If Papa Would Have Played Golf 

Papa, born in 1900, passed away at the ripe old age of ninety. That seems like yesterday to me, his only grandson. Never a golfer, his pastimes were hunting and fishing. During my childhood he always took me both. I have tried to visualize what a round of golf would have been like if I had talked Papa into joining me. The corners of my mouth immediately go north just thinking about it.

            First of all, I’d certainly have to pay because he’d never fork over the price of admission if a day of fishing wasn’t included. Next I’d have to find a course without those dress code restrictions.  He’d most certainly be wearing his Camel brand denim overalls. Picture this, a two hundred forty pound barrel-chested, bald and toothless southern grand old man joining me wearing par 4 knickers aka Payne Stewart style for an afternoon of playing the gentleman’s game. Now wouldn’t we have been a sight in the fairway, or the way I hit the ball, in the woods, which would suit Papa just fine.

            Standing on the first tee box looking over the lush green fairway, I can hear his first comments, “Hun, that there would sure make a good garden spot.” He always had these huge vegetable gardens and would figure fairways were just a waste of good farm land. “Might raise a goat or two out there.”

            I’d probably tee up the ball for him and hand him my driver. He’d be wearing a pair of those cotton work gloves on both hands. He’d hand me back my club, reach down and pick up the ball, then pull out that hand crafted sling shot from his overalls, his weapon of choice when hunting rabbits,. He’d load up the ball and fire that puppy. The ball would land out there in the middle of the fairway about a hundred fifty yards off the tee. “Maybe you should get back in the cart and just ride, Papa, and enjoy the scenery.”

            Squirrels scurry left and right, across the fairways and I notice that scary little twinkle in his eyes. I place my hand on his hand still clutching the sling shot giving him the look of disapproval.  On this particular course, huge fox squirrels hop right up to your cart, standing on their hind legs as they look for a quick handout. I can hear him now. “Lookey yonder, Hun, at the meat on them bones. These critters are a lot bigger than the little gray ones I usually nail back home. Heck, I could snatch him up and put him in the game basket behind the seat of this little car we’re riding in.”

            I again reinforce that the golf course would not appreciate it if we began slaughtering the local wild life. He tosses them one of his goobers. That’s boiled peanuts for you that don’t understand the goober term. I notice he still has that stew pot gaze so I speed off to our next shot.

            Papa stays easily entertained as we continue on our little trek through the wild kingdom. On number five, three turkey cross the fairway, all gobblers, and I have now taken possession of the sling shot for good and am warning him not to throw any golf balls. Doves flutter by and he encourages me to try to nail them with my seven wood. “How much do they charge you if you just want to hunt here?”

            I see the course ranger approaching. I convince Papa that he’s a game warden and tell him that we’re on game management land. He tips his hat as Mister Ranger rides past us. He behaves for a while, but I not ready to drop my guard just yet.

            I boomer-rang a hook into the pines to the left of the fairway and we ride over to search for my ball. I avoid saying let’s go hunt for my ball and get him started again. The pines are thin so I find it fairly quickly, turn and see Papa with my driver in his hands. Only bad thoughts come to mind. He’s staring up a small oak, club cocked like a deranged base ball player in a denim uniform. He’s motioning me to join him; not good.

            “Walk around to the other side.” He’s now applying his patented treeing technique on a fox squirrel perched head high on the opposite side of the oak tree. Respecting my elder, I tactfully remove the club from his grasp, lead him back to the cart and ask him again not to try to kill anything, please.

            We somehow make the turn with no fairway trophies. I buy Papa a coke, salted peanuts and a hotdog. He pours the peanuts in his bottle of coke sloshing them around and frequently taking a swig.  Because he left his store bought teeth at home, he pulls out his pocket knife and carves the hotdog into tiny bite sizes that he can gum down. I dread the back nine because several ponds await us and I too often feed the water gods.

We’re over looking an ominous pond on the number ten tee box. New problem raises its ugly head. I didn’t consider his interpretation of a water hazard.

            “Hon, take out the rods; we done found us a fishing hole! Hit another one of your worm burner shots and scare us up some red wrigglers.”

            I slice my drive, where else, in the pond. I drive over to drop and play my third. As we pull away he yells, “If you drive real slow I could troll from these little car.” He has my ball retriever in his hands scooping at the water. Pointing to the beverage cup holders he tells me that we could put the bait worms in them.

            Finally we’re heading down the eighteenth fairway.  I’ve had to talk him out of grappling in the last pond. Grappling is when you wade in the water and reach under the bank trying to find catfish.  Pulling up to the club house, he greets every group asking them what did they get. Interpreted this means did they catch any fish or kill any critters.

            Taking Papa golfing; what was I thinking? And boy, am I lucky that I never did. Would have been a hoot though…corners of mouth go north again