immediately after their night shift were the first ones for which we prepared.

          If Hattie’s clubs weren’t out front when she arrived, her brisk strut and mannerisms barked, “Where are my clubs? You knew I was coming out to play early!”

Old Bill’s response was simple, “Umph!,” then he would duck his head, stoop his shoulders forward with eyes looking at the ground, and ever more slowly stepped down into the club storage room to retrieve her clubs.  I secretly chuckled when he grumbled, “That woman!  She’s never happy, never.  Couldn’t make her happy.”  

I held my words and quietly talked in my head, “Haven’t you ever heard her laugh with the women downstairs after a round of golf.  She giggles like a silly child.”

          One early morning I had the clubs lined up and Bill was working on golf carts in the back when a member growled at me, “Letty, I don’t see my clubs set out.  Didn’t you pay attention to the tee times?”

          My head, too, ducked, but then I regrouped and replied gaily, “They’re out there.  You just didn’t seem them.”  I was to learn later that day that that was not the correct response.  I learned to say, always with a sincere smile, “I’m sorry.  Let me check.  I may have overlooked yours.”

 The club house, an old Tudor style brick building, had no fresh air breathing through it.   The golf shop, club storage, and cart storage covered the north side of the bottom floor.  The men’s locker room faced the east and the ladies locker room simply was another two steps down into the center of the basement or lower floor.  On those steamy hot mornings when the wind didn’t stir, I would dash through the basement and up the connecting stairs to the main entrance South doors, leaving all the doors open behind me and I used cases of beer hold open the South doors.  Once a breeze was created and fresh air traveled through the lower portion of the building I could breathe.  Without the fresh air from South to North the building smelled of stale smoke.     

          Somewhere between 8-9am there would be a break in the action, and I would trot upstairs to pick up a fresh glass of ice tea made by the Garsky’s, the couple who cleaned the clubhouse and lived upstairs.  There was nothing better in the world than fresh brewed tea on a crisp summer morning.  So began my delightful addiction to the world of teas, fresh brewed only.  I realize now that the tea was another way to set myself apart from my mother’s bridge club and her world of coffee, mints, and women’s talk.  Such a simple peaceful way to set myself apart.  The Garsky’s were a firm stalwart couple who never had much to say, but always greeted me with a smile.  Some mornings I actually sat down on the second floor screened in porch where children could sit in wet bathing suits to eat lunch.  I would look out at the golf course and swimming pool, just watching and dreaming.  I felt so grown up, acting as if I were in charge.

 

 

1960's The Golf Carts and The Snake Pit

 

If there was trouble to be found Dad and Doc Jackson were the pair. They were also great teammates in Pro-Am's around the Tri-state area, plus a few trips to California. The funny stories also came from the lips of Ky Laffoon, Dr. Harry Ford, Charlie Trussler, Marion Zajic and a friend of Dad's from California, Dale Stokes. 

*Dale was a traveling licensed electrician, plumber, all around fix it man. He and his wife, Elsie, lived in an AirStream travel trailer, never owning a home. When Dale did not have work he and Elsie sometimes came to see the pro and help dad with electrical and other handy man repairs for several weeks. 

In the time between 1955--1961 dad cleared out the remaining space under the ballroom to make room for his growing cart business. It took quite a bit of time and expertise from electricians and other laborers to set the beams and post for electricity, so we could later charge cart batteries. Concrete was laid at the inside entrance from the golf shop, more or less a back door out of the shop that went through the cart storage. This space gave Johnie a work area for tinkering on all golf clubs, all machinery, and especially his golf carts. I have searched high and low for Johnie's record book of the golf carts and not found it. I can promise you he was extremely meticulous in keeping track of every gallon of gas; the times he changed batteries; which one was or was not charging properly; each time a tire needed repair; every penny spent and every trip to Wichita or Joplin for parts recorded. He kept the same meticulous records in every car he owned.

The golf cart business boomed beginning in 1955. Our timing in the golf industry was perfect for bringing in golf carts and push carts.  President Dwight D. Eisenhower and other celebrities of the time brought attention to the golf carts and their usefulness to the game. 

The golf cart behind Mickey Wright is the type that dad bought in the beginning.

The first carts were three wheeled gasoline engines, and continued to be used until 1974. The steering mechanism on gasoline carts was known as tiller steering, which was a triangular bar with rounded edges.

 

In the beginning, I think Dad used E-Z Go Golf Carts and then switched to Cushman for gasoline and electric. I know that we did not have covers for them to protect us from the blazing sun, nor were they comfortable, but they were the style and classy looking.

Speaking from experience the gasoline cart went fast and turned quickly. This also meant it was quite dangerous and from time to time people were tossed out of the golf carts. I, for one, tossed my mother out on hole #2 after we hit our drives. I was driving the golf cart and passed mother's tee shot, I turned the cart to the left and mother flew to the right and rolled on the ground. I did not laugh, nor did Johnie Stapp! He and Jonya were driving behind us and saw what happened. That was one more time (of the many) that I was scolded severely and grounded. No wonder I didn't go to Mutt Hutt or Teen Town, as often as my friends.

Battery powered carts began to show up two by two during my teenage years. Dad paid for most of the carts with cash when he could, rather than take out a loan. 

Fun Fact: gas golf carts were originally promoted for elderly, seriously ill, and disabled people who still wanted to enjoy the sport of golf.  

Golf Cart History in Pictures This is the best website I have found for photos of the old golf carts. Certainly many memories in those old beauties. 

 

The Snake Pit

 

Once the cart room storage was complete Dad and his team of the "C.S. Club" Trussler, Zajic, Painter brothers, Wild Bill Hirsch, Doc Jackson, and others, not to mention the men who worked as grounds keepers, spent many a winter Thursday night digging out the "Snake Pit." It was in the Southeast corner of the cart storage. It had two big steps down to the lower level, no concrete, just dirt. It was a square shape about three foot deep (20' by 20' or larger). Dad bought a large net that hung in the back from the beams and was bolted down the ground. A tarp hung behind it.

The "snake pit" was built so the men could hit golf balls down there on cold days and nights.  It remained busy during my time there in the '60's.  Behind the netting and tarp Dad would sometimes hide liquor or store beer. On nights when there might be a raid on the bar upstairs this became a secret hiding place for the slot machines.

Range balls (practice golf balls) in a bucket remained in the pit throughout the year. When it rained outside, the mud and clay became slick, but Johnie had a solution. We stood on rubber mats like the ones used outside at Driving Range facilities 

It also became a new secret place for kissing couples who didn't want to be seen or caught by the pro.

There were numerous kissing places hidden to the public in that old building. I found them all, and on a few occasions I found them occupied. I was like a church mouse roaming the clubhouse from the time we moved there until I moved away. 

Once when I was way too young to find the attic, I shared a baloney sandwich with JD, whose mother was the cook and ran the dining room services. They lived in the apartment upstairs and it was through their door that two little children learned how to walk on beams and look out the window facing the north toward the practice green. I am surprised I didn't walk away with splinters buried in my hands. The attic was raw hot and dark and dangerous.   Architectural Layout of the Country Club

Years later, when I read THE LION, THE WITCH AND THE WARDROBE I knew that I had been there myself. No, I hadn't gone through a magical wardrobe, but I had found a magical kingdom at the top of the Miami Country club. It remained my special hidden place. As long as Fay Doty lived there I found refuge in the attic, alone sometimes with a toy and my imagination.