A couple of years ago, my grandparents did something unexpected: they moved north to retire. Of course, by “north” I mean North Carolina, but after more than 20 years in Florida, they have become snowbirds. They built, as my grandfather has always done, their own house in a community in the mountains.
I mention this, however, not to point out my grandparents’ peculiar migratory habits, but to highlight a phenomenon of the “golden years” that I never thought would happen in our family. You see, the centerpiece of this community in North Carolina is not necessarily the rugged, mountain wilderness, but a large, sloping golf course—perfect for my grandmother’s new, favorite sport.
Granted, this is not an unusual activity for the senior set. In Florida, it’s really not an unusual activity for anyone. Even my high school had a golf “team.” But, it’s just not the sort of thing my family has ever done. Apart from my grandfather’s obsession with racquetball, our “sports” have usually involved less strenuous activities such as board games and wine tasting.
So now my grandmother, my aunt and my uncle (admittedly a huge fan of golf before joining the family) give each other clip-on towels, titanium clubs, bags with built-in, automatic stands, super long-distance golf balls, loads of lessons and other golfing doodads and accoutrements. As they say, golf is an expensive hobby.
But probably the most intriguing bi-product of this family obsession is that I have been sucked into the freak show. Yes, me. Talented, athletic me.
Because my grandfather does not have the patience to drive to the golf course, much less spend the afternoon walking after an egg-sized ball—and because I have been known to stare at the walls for entertainment—I have become my grandmother’s default golf partner. The truth is, though, I don’t mind so much.
Okay, that’s a lie. I love it. Aside from the fact that my grandmother is the coolest person I know, golfing is a sublime sport. (Well, game, really. I’m not sure if an activity that only elevates your heart rate when you sink a ball into the water trap can really be called a “sport.”)
But maybe that’s why I like it. I’m not very good and, I’m sure my grandmother will forgive me, but she’s not either. It takes us two hours to play nine holes and, if you know anything about golf, you know that’s about twice as long as it should take. We sit, we hit a few dozen “practice” shots, we giggle, we muck around in bushes and water holes looking for the ball and other lost objects, we sit some more and let hoards of “real” golfers play through, and generally wander the course laughing hysterically at our deficiencies. It’s the most fun you can have without beer, really.
While the Tampa Bay area is home to a bajillion golf courses, our favorite is Twin Brooks in St. Petersburg. One of three city-run courses, Twin Brooks has a down-to-Earth atmosphere, and18 holes challenging enough for the good, the bad and—I have some experience with this—the ugly. There’re water traps and sand pits and bushes galore, and a decent driving range where you can take out your pent-up aggression on the ball rounder-upper guy. Oh, and there’s even a small shop so you can buy all those doodads for the golf-obsessed in your life.
As for me, I haven’t made the big leap into investing in any doodads of my own, but I do have a putter. And some tees. And a strange looking fork device for repairing “divots.” My grandmother gave them all to me. Don’t worry though; I’m a long way from building a house in the mountains. Do you realize how long it would take me to find my ball in a place like that?
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, Gulfport, FL 1/30/08
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