Five Years Later, Still on the Course with Dad

“Bapa is and was the best golf coach” my son told me with his big happy smile. He and I have been up down and around the bend with each other as he has stretched my single parenting capabilities over time.

Joyfully and thankfully, we are back together, my son and I. He inherited his grandpa’s loves: of friends, being outside, skiing fast on steep slopes, surprising us with a funny turn of phrase, golf, alcohol, and friends with alcohol. I’m not surprised he loves golfing with friends now too. 

He has one friend who has vowed off of alcohol whom I’m thankful has Dillon to spend his time with. Dillon is hands down the most loyal person I’ve ever met and will not give up his friendship with this man no matter the pain in the neck he is with crashed cars, stops from the police, hospital stays, and who knows what else. Now they share golf.

Back to Dad’s golf. My Dad was a scratch golfer meaning he had a handicap of two at most. He learned to golf with his own Dad and he taught those of us patient and persistent enough to tag along with him. He always drove the cart. At five or six years old, I ran behind the cart with a club or two in hand chasing the balls I hit, five or maybe ten yards at a time if I was lucky. He had learned the same way, running behind my grandfather and his pull-cart. As I became more skilled, he would keep score. It was amazing how he knew everyone’s score and lie better than we did.

“Where am I Dad?” I would ask constantly.

“You right behind that big maple in the rough on the right”, he would point out with his casually calm voice. He was high strung more often than not when away from the golf course or his fishing rods. He could be a scary hot head and got himself in trouble once yelling at a cop while receiving a speeding ticket. On the golf course, unless we were dilly-dallying, he was calm. 

“Take the shot, let’s go!” was as rushed as he would get.

“Dad tell me what I’m doing wrong” I would say after whiffing the ball one more time, pleading for some tips.

“Just keep your head down. Everything else is there. You’re a natural. Keep practicing.”

That was all he would ever tell me. It wasn’t satisfying to hear him say that. I was impatient and I wanted a magical tip to dramatically improve my game.

“Come on, are my feet in the right place? My grip?”

“They are fine. You are fine. You just need more practice. And keep your head down.” That was all I could get from him.

He had three golf games a week while I was growing up with three different groups of “the guys”. There were the Tuesday afternoon guys, the Friday noon guys, and if Mom let him, he had the Sunday morning guys. If Dad could golf every day he would. He grew up golfing at the club across town and we belonged to the same club through my teen years. They socialized with his golf groups and their wives, Dad was friends with some of the guys since before high school. They loved each other dearly. Those couples and their kids were like cousins. They sent me off to college with graduation gifts and showered me with themed parties for my (first) marriage. Even on the periphery of the guys, I felt cared for.

Golf was a passion for him. He was the golf team captain for at least two years in college and rumored to skip classes occasionally in medical school to play a local course with a fellow golfer who became a life-long golf buddy and fellow doctor.

I took lessons at the club and played as a preteen in the five hole and nine-hole girls’ groups. Then I discovered babysitting for money and boys. Golf never took a hold of me like it did for Dad. When my parents retired, they moved to a house on a fancy golf course in Florida so golf could be on his mind all day every day. Of course, he had another set of guys (that included his now-retired doctor who skipped classes with him). They were well matched and played together throughout the week. He stopped golfing with his Florida guys in November before moving to his assisted living facility in January. I still remember his announcement to me because I was so sad for him. Golf was a constant for probably 86 of his 89 years. “It is less fun than it used to be, so I am done.” he told me matter-of-factly. That was the surgeon’s decision.

“I’m glad I got so much golf practice in with Bapa” Dillon told me two weeks ago. Dad gave him much better tips than me and worked to teach him golf etiquette. And that is saying something. Dillon was all over the place as an 8-year old kid on the golf course, energetically sprinting from here to there, sneaking into the driver’s seat to drive the cart, trying to hit the ball as hard as he possibly could without a care for direction, then swinging the club in the weeds to knock them down. Next he was abruptly picking up sticks and hitting trees, throwing rocks into the ponds, and pretending like he was shooting the ducks with his golf club like a gun. This was all while his sister Ella was artistically raking her own Zen world in the sand. Constantly we would find her in the sand traps, just raking away imagined stress (I can’t imagine where she had stress). Twenty-two years later, Dillon golfs weekly with Dad’s re-gripped irons, compliments me on a good shot, and even sticks behind with me when I am behind the rest of the foursome. Something stuck.

Dad was a great golf coach, and always happy with family activities “Whatever anybody wants to do” he would reply when planning activities (unless it had to do with walking in crowds or driving in crowds- that still stressed him out). We grew up in a time when children were to be seen and not heard. It was inconceivable to be included in their social life. I remember one distinct rebuke from my mother “That cheese is for the company!” she shouted when I pulled a paper bag of Havarti Swiss and gourmet white cheddar from the refrigerator where I found it tucked away in a corner while visiting them, in my 50’s. Clearly I was not company, although I had driven for two days over 800 miles to spend the 4th of July with them.

Children weren’t choices in their lives. We were expected and it was an anomaly if a couple had no children or only one. My Dad was different. He wanted us around. He wanted to share his loves and he accepted that I couldn’t or didn’t golf as much as him. He reveled in it when I could join him. He was thrilled when one brother took it up and told me sadly that “Two of my kids do not golf”.

“And I don’t think of Jon is a golfer. He would rather be out in the woods” my Dad told me with a smile that showed disappointment as much as curiosity that anyone would not like golf, given the chance.

He wanted to be near us. He always teared up when I left him to go back to school or back to Colorado to get back to my job. He would get angry you didn’t have more time off to spend with us “Is that SOB boss of yours not giving you time off?!” But he was accepting of my independence and life across the country. Given the chance, I think he would have driven out to see me more often.

I wish I had more time golfing with Dad. Golfing, skiing, and fishing were his favorite activities and he loved sharing them with his kids. I wish I had more time. We carry these loved activities forward with our kids to hopefully share with their kids: skiing, golfing, fishing, travelling, cooking, whatever. That is a way of being with our ancestors and bringing the family lore down to our children. When I ski with my kids, Dad comes along in my heart; I remember to comment on my gratitude for the gorgeous blue sky and tall pine trees from the lift. I think of him often when I take my daughter fishing- he is there helping me get the bait on the line. When Dillon golfs with his buddy who drank too much, my Dad is there too.

Five years later, I still ask Dad “Where am I? What am I doing wrong? Tell me something!” I hear his calm response “You are fine, keep your head down and just keep practicing.”