John Shearer: Traveling To PGA At Southern Hills Via Arkansas, Branson And An R.H. Hunt Church

Almost a year ago, I received an email about signing up to order tickets to the PGA Championship at Southern Hills Country Club in Tulsa, Ok.

 

Having been frustrated in recent years at all failed attempts to see Masters practice rounds or the newer women’s amateur at the famed Augusta National Club, I jumped at the opportunity to order tickets to another men’s major golf championship.

 

Who cares that the ticket prices were around $200 – including free concessions and parking – and that Tulsa is halfway across the country? After thinking about it for a few days when the opportunity to order tickets arrived but realizing tickets to all the days but about the opening day of Thursday were going fast, I finally broke down and ordered a ticket.

 

I figured I could break the news to my wife, Laura, a few days later and if she expressed too much shock, I could tell her I could likely resell the ticket and at least break even. 

 

As the months passed, I continued to hold on to the digital ticket while visualizing places I could stay coming and going, however.

And finally with Laura’s wishes, even though she did not care to go with me, I headed off last Monday, May 16, for another sports-related excursion.

 

In recent years I have been to places like UNC-Chapel Hill to see a Tarheels basketball game and Cincinnati to see an Atlanta Braves game, but this was to be a new experience.

 

One reason I wanted to go was that Southern Hills is one of the premier courses I vividly remember watching on TV when I was an aspiring junior golfer. I particularly recall the U.S. Open being played there in June 1977, when I was getting ready to enter my 12^th-grade year at Baylor School. I have not forgotten watching Hubert Green on TV waiting seemingly 10 or 15 minutes for the No. 18 green to clear so he could hit his approach shot on his final hole during the tense final moments.

 

Although he hit in a sand trap, this golfer with the unorthodox wristy swing was able to still win by one stroke. Only when I read the sports page the next day did I learn the full story, that someone had phoned in a death threat to him as an apparent prank, and he had to play the last few holes with that scary knowledge. 

 

As a result, the Southern Hills course had a little mystique to me over the years. And only recently did I also learn that in 1981, someone was murdered in the club’s parking lot in a mafia-ordered killing.

 

But Southern Hills also has a lot of positive golf memories, including Tiger Woods winning the 2007 PGA Championship the last time a major tournament was held there before this year.

 

I did not know until arriving for the tournament that Southern Hills was asked to host this year’s tournament after PGA officials pulled it from Donald Trump’s New Jersey course, Trump National Golf Club, after the assault on the U.S. capitol on Jan. 6, 2021.

 

I had successfully talked my old University of Georgia buddy, George Weske, into letting me mooch a room at his house in the Memphis area coming and going, so this cheapskate was going to save a couple of days of hotel bills.

 

So off I went on my westward journey about mid-day on Monday, May 16, in my rental car I decided to take after realizing my 2017 Honda Accord already had enough miles on it and needed its own vacation.  After getting stuck in Interstate 40 traffic a couple of times between Nashville and Memphis, I arrived at George’s Germantown house about suppertime and enjoyed visiting with him and his wife, Jennifer, and a couple of their children.

 

After a nice dinner of lasagna and chocolate sheet cake, he took me to the nearby Collierville town square. It seemed like a neat place where East Shelby County suburbia had almost overrun this small community of nice old homes and churches, but not completely.

 

The next morning, I woke up early and – after a chicken biscuit at a Germantown Chick-fil-A – began the nearly six-hour drive all the way to Branson, Mo., to see a mid-afternoon show. But it was not just any show randomly picked out. Somehow during the pandemic to relax some nights to get through the shock of COVID-19 and celebrate not having contracted the disease, I started searching for YouTube videos of performances of songs I liked.

 

But often what popped up were these songs, but not necessarily by artists with whom I was familiar. Two artists whose cover songs continually showed up – and apparently had millions of views already – were a young Dublin, Ireland, street performer named Allie Sherlock and a Branson-based singing and playing family named the Petersens.

 

I was quickly drawn to the Petersens’ beautiful renditions of such songs as “Landslide” and “Carolina in My Mind.” And somewhere along the line in recent months, it dawned on me that Branson is on the way from Memphis to Tulsa – at least sort of.

 

After deciding to make the trip, I quickly purchased a ticket to see them during one of their twice-weekly shows at the Little Opry Theater.

 

As I was driving that morning and hoped I could arrive in time and would not get delayed by those proverbial travel spoilers called road construction and accidents, it was Arkansas – and not Carolina -- that was more on my mind. Some of the Natural State is flat and uninteresting, but the part I was traveling through in Northern Arkansas that morning was simply beautiful with all its unspoiled rolling hills.

 

I am not sure if I have been pleasantly entertained so much through my windshield on a long drive like that.

 

After one or two wrong turnoffs due to writing down the directions instead of using my GPS, I arrived with time to get my ticket 90 minutes or so before the show and to eat lunch. I had circled through the historic part of Branson while trying to find the theater and realized Branson is probably like a smaller Pigeon Forge or Gatlinburg and likely has some unique restaurants.

 

But when I saw a Golden Corral across from the theater and realized I might not see a whole lot of other vegetables or salads on my trip, I decided to go there. While it is a self-service buffet, one woman who worked there came up and laid down her card after I had my food and said to let her know if I needed anything else, which I obviously would not at a self-service buffet.

 

I also realized I had no single dollar bills, only $5 bills and higher, and thought about not tipping her because she was basically doing nothing. But then my better angels got a hold of me, and I realized this woman likely depended on every dollar she could get. So, I slipped the $5 under her card as I left and hoped it would bring at least a brief smile to her. I know it did to me.

 

And I was just getting started with smiles. I was greatly looking forward to the show by the Petersens – a wholesome style group featuring three daughters in their 20s, their quip-filled brother, and their mother along with another male musician – and was excited when I realized I was on the second row of the intimate theater.

 

When they all came out and seemed so familiar due to the videos I had seen, I realized I was a bona fide fan club member! While they did not play my favorite song, “Landslide,” as hoped, they did totally entertain me and the others with more than 90 minutes of such songs as “Jolene,” “Annie’s Song,” “Amazing Grace,” an upbeat Celtic fiddle number and a beautiful original song called “California.” 

 

The concert was all I hoped it would be and more. One man told them during a question-and-answer session that he was a minister and had become a fan while using some of their Christian songs while having to do church online during the pandemic. And I could tell those previously unfamiliar with them were big fans as well by the end of the show.

 

After the concert, they greeted fans, but since a line had already formed behind those buying T-shirts and tapes, I did not get in it. I wished I had later, although I did catch the eye of the brother, Matt, and thanked him with a wave.

 

After this show, it was time to quickly head to my next stop – Fayetteville, Arkansas, home of the University of Arkansas, about two more hours southwest through the Ozarks and foothills. After a little maneuvering and only about two missed turns, I arrived about dinnertime in this appealing college town.

 

Despite the hour, I did not head to the Fayetteville Golden Corral but wanted to feast my eyes on the University of Arkansas campus. I love visiting college campuses and sometime wish I could take a long trip just looking at campuses. 

 

After driving the mile or so from my high-rise Graduate Fayetteville hotel in what was likely once a 1960s-era Holiday Inn or something similar, I immediately fell in love with the beautiful tree-covered lawn that stretched out in a downward manner for a couple of hundred yards.

 

Behind it at the top was the Victorian-style Old Main administration building, a truly wondrous piece of architecture with a bell tower at one front corner and a clock tower at the other. The building almost had a Midwestern quality to it, but I certainly felt at home on the space as I jogged around the grass and examined parts of the rest of campus for a few minutes.

 

It was overall an above-average campus in terms of attractive aesthetics with a variety of architectural styles, including some stone-covered buildings like I found at Indiana University during a 2019 visit.

 

It also has some of the largest sorority houses I have ever seen, including the Tri Delta home that looked like a baby Biltmore. The school also has a unique tradition of inscribing the name of every graduate into its sidewalks. So instead of just a mortarboard when they graduate, they also get some concrete mortar!

 

I have a slight connection to the University of Arkansas in that I briefly became a football fan for a couple of years around 1969 as a 10-year-old after they beat my Georgia Bulldogs in the Sugar Bowl. On the 50^th anniversary of that game, I had an opportunity to interview over the phone star Razorback quarterback Bill Montgomery and standout receiver Chuck Dicus, which was a real treat. 

 

While I was there on the trip, I became curious to find out where the athletic dorm the players stayed in during that era was but could not find anything definitive online. But I did find a statue to the former successful coach Frank Broyles in front of the football stadium.

 

After going back to my hotel and taking a shower and asking the hotel attendant for a unique place to eat that was popular with students and alumni, he suggested Hugo’s. It was only a block or so away and dated to 1977.

 

I saw its well-lighted sign across the street, but only when I got up next to the restaurant building did I realize it is located in the basement. So, I went down and found a table, and at the recommendation of the waitress, ordered a cheeseburger. It was delicious.

 

I was also eyeing some nice large bowls of French fries at an adjoining table or two and inquired about that item but was told it came in only one size – very large. While I would have liked to have had 8 or 10 of the hot fries, 75 was too many, so I did not get any.

 

After trying to walk off the burger a little through downtown Fayetteville after eating, I then went back up to my ninth-floor room and had to finish compiling my grades in the adjunct journalism classes I teach at UT-Knoxville.

 

The next morning, I arose a little earlier than I wanted, but took a nice jog up to the campus and back, a jaunt that lasted more than an hour. As one who prefers jogging on grass, I had hoped my hotel was right by the campus, as has been the case when I stay at the Carolina Inn on visits to Chapel Hill, N.C.

 

It was a half mile away but still not too bad. Arkansas has an old inn on campus – the inn at Carnell Hall, which is a former women’s dorm -- but it cost about double what my room was.

 

After coming back to my room and showering, I was looking for a bakery like Niedlov’s in Chattanooga to get breakfast. I had looked up a place online not far from my motel, but when I finally found it, I entered it and did not see anyone. I peeked in a few rooms and saw a light on, but only when I went back out front did I realize the pandemic had turned it into a delivery only place. But at least I got a tour of it, although unsolicited!

 

I became frustrated and thought I might have to drive away from town to something like a Panera when suddenly I stumbled on another bakery called Little Bread Company. Thankful I had found it, I ordered a sticky bun sweet roll and a piece of quiche. The sweet roll was delicious – but sticky – while the quiche was a little more like an egg-like frittata and probably needed a tastier and thicker crust to suit me. 

 

I probably should have ordered a croissant for my savory part of my breakfast but was overall thankful I found the place.

 

I had also realized the night before that the Northwest Arkansas Times, owned by the Hussman family/WEHCO Media that also owns the Chattanooga Times Free Press, was right by my hotel.

 

I then went back to my room to finish up a freelance story and answered a few emails from people not realizing I was on vacation! I then tried unsuccessfully to take a nap before finding a soup, sandwich, and salad restaurant that I later realized was probably a chain.

 

My next stop was to be an unexpected one that I had just lined up before leaving. I knew that former Chattanooga architect of yesteryear R.H. Hunt had designed First United Methodist Church in Fort Smith, Ar., about an hour’s drive south of Fayetteville, so I made plans to meet a couple of church members that afternoon to tour it.

 

Dr. Charles Paris and Jack Green from the archives committee at the church were there to meet me in the parking lot and gave me a VIP tour of the church. The church’s sanctuary/nave had turned 100 years old in 2021, but the members just had a COVID-delayed centennial celebration this spring.

 

The church, which I wrote about a couple of years ago after getting some inquiries from Dr. Paris regarding R.H. Hunt, is nice and still retains its original look, despite the addition of several wings.

 

It is shaped a little like Chattanooga’s Memorial Auditorium with long windows on the side (although the auditorium ones were later removed), steps in the front and a horseshoe balcony. The church, though, has eight columns in the front and looks a lot like a Baptist church in Durham, N.C., I toured and wrote about last December, although the Fort Smith church has retained more of the original look in subsequent restorations and remodelings.

 

The two also showed me some of the old Hunt plans for the church the church still has, and the drawings say his firm drew them from the Dallas office instead of the one in Chattanooga. The two men also told me they recently discovered a drawing and sketch for an additional education building next to the nave, but it was never built. The sketch had been recently found in a room under the steps.

 

After about a 45-minute tour, I said goodbye to them, took a brief jaunt through downtown Fort Smith and got back on the highway to head back to Fayetteville in my rented Chevy Malibu. Unfortunately, though, I forgot the way back and was still not using my GPS.

 

That ended up getting me in trouble because as I was trying to find Interstate 49 after going in the wrong direction on Interstate 40, I slowly stayed in the left lane while trying to make sure I found it. Before I knew it, an Arkansas state trooper got behind me and turned on his lights, stopping me and a woman who had been trailing me.

 

Fearing I had messed up somehow, I waited after he said he wanted to talk to her quickly before letting her go. When he came back, he told me I was going too slow in the passing lane, and I told him I was not from there and did not know my way around. And not only that, but I was headed to the PGA golf tournament and had interviewed someone at a church about an architect from Chattanooga.

 

I was hoping the reference to a church would make me seem like an upstanding citizen. He ended up being nice and let me go without a ticket after telling me not to move so slowly in that lane, but I am not sure if he figured out how the PGA and church tour all connected.

 

Feeling relieved, I then found my way back to Fayetteville and drove around the parts of campus where the Donald Reynolds Razorback Stadium is. I also passed the other sports facilities, including the Bud Walton Arena for basketball and a very nice track stadium with covered grandstands on both sides.

 

While all SEC schools have nice sports facilities, I was more interested in the other parts of the campus. I noticed the large sorority houses along West Maple Street on the side of campus, including the Tri Delta house again, and then walked after parking my car back to the grassy area in front of Old Main.

 

This had become about my favorite place on campus, so I sat in a grassy area for just a few minutes and soaked it all in. I felt I could just have easily been sitting under a tree in 1922 as 2022, and I loved the timeless and aesthetically pleasing feel of it all.

 

I then went back to my room, and after getting a slice of pizza from a place called Tony’s, stayed in the hotel the rest of the night to get ready for my early trip to a town called Tulsa to see a tournament called the PGA Championship.

 

But I did briefly lounge in the lobby of the hotel that night and noticed it had some old Arkansas yearbooks. I found one from 1968 that showed my football hero Bill Montgomery playing freshmen football for Arkansas. The young team was called not the Razorbacks, but the Shoats.

 

After getting up a little after 5 on Thursday, I checked out of the hotel and left shortly after 5:30 for my westward journey. Tired of getting lost and seeing my cellphone get run down, I figured out how to work the GPS in the car and also how to plug my phone in.

 

Unfortunately, I would have other problems to solve with my rental car that day. About halfway to Tulsa, which was not to have any tornadic activity that day as feared weeks in advance, I realized that Oklahoma has some toll roads, and I stumbled upon one that was unmanned. And it took cash only! 

 

Luckily, I had a little cash on me, but I could not figure out how to insert money into it. With a car pulling up behind me, I panicked, even though I realized later I should have just asked that driver for help. I did see it had a basket for exact change, but the lowest denomination I had for the $3.25 fare was a $10. So, I threw the Alexander Hamilton into the basket, even though I knew I was not supposed to, and started driving on through the red light as it made some kind of noise signifying I had done something terribly wrong.

 

Within 30 seconds after going on, I started feeling very guilty and somehow like the male counterpart of Bonnie and Clyde. I also started imagining that an all-points bulletin would be issued for me – even though I left more money than required. Not only that, but about that same time, I heard a small ping and realized a small rock from somewhere had landed on my windshield. And it was not exactly good fun watching the crack slowly expand.

 

Now, I would be in trouble with the rental car company as well. And no, I did not buy their special insurance. I was feeling as though I would not even be able to enjoy this long-awaited day because of those two incidents. 

 

But when I successfully pulled into the tournament’s free parking garage next to a closed mall or department store, I decided on a whim to call the office overseeing toll roads and explain what had happened. Even though it was before 8 a.m. Oklahoma time, I was almost miraculously able to reach a customer service person. I told her what had happened, and she told me in a friendly manner that they would probably be able to see on camera that I had attempted to pay and not send me a ticket, but to call them back if I received anything.

 

Feeling much better, I boarded one of the nice Greyhound-like shuttle buses they had and rode the few miles through suburban Tulsa to Southern Hills Country Club. And when I got off the bus and was able to get my digital ticket to work and get inside, I felt like crying happy tears. 

 

After nearly 12 months of waiting and more than 12 hours of driving over several days, I had arrived! I quickly took a picture of the “Welcome to the PGA Championship” sign and texted it to a few friends and family, as if I had just climbed Mount Everest.

 

My first order of business after noticing and taking a picture of the unique clock tower by the putting green 50 or so yards from the nice, one-story English manor clubhouse was to head for the concessions. Although some people were criticizing the concession prices, I had ordered an all-inclusive ticket, and I was going to take advantage of it.

 

Even though the time was only 9:30 a.m. when I reached the concession tent, I picked up a cheeseburger. Although I had saved and ate a small Danish roll in the car on the way to Tulsa that morning, I was still very hungry!

 

I heartily munched on the morning burger, telling myself this was the savory part of my breakfast. I then returned about two hours later to enjoy lunch – a hot dog complete with chips and a delicious packaged chocolate chip cookie.

 

And, oh yes, I did enjoy a little golf in between my two grazing escapades. Remembering the late great Hubert Green waiting halfway down No. 18 in the 1977 tournament, I eventually headed there.

 

But on the way, I watched briefly a heavily bearded golfer who was driving a cart. My first impulse was that he was Santa Claus. And then it quickly dawned on me who he was – former champion John Daly, who must have a health exemption to drive the cart while others walked.

 

After trying one or two other viewing spots, I finally made the left side of No. 18 fairway under a shady tree and realized I was at the ideal place. It offered a simply stunning view back up toward the elevated green and clubhouse. And it reminded me of my youth and watching that hole on TV.

 

I saw several groups come through there, including the famed threesome of Tiger Woods, Rory McIlroy and Jordan Spieth. I knew where they were on the course because the gallery moved around like an extra-large human glacier.

 

After several minutes there, I realized today’s era of golfers don’t acknowledge the crowd as much as previous generations did. 

 

After lunch, I found a few more viewing places – and made one or two more concession stops to get my money’s worth from the free concessions that were factored into the nearly $200 ticket. 

 

Another relaxing place was under some shady trees along No. 10 fairway, where I saw Chattanoogan Keith Mitchell come through, right before fellow Baylor grad Luke List. I ended up following Keith for one or two additional holes. While watching him on No. 10 green and No. 11 tee, my attention was diverted slightly by a giant home that looked a little like a Frank Lloyd Wright-designed structure but also like a multi-story suburban office building.

 

In short, it was big but pretty. I kept trying to inconspicuously take a few pictures of it, but one tournament volunteer saw me and quipped, “I am going to charge you $5 for taking a picture of my house!”

 

I was enjoying everything, particularly the concessions and just the nice setting of the course, even though you had to cross fairways to get several places and that the grounds had a few quirks. The latter included No. 13, the tee of which sits behind the previous green, and a golfer must hit over it to get to the fairway.

 

Even though the time was only about 3 p.m. and I had driven several hundred miles, I was trying to reach Memphis before too late an hour, so I headed for the shuttle buses. I realized countless others were also worn out from 6 or 7 hours in the sun as well, because they were heading to the bus pickup area, too.

 

After getting in my car, I then began driving east through a couple more toll stations, although these were human operated, and I had no problems. I then reached Memphis about 10:30 central time and told friend George about my fun day.

 

I arose early the next morning, stopped by the Chick-fil-A again and got another chicken biscuit, and then went by my aunt’s and parents’ old Memphis homes from yesteryear before heading back to Chattanooga and arriving about mid-afternoon Friday.

 

After unloading my bag, I went to the rental car place to turn my Malibu in and realized I would have to pay an additional $200 for the damaged windshield. It was about the same price as the PGA ticket – and no free concessions were included.

 

Knowing it was not my fault, I did not let it bother me as I continued to savor my otherwise nice trip that included seeing some pretty Arkansas countryside, a wonderful show in Branson, a beautiful church in the typical R.H. Hunt style in Fort Smith, and a great golf tournament and beautiful course in Tulsa. 

 

I would have loved to include an extra day in Tulsa to see sights of personal interest like Black Wall Street reminders, Oral Roberts University, and the tall Tulsa skyline the TV tournament coverage kept showing, but I was still thankful I went.

 

If I had to do it all over again, I would have done it the same way, even if it meant once again getting stopped by an Arkansas state trooper, getting my windshield dinged and not figuring out how to use an unmanned toll booth!

 

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Jcshearer2@comcast.net