Cooperative Living October 2018 - 42

Ahh! The Golf Course Life!
Rural Living | by Margo Oxendine, Contributing Columnist
" a good walk, spoiled. " I'd much prefer
the good walk, which I manage to work
into almost every day. No one is keeping
score during a walk.
I
have spent a good portion of my life
living across from, or actually on, a
golf course.
I do not play golf. I should, I guess,
but I think it requires two things I have
in very short supply: patience and a
certain athletic skill.
I possess just one lick of athletic skill:
Give me a swimming pool, I'm in there,
showing off with butterflies and the
Australian crawl. But never on anything
that could be considered a playing field.
In elementary and high school, I was
always the last kid picked for any team.
The captain would get a worried look in
his or her eye as the selection dwindled
down. Finally, they'd sigh and
grudgingly call my name. And I'd
grudgingly trudge way out into right
field. Heaven forbid a ball would
somehow make it toward my position.
I'd fumble or miss it every single time.
I think it was Mark Twain
who called golf
The idea of living on or near a golf
course sounds rather idyllic, doesn't
it? Lots of green grass and wooded
areas. No noisy, nosy neighbors; no
yapping dogs; no boisterous children
clamoring about.
Well, let me tell you what it's really
like, much of the time: Noisy, with
boisterous grown children clamoring about.
Not to mention the machinery. Oh, the
machinery it takes to keep a golf course
looking pristine and inviting. Here's a little
secret: Lots of golf-course maintenance
takes place in the deep, dark of night.
We might have been sleeping on 42nd
Street, it was so busy out there.
Most of my golf-course living was spent
in a lovely big house that was " in play, "
should a ball happen to land there. We
were plopped right down by the Number
9 hole. Strangers were constantly
wandering in our backyard. Or worse.
Yes, we had the occasional desperate
golfer, knocking on the door, begging to
use our bathroom. At least, they'd take off
their cleated shoes before coming inside.
The house had a great wraparound
porch, where we'd sit outside almost every
summer and spring evening. Most of it
was screened, but not all. One evening,
we're sitting out there in our wicker chairs,
and -BANG! -a golf ball whizzes in and
literally knocks Mom right off her rocker.
Another time, Daddy was grilling
in what we called our
" backyard, " which was
actually part of the
course. A ball
comes flying
in, hits him
in the backside, and drops to the
ground. Daddy, a jokester at heart,
decided he'd splay himself on the ground
with the golf ball next to his ear. We
were looking out the window giggling,
but the golfer did not seem the least
amused when he discovered the prank.
One afternoon, a terrific thunderstorm
arose. It is not smart to be grasping a
metal club in a storm. Daddy went out to
call and motion all the golfers in the
vicinity to come take shelter on the porch.
There were about 22 people milling around
out there. Daddy suggested I go out and
take drink orders. This did not please me,
because I worked as a bartender at the time.
Who wants to work while relaxing at home?
Later, a friend who'd driven by asked me
why I hadn't invited her to my party.
Today, I live across from a beautiful
golf course, lauded in travel magazines as
one of the best in Virginia. I was awakened
at 6 a.m. by the sounds of loud machinery.
This is an almost-daily occurrence.
You'd think I'd be used to it by now, and
tune it out.
I know the machinery will quiet
down as soon as the golfers get on the
course. They're out there shouting
" Fore! " and lots of other four-letter
words, which echo off the mountains
and down the valley. They laugh it up,
shout back and forth at each other, and
some have recently decided to bring
along " boom boxes " (how old am I?),
which blare hip-hop music. I sit on my
porch and feel as if I may be at a beach
on Memorial Day.
Meanwhile, another neighbor, who
has somehow acquired an entire truck
full of logs, gets busy with his chainsaw,
creating firewood.
Ah, the quietude of rural living. 
To order Margo's book, " A Party of One, "
call 540-468-2147 Monday-Thursday 9-5,
or email: TheRecorderOffice@gmail.com.
40 | Cooperative Living | October 2018
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Cooperative Living October 2018

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