CH__CH
Confession: I golf now. My late father-in-law came within a whisker of entering the professional circuit as a young man, shortly before my bride came into his life. Golf was a part of that family’s history, something foreign to mine. High on the cringing memory scale is hearing my mother share her opinion of golf with this gentleman during a shared dinner - “rich man’s dilettante pursuit, not a sport and hardly a game.” Or words to that effect. The gentleman let the moment pass.
I took it up briefly in the 1990s, but became too angry too often and put the clubs down. Today, with a lesson behind me and clubs that feature a shaft termed “senior flex” to spare my atrophied arms the steel experience; I am renewing an adopted love of the game. (Mom was right on that score, it is not a sport.)
Last month, I found myself golfing alone, waiting on the foursome ahead to finish out the hole. I had nothing to do, nowhere to be, and the Bluetooth speaker was cranking some John Prine to share with the birds and wild turkeys. It was a sublime moment, and I suddenly understood. When I reached the next tee, one of the foursome hung back and apologized for holding me up. “Nonsense, no worries! I’m in church, please take your time!”
That is something for a former Southern Baptist lay preacher to proclaim, I understand. But it was an inadvertently accurate comment. I’ve waited decades to find the peace that the Southern Baptist Convention shattered many years ago.
Last night, I attended a different church. Here in the Piedmont, there is a private music venue that limits attendees and access to its schedule. Good friends got us a rare invite to Saturday’s event, and I experienced church of a different sort. The heat of the day had dissipated and evening breezes triumphed as original and cover songs washed over us. The sound mixing consisted of the band asking us if any of instruments were too prominent. The host led off the evening by reminding all that this was an attentive venue. If you want to chat up a neighbor, you are welcome to - just walk over to the other side of the barn first, far from us.
As I watched the “social hour” that preceded the bands, I saw nothing but smiles and hugs of reunion. A small cluster of folks stood feeding miniature goats leaves provided by the host. Chickens, beautiful ISA Browns, strolled through and pecked at snacks left unattended for too long. There was an overwhelming sense of ease, and I felt I was two zip codes away from any bickering.
True to the host’s word, the audience provided no distraction as musicians tested out new material and enlightened us with such delights as a brief history of Scott Joplin’s ragtime era. Eventually unable to contain joy, some dancing may have happened. I remarked to my musician son once that when I played in bars, people came to drink and I was background. In his Brooklyn venues, people come for the music and the respect and enjoying is thorough. I am delighted to find a local church at long last.
(Title: CH__CH was a clever sign my Methodist church occasionally posted. “What’s missing?”)
WOTD
The grandkids are exiting their summer play. One returned this past week, another three next week, and the northernmost child to follow. Inspired by a hobby I practiced while in the Air Force, I introduced “Papa’s Word of the Day” to challenge their idle days (each has a phone or tablet now, and I thought it might be a fun exercise. (Up to now, conversations with them mostly consist of gift wish lists, in attempts to end-run their parents). Now, I missed a few days here and there, to be honest. And while they weren’t as regularly posted as the cubicle Post-Its I employed back in the day; I did decide to lead off with a favorite word from back in the day: Hoyden. The definition I recall from then was succinct: “An ill-bred, boisterous girl.” The joke was your writer as E-5 re-entering the dating life following the end of my first marriage.
As with many jokes from the 1980s, this didn’t age well. “Ill-bred” as a term should be reserved for cattle or lab mice, never applied to people. Nevertheless, I led off the exercise with the grands using a slightly less offensive definition: “Boisterous, bold, and carefree girl.” The challenge was for the kids to use the word in a sentence. One may imagine how the conversations went in the 1980s, and I was delighted with the changes since:
Girl 1: My new puppy is a young hoyden.
Girl 2: When I’m older, I want my kid to be a wonderful hoyden.
Girl 3: She is a very responsible hoyden.
Boy 1: My mom was a hoyden when she was little.
Boy 2: She still is little.
In Boy 2’s defense, my daughter does have to crane her neck when talking with anyone over five feet tall. In any case: I can remember the first breath taken by each of these fine children, and it is an extraordinary gift to see them develop into smart, confident, and funny teenagers. And to celebrate rather than sneer at the boisterousness and bold among us.
There's nothing like a Hoyden symphony on a summer evening.
Lovely as always, thank you! There's nothing like solitude in nature, and golf is indeed one way of achieving that.