ORIGINAL ART BY PAUL T. BOECHER©
I have not played golf for decades. I was then the mother of three young children and wore a wig that day, since my hair wasn’t going to cooperate no matter what.
This day of escape was to be a quiet respite for me – away from the children for a few hour and time well spent with my only sibling. I actually used to be a pretty good golfer, but that day would dash any hopes of ever becoming part of the LPGA.
The course was on was a series of winding paths and intermittent hills, so we opted for a cart rather than walking. We were close to the 18th hole when it happened. We got into the cart, started it up and went sailing down the hill. It soon became apparent that the cart didn’t have working brakes and, as my life swiftly passed before my eyes, I was convinced that I was about to die.
We hit a tree and everything went flying. Golf clubs scattered everywhere along with a few toys which had been earlier stuffed into the bag by my children. My wig sat cockeyed upon my head. We lived to see another day, but I was so embarrassed when a young man came running to our aid. He began to pick things up and noticed some of the toys on the ground. He politely asked if they belonged to us.
I must confess – I’m not a very good liar – but I simply couldn’t bring myself to admit they were mine. That, in addition to my unusual appearance, must’ve given him a lot to talk about that day.
Maybe this is why I have such a hard time with R & R. I can handle rest, but relaxation conjures memories I’d sooner forget.