After two weeks of organizing & planning, I’d like to say I wrote many interesting stories this week, but I can’t. I did get a story partially completed, however. Well, any progress is good progress; which means I am now one step closer to the finished product, right?
This week I’m going to share a story I had written previously. I’m hoping this “sample story” provides a bit of insight into what I aspire to by writing this book. This is the first draft, which may eventually become several shorter tales…
- Earliest Memories
My earliest experience involving golf occurred in the third grade. The grade school I attended, John S. Clark Elementary School, was located next to the Glen Flora Country Club in Waukegan, Illinois. I remember finding golf balls that were hit out of bounds into the school yard. If I was fortunate, the golfer who hit the ball out would come up to the fence and offer me a quarter for their ball. Sometimes the golfer would offer to buy all the balls I had found, which meant more money for my pocket.
If it was later in the day and there were no golfers, I would take the balls home and give them to my dad. My dad didn’t pay for many of the balls I gave him. He only paid a quarter for balls with the name “Titleist” imprinted on them. I’m not sure, but I think he gave all the other balls to mom.
There was one brand of ball in particular I was always hoping to find. It was a “Molitor”. The bigger kids said you could get a whole dollar for those. It was made by Spaulding. Molitors came in a triangular box containing 3 balls instead of the normal rectangular “sleeve” like the other balls. The Molitors were also unique because of a distinctive black inverted triangle printed above “Molitor”.
The balls I hated finding were “Top Flites”. Why? Simply because my dad did not use them AT ALL! He said it felt like he was hitting a rock when he played them. I remember him calling them “Top Rocks”; a name by which we still refer to them 40+ years later.
On days there was no school, my younger brother and I would yell to mom, “we’re going golf ball hunting” and out the door we went. We might be gone a short time or a couple of hours, depending on how busy the course was. Over time we learned the best time to go “golf ball hunting” was when the club was hosting a corporate outing or tournament. Events such as those meant the course would be packed all day long so the possibility of finding balls was greater. It also meant we would go home with a little extra money or to the A&W Rootbeer stand to celebrate our newfound wealth.
It’s in the same schoolyard I first remember seeing my mom and dad hitting golfballs. Later I learned it was called “shagging balls”. Mom and dad would stand 50-75 yards apart and hit the balls back and forth. If either of them hit a shot “fat” or “dubbed” a shot one of us three boys would get the ball and run it to the other side. I am amazed no one ever got hit by a golfball, but more on that a bit later.
Upon reflection, we didn’t have much growing up. Our family vacations meant piling in the car and driving the 12 or so hours to Ohio to see relatives. Our cars weren’t the newest or shiniest. Neither were our toys or clothes – lots of hand-me-downs. What we did have were a mom and dad who always kept a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. Most importantly, we had each other…and later, golf.
There you have it – the first of many stories of my family’s
“love affair” with the game of golf…
Can’t wait to see what next week brings! See ya then!!
Dan’s View 