Every year, when the snow starts to melt away from the fairways, we don our mucky-boots and head out to find little dimpled treasures left behind from last year’s golfers. This past Saturday, we once again observed this annual tradition.
We started by searching the rough grass between holes one and nine. I found nothing. We headed on towards hole two and I scanned the long grass between the second fairway and the ninth tee. I found nothing. My daughter followed behind, scanning the grass left and right of where I had just been. She found four balls. My shoulders slumped. I wished I had grabbed my glasses out of the car. My little niece grabbed my hand and pulled me forward.
We passed the second green then the third tee. I kicked my way through the long grass to the right of the fairway. “Yeah!” I shouted. One white Dunlop nestled beneath a clump of long grass. I looked to my right. “Ooooh!” A yellow Titleist peeked out from under a small shrub. The fairway filled up with noise as we all stumbled upon tens of balls on the hill between the fairway and the fence. Pink, Dunlop, yellow, Nike, white, Callaway…we dropped them into Mom’s plastic carrying bag one by one.
“I’m going to find a ball,” said my five-year old niece. She headed down the hill nearly stumbling and, within less than a dozen steps she did find a ball; then another; then another. We followed the fence line along the fourth, fifth and seventh fairways as our hunt continued.
The creek was running. I stood and listened to the sound of the water splashing its way down the creek bed. I inhaled deeply the smell of wet grass, mildew and fresh, fresh air…the smells of spring. The others scanned the creek bed for balls and leaned forward to pull them out of the icy water. I followed the creek bed to where it disappeared into the bush. I love the water. I’m drawn to its movement and sound.
We started by searching the rough grass between holes one and nine. I found nothing. We headed on towards hole two and I scanned the long grass between the second fairway and the ninth tee. I found nothing. My daughter followed behind, scanning the grass left and right of where I had just been. She found four balls. My shoulders slumped. I wished I had grabbed my glasses out of the car. My little niece grabbed my hand and pulled me forward.
We passed the second green then the third tee. I kicked my way through the long grass to the right of the fairway. “Yeah!” I shouted. One white Dunlop nestled beneath a clump of long grass. I looked to my right. “Ooooh!” A yellow Titleist peeked out from under a small shrub. The fairway filled up with noise as we all stumbled upon tens of balls on the hill between the fairway and the fence. Pink, Dunlop, yellow, Nike, white, Callaway…we dropped them into Mom’s plastic carrying bag one by one.
“I’m going to find a ball,” said my five-year old niece. She headed down the hill nearly stumbling and, within less than a dozen steps she did find a ball; then another; then another. We followed the fence line along the fourth, fifth and seventh fairways as our hunt continued.
The creek was running. I stood and listened to the sound of the water splashing its way down the creek bed. I inhaled deeply the smell of wet grass, mildew and fresh, fresh air…the smells of spring. The others scanned the creek bed for balls and leaned forward to pull them out of the icy water. I followed the creek bed to where it disappeared into the bush. I love the water. I’m drawn to its movement and sound.
An hour and a half later, after collecting over 70 balls, we made our way back to the house. My five-year-old niece insisted on going the back way. We made our way behind the 8th tee and up the hill behind the house. Once we reached the top of the hill, the kids began to sprint down towards the house laughing and squealing.
There will be more hunts before the golfers return to the fairway. After each rainfall it seems that we uncover more and more balls. After that, our efforts will be made only to harvest those that we lose during our own game. Those, it seems, are far harder to locate.
There will be more hunts before the golfers return to the fairway. After each rainfall it seems that we uncover more and more balls. After that, our efforts will be made only to harvest those that we lose during our own game. Those, it seems, are far harder to locate.
2 comments:
One of my bike rides takes me around a golf course. I find one now and then. They are expensive. The kids could set up a stand along the course and sell them. Thats what they do here. I golf now and then so I use the ones I find. I also loose my share.
What a great family tradition. Fun for all ages!
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