There are 14 golf balls in this picture. Can you find them all?The golf balls were planted over the past couple of months, starting after the beginning of November, when I received a pre-inheritance from my mother: her golf clubs.
My mother was a golfer, and long after she quit playing her set of clubs remained in the storage cage in the sub-basement of her apartment building. They could not be given to Goodwill or the Salvation Army because, as was the case with so many things, "Maybe one of you girls would like to have them." The "girls" are my two sisters and me, a trio of gals age 50 and over, and not one of us wanted the golf clubs. Two of us don't golf (I'm in this category), and the other has a set of clubs that she is, basically, happy with (don't get her started...). We had all made our positions clear. Still...
Getting rid of stuff is hard. We usually don't do it until we have to, and my mother, moving from the Midwest to California, had to. Although she had made progress, there was a long way to go. It seems we imbue our stuff with memories and stories that we can't let go of; we want to hold on to things for complicated reasons, or we want to pass things on for even more complicated reasons. But a set of golf clubs is heavy and unwieldy. It certainly wasn't going to California (which also happens to be where my sisters live), so the clubs, nestled contentedly all their lives well below the tension line in a suburb of Chicago, came north, beyond the tension line, with me. It was my idea, and I have no idea where it came from. It was probably desperation, and it seemed to make sense at the time. After all, the damn clubs had to go somewhere. Why not the back of my pick-up?
At home I put the clubs in a shed and forgot about them. Then one day, a few weeks or a month later, I tripped over them and decided to try them out. I stuck a red plastic tee between two of the deck boards, placed a dimpled, fluorescent yellow ball on the tee, picked out a club with a big, wood head, and swung hard. I missed. I swung again. I missed. I swung again. With a satisfying smack, the ball left the tee and sailed to the left, landing amongst the trees. I was hooked.
Some of my favorite shots:
My mother was a golfer, and long after she quit playing her set of clubs remained in the storage cage in the sub-basement of her apartment building. They could not be given to Goodwill or the Salvation Army because, as was the case with so many things, "Maybe one of you girls would like to have them." The "girls" are my two sisters and me, a trio of gals age 50 and over, and not one of us wanted the golf clubs. Two of us don't golf (I'm in this category), and the other has a set of clubs that she is, basically, happy with (don't get her started...). We had all made our positions clear. Still...
Getting rid of stuff is hard. We usually don't do it until we have to, and my mother, moving from the Midwest to California, had to. Although she had made progress, there was a long way to go. It seems we imbue our stuff with memories and stories that we can't let go of; we want to hold on to things for complicated reasons, or we want to pass things on for even more complicated reasons. But a set of golf clubs is heavy and unwieldy. It certainly wasn't going to California (which also happens to be where my sisters live), so the clubs, nestled contentedly all their lives well below the tension line in a suburb of Chicago, came north, beyond the tension line, with me. It was my idea, and I have no idea where it came from. It was probably desperation, and it seemed to make sense at the time. After all, the damn clubs had to go somewhere. Why not the back of my pick-up?
At home I put the clubs in a shed and forgot about them. Then one day, a few weeks or a month later, I tripped over them and decided to try them out. I stuck a red plastic tee between two of the deck boards, placed a dimpled, fluorescent yellow ball on the tee, picked out a club with a big, wood head, and swung hard. I missed. I swung again. I missed. I swung again. With a satisfying smack, the ball left the tee and sailed to the left, landing amongst the trees. I was hooked.
Some of my favorite shots:
- the one that went over the shed;
- the one that landed on top of the shed;
- the ones, and there have been a few, that took off straight and hard, smartly cracking against the front of the shed;
- the one that veered right, hit a tree, hit one of the stakes keeping the wood pile in place, hit the tarp that covers the wood pile and swooped up, hitting another tree before falling to earth;
- all those that have ricocheted off trees going ping, ping, pong.
I also enjoyed how different snow coverings affected the landings. When the snow pack was crusted over, the ball would bounce and roll, eventually coming to a stop by dropping into a foot or paw print, or maybe ka-chinking into a hollow around a tree trunk. A light, fluffy snow covering resulted in lost balls. Sometimes they would plop down lightly, keeping their heads above water, but other times they would roll and sink, leaving behind a fine trail that dipped underground, creating a burrow deep in the snow. These were the balls that disappeared.
My practice was to shoot six or a dozen balls, then go and fetch them. One day I realized I was several balls short of what I had started with; I knew one was on the shed roof, some were lost in the depths of the open shed (I still haven't figured out exactly where they're at), but others had slipped without a whisper into the snow. One day, I thought, this snow is going to melt, and all my golf balls will reappear.
That day happened April 8, the day the golf balls bloomed. I grabbed my basket and went out and collected them, sixteen in all. So, Mom, how did you know? How did you know I'd like having your old clubs?
My practice was to shoot six or a dozen balls, then go and fetch them. One day I realized I was several balls short of what I had started with; I knew one was on the shed roof, some were lost in the depths of the open shed (I still haven't figured out exactly where they're at), but others had slipped without a whisper into the snow. One day, I thought, this snow is going to melt, and all my golf balls will reappear.
That day happened April 8, the day the golf balls bloomed. I grabbed my basket and went out and collected them, sixteen in all. So, Mom, how did you know? How did you know I'd like having your old clubs?
