A day out … golf, adventures and reflections
I know very little about golf.
I should really say that up front.
I have held a golf club about three times in my life. It’s a frustrating game – both to watch and to play. Or attempt to play. Now rumour has it that I actually wrapped a club around a tree once. I can neither confirm nor deny such an outrageous claim. I think I was seeing a whole lot of red at the time.
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And yet last weekend, there I was. At our local golf course, complete with stands of sturdy sprawling gum trees, deep sandy bunkers and a picturesque dam. We had been invited to a social golf day hosted by the local stock and station agents. A day of much-needed relaxation for many hard-working souls involved in the local cattle industry. People who also know how to party. And some who even knew how to play golf.
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In spite of my well-known aversion to the game, I had been roped into a team. Three friends – a footy-type bloke M, who claimed to have little golfing ability, his sweet wife L who had never played before, and her easy-going brother – nervously waited our turn to tee off. We had already allowed a number of other groups to take to the greens before us – we suspected our progress might be a bit, well, steady.
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Finally we girded our loins and stepped up. There I was: white shoes on, gripping a strange iron stick, sweat beading my brow, small white ball balanced precariously on a piece of plastic. As I lifted the club in what I imagined was a copy of Carrie Webb’s textbook drive (or whatever that swing is called) I wondered if bluff might see me through this challenge. I wavered between feeling momentarily confident I would be able to nail this thing, to feeling blatantly ridiculous. But that nervous anticipation was nothing on the brand of ridiculous I felt a second later, as my big swing made a satisfying whoosh right past the ball.
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“Good Shot darlin’!” came the wry comment from a green to my left. Bugger. Mr Incredible was watching – just my luck! With some whispered encouragement from my team-mates, I squared my shoulders and lined up the ball again. Whoosh-Thlunk! Well. I connected. And sent the ball about 15 metres. Still, a hit is a hit…and I took it. My hubby chuckled at my pathetic hit as he swung his club and sent HIS ball high over the tree. Blinking show off.
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I won’t bore you with all the sordid details, but suffice to say our team managed to complete two holes, scampering like puppies after tiny white balls which refused to stay on our section of the course. Our kids were sent into the undergrowth to retrieve the more challenging finds. All the while the long-suffering team behind us studied their fingernails while waiting for us to clear out of the way. The end of the second green just happened to coincide with the club house. The siren call of the chardonnay carton and beer dispenser drowned out the less dulcet tones of the remaining holes. I think each of my poor team were more than happy to call it in. Golf, we had discovered, was very thirsty work.
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The remainder of the afternoon passed very pleasantly, as we called out encouragement to those more stalwart golfers passing by the clubhouse. The chardonnays were nice and chilled and the company lots of fun. Kids scampered around the practice putting greens nearby, rolling down the manicured hills shrieking with laughter. I was feeling very mellow.
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After a BBQ dinner, my friend L, my sister-in-law A and I arranged our tired kids (a total of 10 between us) at L’s house. We left the men in charge (of offspring and an esky of refreshments) and headed out to the local dance recital. I had wanted to share the experience with Violet… my own little almost-four-year-old dancer. However the ball-chasing and hill-rolling activities of the afternoon had put paid to her stamina levels, so I left her watching TV with her little buddies. It was the first time I had ever been to this well-known annual event… and it lived up to its repuation as a night to remember. We only caught the second half, but it was fabulous, featuring the cutest little self-conscious kids and amazing adolescents with their budding confidence blooming.
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We all hummed the Abba finale songs as we drove (well, my sister-in-law drove!) back to L’s place. Noting it was almost 11pm, we wondered aloud how the men had fared with the children. Then out of the corner of my eye, I spotted what looked for the world like a charging Brahman bull. Grabbing A’s arm, I soon realised the white thing careering towards out vehicle was not a bovine, but a… golf cart.
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What the?!
As an esky lid flew high over the roof, I saw at least four men clinging onto the small white vehicle. They were enduing a very bumpy ride, as the cart belted through the paddock. I was hugely relieved to see my husband was NOT among the cart-riders, and was soon shocked into a bemused silence as they drew alongside us. The group of recognised party animals were laughing raucously, with one proudly showing the tyre-marks across his stomach earned in an earlier stack from their vehicle.
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With our offers of assistance politely refused, the group climbed aboard once more, thanked us for showing them where the road was, and headed smartly off into the darkness. Down the hill, towards the road and the distant lights of town. We tried not to think about the ability of those driving to get them to their destination safely. We decided the lack of headlights and available speed would keep them from serious harm. And we laughed til tears ran down our faces.
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We arrived back at L’s home, to find all children happily passed out on various couches and beds. The menfolk shared the adventures of their evening (complete with visiting rogues) as M cooked up his brand of evening snacks.
As he threw down a dinner plate piled hight with steak strips, pan fried and served with a generous sprinkling of salt, I pondered out day out.
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For a brief moment, I thought of all the fancy tapas offerings I had enjoyed with my fine wines on nights out as a city-dweller.
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I thought of hiring strangers as baby-sitters when we planned for a night out, then called up the day’s mental images of my children rolling pell-mell down lawned slopes.
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I thought of the huge range of pricy shows offered every day of the week in the city, then of the earnest efforts and delighted faces at the performance I had witnessed that night.
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And I thought of the gazillion rules and regulations attached to most sporting venues in the Big Smoke. Then giggled again at the antics of our local wags.
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And as I grabbed a steak strip, I came to two conclusions…
1. I love where I live.
2. Golf is most definitely a game for madmen.
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5 Comments
Debby
I loved the line about the children being passed out. I will share a yarn. The first time that my mother went out with my aunts, leaving me in the care of my father and uncles, I guess that I cried and pushed all of them to their very limits. So they put a little whiskey in my bottle and I was sleeping soundly when my mother and aunts arrived back home. Pretty clever of my dad…except that he proudly told my mother what he had done. Not so clever, that…
bigSIS
Sounds like the best of times. My sister lives near Chicago and often gets to go to the best shows and all that fun..but I love the farming community I live in and the simple pleasures that this kind of living affords.
Gem
There’s nothing like it is there. I went to see Australia on Saturday and yes I had a wonderful time – but being in town with all those people and the traffic and the noise etc etc – I was very glad to get back to the farm!
Gladys
Oh Honey you and I would be dangerous on the golf course together. Of course this comes from the woman who was thrown off the treadmill at the gym and the eliptical machine. No the gym members or staff did not throw me off, the machine itself did. 🙂
Pencil Writer
Perspective is a wonderful thing! Great to have the opportunity to share yours.