When I married Bill I decided to move in with him. That sounds weird, but at the time we had two houses. My house in Walhalla was up for sale, we could have moved in there. However, my husband was a serious golfer and Keowee Key is a golf community. Bill didn’t push me to play but I knew he wanted me to learn. He paid for me to have lessons with two local golf pros. The next step was his immersion theory. If we visited a golf school I could become immersed in the language, history, swing thoughts, and learn to love the game. I did learn to love it for ten years, but eventually writing won out as my passion. I was truly addicted when I finally made the connection between the club’s face and that dimpled darling that so many folks are chasing. Getting in trouble on the course was fun and challenging to me. I got a kick out of hitting low screamers out of the woods. The art of the sandtrap escape waxed and waned with me. Overall, sandtraps made me lose my religion.
If my ball went in at the edge of the water I would stand in it then hit while a shower of mud, sand, and water covered me. When we played out of town, even on a day trip, Bill made sure I packed my mud clothes.
I decided to use colored balls that could be found in moving streams and bulrushes. I was grief stricken when my neon pink golf ball hit the mud ‘vacuum’ in the lake at Blue Ridge Golf Center near Walhalla. May it rest in peace.
I learned such tips as how to address the ball. I used to think that was adding a zip code. I always thought that a buried lie was a secret hidden in your past, now I know that it’s a little golf ball hiding in tall grass.
In my zeal for this new hobby I became a Golf Channel fan. Amazing, the television instructors tell me a golf club can be forgiving. Does that mean that I can hit a ball into azalea bushes and it will say, “I forgive you?” The expensive clubs they advertise nearly hit the ball for you.
I confess that I fell for a Golf Channel ad when my, “always par or under,” husband approached the anniversary of his birth one year. I decided to adopt a young club named Bertha from a nearby golf store. I discovered that Bertha comes from a huge family: Big Bertha, Great Big Bertha, and the oldest, Biggest Big Bertha. Becoming confused, I opted for a gift certificate so that Bill could handle his own adoption procedures.
After his birthday, we drove to the Bertha Golf Orphanage in Anderson and Bill began his selection. The orphanage director analyzed Bill’s swing by computer, trying to find the right Bertha to join our family. Inside the store was a small golf driving range. As Bill teed off, the Bertha family stood nearby waiting to see if one of them would be chosen. Alas, the computer spoke and it was none of the local Bertha family! A Bertha cousin in a distant golf manufacturing plant with a lighter shaft (that means the handle for lay people) would come home with Bill. I wonder if the local Berthas in the Golf Orphanage will ever forgive anyone after being passed over for a foreign cousin.
I witness intelligent people chasing small circular objects through woods and waters. What’s worse is that I’m thinking of playing again and I’ll be one of them. Will golfers ever find those dimpled darlings? Golf companies hope not so they can keep selling large, elephant-killing golf clubs with strange names.
