Mr. Letts

In a family of literary stars, the patriarch was no slouch himself

After the recent passing of acclaimed Oklahoma novelist Billie Letts (Where The Heart Is), I read numerous articles/obits devoting much of the copy to telling people that she was the mother of Pulitzer Prize and Tony-winning writer/actor, Tracy Letts of August Osage County fame. But wait one damn minute. She was the first famous Letts. I knew Billie for a long time, but I never knew her all that well. In the many conversations we had over the years, there was always a slight formality to it all. The same cannot be said for her late husband, Dennis. I called him “Mr. Letts.” 

I worked in the bookstore business for most of my twenties. Early on, I met Billie and Dennis as regular customers. They’d only recently moved to Tulsa from Durant after teaching for decades at Southeastern Oklahoma State University—known mostly to me as the school where Dennis Rodman played college ball. It always caused a stir when the Lettses showed up. The whisper of “Billie Letts is here” would make its way through the store. At that time, I hadn’t read any of Billie’s work. It wasn’t and still isn’t the kind of writing that speaks to me. But there’s no denying that these two were truly a cool couple in the strongest sense of the word. I’m not sure if I can remember the first time I spoke to Mr. Letts, but I certainly remember the topic of our first conversation: Joseph Heller. 

Born in Oklahoma City but raised in Wagoner, Dennis Letts got his bachelor’s from NSU in Tahlequah through the G.I. Bill. He served in the Air Force, but just missed the Korean War. This initial foray into higher education was followed by a master’s degree from the University of Tulsa and his doctorate from the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. Perhaps I should have called him Dr. Letts. I saw him perusing Heller’s books and threw out a nonchalant “Are you finding everything, all right, sir?” That question led to a 15-minute conversation—more of a lecture—about how “Catch-22” is highly overrated compared to Heller’s criminally ignored novel, “Something Happened.” I hadn’t read it. By our next run-in, possibly in fear of being viewed as a philistine, I had. 

Over the next few years, I looked forward to our chats in the stacks. Each time I learned something new about literature and about Mr. Letts. One thing I learned, which explained my recurring feeling of recognition, was that in his 50s, the longtime professor began appearing quite regularly in films, usually small parts, often in positions of authority (judges, lawyers, sheriffs). He was a tall, imposing presence, and the casting was spot-on. After learning of this, I urged him to name a few of the films. I’d seen them all: “The Man in the Moon” with a young Reese Witherspoon, “Passenger 57” with a pre-jail Wesley Snipes, “Cast Away” with Tom Hanks. Smiling from ear to ear at his own luck, he’d tell me stories about working alongside greats like Robert Duvall (“Secondhand Lions”) and being directed by Clint Eastwood (“A Perfect World”). 

I remember the moment that Billie brought her “playwright son” Tracy by the bookstore to meet me, knowing about my own meager attempts at writing, and knowing I’d get a kick out of it. I did. And I’ll never forget the time she told me about Tracy’s new project, especially proud that Dennis would play a major role. I had no idea that “project” would become August Osage County.

The show opened at the famed Steppenwolf Theater in Chicago in August 2007. Mr. Letts was diagnosed with lung cancer a month later. His pivotal role as Beverly Weston, the family patriarch, was the role of his lifetime. When the show moved on to Broadway in late 2007, Dennis went with it. He died on February 22, 2008, having done eight shows a week almost to the very end. When I heard the news of a memorial service to be held in Wagoner, I felt obliged to go. Several people spoke fondly of Mr. Letts, remembering this and that, a few anecdotes to paint a fairly broad picture. Tracy gave the eulogy. I’d need another 1,000 words at least to describe it, but let’s just say it ran the gamut of human emotions. The good, the bad, the ugly. Things you never hear at funerals. Some for good reason. But as I walked out to my car, slightly shaken by the operatic nature of it all, I felt so lucky to have known him a little bit. I still do.