It Takes a Lot of Balls...

"Let me tell you one thing that I've learned," he says. "If you are tolerant and speak kindly to people, the world will love you."

I’m not sure where I garnered this quote, as I keep copious notes and often fail to list the reason for my notation. It’s similar to the way I often carefully freeze a leftover sauce that I’ve cooked and fail to label it. Two or three months later I will pull it from the freezer and think, “What in the world is this?” Anyway, I’m fairly certain that this quote hit some point that was pertinent at the time, I copied it and I am now using it for a completely different reason.

***

As I’ve matured I’ve tried to program myself to be more tolerant, respectful and tactful. Maxims and aphorisms taught me by my 7th grade teacher, Sister Beata, my grandfather and that tour guide in Mexico come back to me: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,”  “Don’t put forth that to which you can’t attach your name,” and “It’s not right. It’s not wrong. It’s just different.”

I constantly struggle to balance the polarities of my brain. So, if I allow my left brain to dominate, I find myself uptight in my thinking. And though my brain may function like a well-oiled machine, I become bossy and opinionated and a drag to be around.

Now, if I permit my right brain to take command, I’m like a puppy off-leash. I feel creative, but in fact I am so ready to “go with the flow” that I tend to space out, thus am as dangerous behind the wheel of an automobile as a texting teenager.

This struggle is never more apparent to me then when I gaze out at the lovely view from my backyard during a summer weekend day.

I live on a golf course. Did I mention that? We bought the house not exactly on a whim, but without much forethought other than “wouldn’t this be a nice weekend getaway place?” It was a nice place, and we liked it, liked it enough to sell our city house and move here, sort of permanently.

***

Once on a trip to Asia, I was introduced to an elderly farmer. Because it was our first meeting he knelt before me and placed his forehead to the ground as he recognized a sacred or divine essence in me. It’s meant to increase the humility of the person kowtowing, but, for me, it was a pretty humbling experience to have someone kneel before me. 

***

My yoga studies say that the mind seeks confirmation for your preconceived ideas. So, if I view the world as negative and filled with disagreeable people engaged in nefarious activities, that is exactly what I will experience.

***

"Each golfer is a divine being," becomes my mantra. "Each golfer is a divine being." "Each golfer is a divine being." Before I know it, I begin to feel a sense of warm affection for the golfers that frequent our community’s golf course. Community. Now isn’t that a nice word? It conjures up thoughts of fellowship and unity. Aaahhh, I feel my breath slow, along with my pulse and heartbeat.

“Each golfer is a di- “ Just then I spot something that puts my spiritual practice to the test. I see yet another golfer with complete disregard to the etiquette of the game of golf. As I gaze out of the back windows of my home at these buffoons divine beings, my spiritual compassion and tolerance evaporate like drops of morning dew in Death Valley.

I picture myself with a megaphone- no wait! Better yet, an address system with speakers lining the fairway all the way from the tee box to my back yard.

“Hey you! Yes, I mean you, with the so-last-year plaid shorts. How about not putting your lit cigar on the green while you putt?” 

“Ahem, (throat clearing) uh, guy with the blue shirt, along with the big dude-with-the-orange-shirt, do you think it’s possible to park your cart any closer to the green? Does that look like a 30 foot distance to you? I don't even think that is 30 inches, you sluggards!” 

“Argh! At least make a pretense of raking the bunker! It took you two shots to get out of that sand." 

“Mr. Fancy Pants with the tricked-up cart, how about bending over, just once, and replacing those huge divots you take?" 

“Geez! Fix your ball mark on the green. I can see it from here, for goodness sake!" 

"Lenny, please come back and pick up that lit cigarette butt you just discarded or I'm telling your wife."

Golf etiquette pet peeves, I’ve witnessed them all. Fivesomes, cigar butts and granola bar wrappers lining the fairway, sunflower seed shells spit out all over the tee box, speakers on carts to enable listening to AC/DC while golfing, men who “take a leak” near the bushes, and those throwing the flag down on the green as if timber has been felled. But the most outrageous thing I’ve ever seen was a woman, golfing alone, who after putting, drove her cart across the green! I was sitting at my kitchen table, quietly sipping a cup of tea, when my peripheral vision spotted her. I nearly choked to death as I howled to Golf Partner Husband, “Look! Look at that woman driving the cart across the green!” If my phone had been closer I’d have taken a snapshot.

***

Our property is located just behind the green, so it’s to be expected that the occasional ball will be hit on our property. No big deal. We have purposefully not posted “No Trespassing” signs. It is our wish that golfers feel free to walk over and retrieve their errant balls. Heck, I’d invite them to stop for a beer, if I didn’t think it would slow down play, probably one of the biggest pet peeves of golf etiquette. Besides, I know there are plenty of hackers golfers who use expensive top-of-the-line Pro V1’s, Nike One Tour’s or Dixon Fire’s. Of course they are hoping not to have to kiss that ball goodbye. Come on, walk over and pick it up. Shucks, I’ll even help you find it if I’m outside.

But it’s the ones, who think no one is watching, that bug me. Only once, have I witnessed someone actually drive a cart past the OB markers and onto our property in search of a ball. More often I see the golfer who cannot stand the thought of taking a penalty stroke for being out-of-bounds and so proceeds, after taking a practice shot, or three, to hit it off of our lawn or out of my perennial garden bed.

One day recently, while reading on the deck, I saw a young man walk over to take a shot at his ball that was clearly three feet beyond the out-of-bound marker and on our property. “Excuse me,” I say in my most genial voice, “can you please pick that up and play it inbounds?” As he complies, I notice he is playing with a acquaintance of ours and I immediately feel bad as the acquaintance and I quietly exchange greetings.

I go inside and meditate. What would Socrates have thought? What would the Dali Lama say? What would Jesus do? My battling left and right hemispheres ache.

It isn’t worth it, my right brain decides. Tolerance it is. I’ll never say another word. It simply isn’t worth fretting about. The grass will grow back eventually, right? I feel my breath slow, along with my pulse and heartbeat. Aaahhh….

Does that look like "30 feet from the green?"!!?

Hmmm? Is that out or in?

Seriously, can they park any closer to the green!? (& I don't see a handicap flag)

ethereal Mount Airy

She had an eclectic collection of artwork throughout her home. As we stood on opposite sides of a 15 foot long kitchen island in her spacious home I admired a painting that hung next to a massive venting hood hung over a commercial stove. I expressed my admiration for this particular piece of artwork.

"Oh, the rooster? Isn't it nice? I bought it from some bohemian art colony we visited. I've since sought other works by the same artist, but was never able to find anything."

With a smile that begged forgiveness, as if her displays seemed slapdash, which they didn't, she said "I buy things that catch my eye." She waved her hand across the expanse of her first floor, "I bring them home and then, try to figure out a place to display them." 

She inquired about our trip home. I saw an immediate flicker in her eyes when I described the five-state route we'd be driving. Her voice became animated as she waxed on her memories of a small town in western Virginia, strongly urging Dutiful Husband and I make a slight detour that would take us through her home town, certain we'd enjoy the works of numerous local artisans and the great food and drink from nearby eateries. She recalled to me the names of streets and restaurants that were "musts" to experience. Her eyes misted, her voice took on a wistful tone and she gazed off to some unknown spot over my shoulder as she remembered the beauty of the area. Just behind and to her left, I peripherally catch sight of a couple eavesdropping guests and their shirking smiles and quick rolls of their eyes.

Later the eye-rollers would inform me that there was nothing worth visiting in the town she'd mentioned. "Quite frankly," said one, "I've no idea of what she could possible be remembering." The other commented, "Trust me, it's not worth going out of your way. There is absolutely nothing there."

I  thought immediately of a visit Dutiful Husband and I made last year to Mt. Airy, North Carolina...

I'd grown up watching and re-watching episodes of the Andy Griffith Show which showcased the fictitious town of Mayberry, North Carolina. If ever I'd wished to grow up in someplace other than where I did, it would have been this make believe town. Mayberry featured a charming main street which, depending on the episode, was home to a fix-it shop, a barbershop, a movie theater, a drugstore with an ice cream/soda counter, a church, grocery store, bank, beauty salon, a diner and the all-important court house/jail where the protagonist sheriff held court. Off a ways, maybe a block or two, was the school and the gas station, where the local mechanic was as honest as the day is long. Oh and there was a small town doctor, (someone wrote prescriptions for that drugstore.)

Crime was a rarity in Mayberry, moonshiners, the town drunk, the rare lead-footed speeder, an occasional vagrant or con man and once, heaven forbid, there was a thwarted bank robbery. In fact, the occasional trouble maker was always a new kid in town or someone just arrived or passing through, never one of their own townspeople. Aside from the town drunk sleeping off his "snootful" of moonshine, the jail was rarely occupied. There was an indication that raucous and rowdy establishments serving alcohol were somewhere beyond the town's borders, but Mayberry itself was a "dry" town.

Andy, the "sheriff-without-a-gun" ruled with a gentle hand. His inept deputy carried a pistol, but was permitted only one bullet, which he kept in his shirt pocket and only under the most dire of circumstances was he to load this solitary bullet.

Mayberry was as close to utopia as any harmonious community of everyday, working class people could ever hope to experience. The fictional town was based on Mt. Airy, North Carolina where the sitcom's star, Andy Griffith, was born and raised. So, when it turned out that we'd be in the Mt. Airy vicinity as we traveled from Virginia down through the Carolinas, I begged asked Dutiful Husband for a slight detour from our route that would take us for a visit to Mt. Airy.

Years earlier I'd read a real estate news article about "prospering" Mt. Airy. It told of a wondrous spot teeming with upwardly mobile young families and recent retirees. The story stated that the residents "fostered an atmosphere of friendly 'neighborly-ness' " and that it was a town where one could enjoy community events such as summer music festivals, old-fashioned ice cream socials and what not. The article described a main street now featuring a book store, a wine shop, cafes, and a variety of antique and other specialty shops. It boasted of an updated library, newly revived youth organizations, etc. If I couldn't live there at least I could visit this magical town, to see with my own eyes the place where Andy grew up and remembered fondly enough to memorialize it in a television show.

As the day arrived and we neared the town I marveled as the sun began to poke through the clouds, sending beacons of light to showcase some of the area's natural beauty. The first indication we were near the town was the impressive sight of Pilot Mountain, (remembered in The Andy Griffith Show as "Mount Pilot") rising like a pinnacle, seemingly out of nowhere.

Just miles later, Dutiful Husband turned the car onto a central street in Mt. Airy. Somehow, even though deep down I knew better, I'd imagined that I would somehow be taking a step back in time and that, like the news article said, I'd discover "a hidden treasure in the hills of North Carolina." So, much for trumped up publicity articles in the real estate section of the newspaper.

As we drove through the streets everything seemed wrong. I hadn't expect to see the town as Hollywood depicted it, but I also hadn't expected what I viewed from our windshield, and so the sight of H&R Block, Walgreens, McDonald's, Wendy's, Lowe's Home Improvement, Edward Jones, PNC Bank, Wells Fargo, Food Lion, and the likes, lining the streets hurt my eyes. And when I spotted Walmart, "No! Please, not in my Mayberry!"

We parked on Main Street and stepped out of the car and I was dismayed to see numerous duplicates of the black and white Mayberry patrol cars carrying paying tourists as they prowled the streets. Where were the quaint shops the real estate article suggested? Could my eyes not discern them through the garish fronts that cheaply recalled those original Hollywood sets?

Oh, how I wished to hear the soulful bluegrass mountain music of the Darling Family, wafting magically across the hills and dales, as they played from the back of their beat-up pickup truck. Or the distant whistles of coal-carrying trains as they snaked their way through the mountains. Or the sound of fishing reels casting into the  lake. Or kids laughing and splashing in the swimming hole, leftover from the open-face granite quarrying. Or the sound of Opie's bare feet hitting the gravel path as he ran toward the water alongside his father.

I guess it's not much different than today's FaceBook or current social media, Andy chose to showcase only the best. There was, or is, nary a mention of the negative. It is the diaphanous recreation of the place or person we want the world to see that we put forth. A refusal to include, or in the case of my Virginia friend, an inability to take notice that the area where her childhood experiences, which shaped her attitudes about life and goodness, has faded a bit, and that time has eroded some of the beauty and charm.

I know that I will never visit Mount Airy again.

I'm still pulling for the young families and the retirees to recreate my childhood utopia as claimed by the real estate article- But after seeing it firsthand, I now know that Mount Airy has its share of drugs, crime, and "less-than-desirables," who have sought a place of solace there, and I surmise, “Well, why shouldn't they?” Are they not as much a part of life?

Hollywood-type fronts

knife-stabbing in "Mayberry"