Golf Banging

What a pleasing sound a golf ball makes when it is thrown against a garage door.

There is no other “thunk” sound quite like it.  

Wooden tilt up, metal skinned roll up, side to side slider; it doesn’t matter, the contact of hard small hand thrown golf ball against the door rings with the peal of joyful bells.

Yes, I know, as an adult, knowing what I know today, of dents, scuffed paint, and chipped trim; I am supposed to find the sound repulsive.  And perhaps I do, for I haven’t heard it in decades.  But, in my memory at least, golf ball on garage door peals with the bright joyful gong of freedom and exhilaration.

I remember the summer my brothers and I first learned that sound. We were instantly smitten. 

We would get together after dinner, sometimes just the three of us, sometimes with a few friends, and we ventured out into the quiet neighborhoods of town each with as many golf balls as they could carry.  We would spread up and down a block, or two, and throw those hard dimpled white rocks at garage doors.  Then we’d race up the sidewalk, past other boys doing the same thing, laughing and racing to stay out of trouble with the enraged homeowners.

The only limitations were the speed of our flying legs;

the darkness of the night;

and our supply of golf balls.

Having little “free-money” we had to scrounge our little white missiles. 

We used to find one or two out in the tall grass at the high-school, lost and left behind by someone using the football field to practice their driving I suppose; or outside the fence line around the miniature golf range outside of town; sometimes at garage sales; and once in a while lying in a gutter among a damp pile of leaves that didn’t quite make it to the drain grate.

Being the youngest, I tended to often find myself needing to justify my place in the rat pack that was my childhood.  

Especially as along with being the youngest, I was built a bit more solidly, not quite as lithe and fast as my two older brothers. Not as handsome, as strong.  So whether it was securing golf balls for throwing, or any other task, I just naturally felt that I had to outdo my brothers; just to be as good as they were.

Imagine then my joys one day while out scrounging golf balls to raise my head up and find an entire field strewn with the little white treasures.

I had been sneaking around the newly opened Las Positas golf course.  First working the area between the fence and the freeway, then around the parking lot, and finally along the narrow creeks and waterways that crossed the property.

Pickings were pretty slim as you might expect at a newly opened course.  Not many lost balls to be found yet.  And then, I raised my head.  And before me stretched a green grass area that was literally covered in white golf balls.

I looked to the right and could see the fence line next to the freeway, and while the cars along the road could see me, none of them was going to care. 

I looked as far to the left as I could and saw just the brush that had been planted along the watercourse sweeping outward away from the creek.  

I deciding that it was safe, I ventured out above the berm and started to scurry around picking up golf balls.  I got one, two, five, ten and still there were hundreds more.  I became so engrossed in grabbing golf balls that I forgot to keep checking to my left and right as I moved further and further away from the cover of the creek.

I was gonna be rich.  

I would set up a little “Used Ball” stand in the parking lot on Saturdays, and still have more than I could possibly throw.

I kept gathering balls until…until…until balls started raining down around me and I became aware that several people were yelling.

Looking up and left, I found myself staring straight at the back side of the Clubhouse and a row of golfers standing on the driving range firing golf balls in my direction.

Some guy was jumping in a little VW that had wide sweeping arms on the sides and wire mesh over the windows and I heard the engine fire up.

Panicking, I realized that I had walked right out onto the driving range about 180 yards from the tees.

I ran for it.

It was a muddy, wet, escape route.  I had to throw myself into the water, and several times duck my head and hold my breath for ever so long.

But I got away.

Because of my narrow escape, I never set up that used ball stand.  No extra spending money for me.  It just didn’t seem like the smart thing to do all-in-all.

But boy, did the visions of garage doors stretch into the future as far as I could imagine.

© Copyright 2014 Marty K Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

Simple Pleasures

Perhaps I was too inspired by Peter Pan in my youth. 

 

Possibly it was the vast quantity of Science-fiction and Fantasy that I read. 

 

Or maybe it is just a natural outcome of being the youngest of three fairly rough and tumble boys that led me to a personality that walks a fine line between reality and fantasy.  And while the connection may not be immediately apparent, believe me, when you are the youngest, and being regularly pummeled, fantasies are quite common, either from induced brain damage, or simply frustration.

 

 

Be that as it may, I have often wondered how children who revel in the simple joys and wonders that surround them somehow all seem to grow up and “unlearn” pleasure.

 

Watch any baby;

they giggle wondrously at the touch of a cat’s tail, or dog’s ear; smile when they feel a puff of air cross their cheek; gaze rapturously at the colors of light fracturing through window panes. 

 

Watch a child at play;

rolling in the grass just to feel the individual blades against their skin and to draw in the vibrant scent; chasing soap bubbles in the soft air currents; stomping in mud puddles. 

 

Watch early teens as they run;

skipping; jumping; and race everywhere. 

 

Or watch late teen couples;

constantly in contact, hands, hips, shoulders, heads; lost in the thrill of another’s presence; engrossed in the warmth and nearness of each other.  Hearts racing, breath shallow, just from being close.

 

No baby needs to be taught that the tactile is soothing. 

 

No child needs to be taught how to have fun. 

 

No teen needs to be taught that besting a challenge carries untold joy. 

 

Nor any late teen that the greatest treasure in life, is another human being to share with.   

 

 

And yet, somewhere along the line, most adults have un-learned these simple, joyful, wonders.  Tossing them aside for what?  Money?, Power?, Turmoil?, Hectic days?, Lonely nights?

 

How many 50 year old women skip in the springtime?  Weave friendship bracelets out of flowers? Or have pajama parties?  How many 50 year old men throw water balloons?  Strap cards to their bike spokes?  Or “Double-Dutch Dare” their friends in fun?   

 

How many 60 year olds worm down into the warm beach sand and just listen to the rumble of the waves on the shore?  Or “fly” a bike down a long and winding hill to feel the wind in their hair and the freedom in their soul?

 

How many 40 year olds can still say that the very best time of each and every day is the time they get to hold their partners hand?  Nothing more, just hold hands?

 

I know, most of you are thinking “Oh, grow up, things just aren’t that way, that’s childish”. 

 

But is it? 

 

Do you remember each day of school, or each school dance better?

 

Do you remember falling off your bike, or riding your bike better?

 

Do you remember kissing your teddy, or kissing your first love better?

 

 

Well, if giving up those simple pleasures is what it means to grow up, than like Peter before me; “I’ll never grow up, ‘Cause growing up is awfuller, than all the awful things that ever were, I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, no sir”.

 

Life is too full of joy to just exist; Joy that is free to each and every one.

 

I will remember as many of my childhood activities; revel in the sense of adventure; relive the sense of challenge; re-feel the joys that came along. 

 

I will continue to leave work early; to walk the edge of the ocean, throw driftwood back, and watch the sunset; to come in late after watching the moon set; or to skip work completely to add another unusual experience to my collection of treasures.

 

I will continue to grow a beard at Christmas time each year, cause fat old guys with gray beards should; and to shave it off every January just to feel the air currents in a still room play across my cheeks.

 

I will continue to drive a silly old car that makes people smile; and decorate it for the holidays, and the summer surf days, simply because I have the imagination to do so, and because doing so spreads smiles and joy to those around me.

 

 

When the day comes that I can no longer do these things.

 

When I settle into the day-to-day existence of the plodding souls.

 

When I can no longer smile at my memories, be stirred by adventures, awed by the world around me, or remember the pleasures of days past;

Then mourn for me,

For I will already be gone.

© 2014 Marty K Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

Phony Pizza Parlor

I was born in small-town.

The town was so small that there weren’t enough houses and businesses to even use an entire prefix.

 

You know of course that a phone number is made up of 10 digits. The first three digits are the area code, that was used to help the old phone company computers understand where to route the call. You see, the phone network back then was a large collections of medium sized Area Systems. An area system would provide services to up to an entire state and more depending on the number of phones. That area system was a single “Area Code”, the first three digits.

 

And each Area System was broken down into a number of local systems. Each local system originally had only one Prefix (the next three digits in a phone number). Because some people didn’t have phones, and hardly anyone had more than one phone, so only one phone number.

 

No faxes back then. No Internet connections. No cell phones.

 

Each local system could support a maximum of 10,000 phones.

 

The town I was born in didn’t have that many.

 

So for the first ten or twelve years, every phone in town started with the same three numbers. In our case, 447. Right around 1970 the town had finally grown large enough that the local Ma Bell decided they needed to expand the local system. When they did, someone made a logical, but strategically poor decision. They added 443 as the next prefix in the area.

 

This caused no end of confusion in town for a while. I mean everyone who had been in town for any length of time, well, their fingers just naturally dialed out 447 when they started dialing a phone number. Of course, if the number they were trying to dial was new, and thus 443, they actually got connected to a 447 number by “mistake”. I remember many adults being frustrated with the new phone numbers until their heads and fingers got back in sync.

 

My brothers and I were frustrated too. Frustrated as only three teenage males can be.

 

One late Spring Friday night, shortly after the new prefix had been added, our parents were off playing Bridge with their friends, and my brothers and I were home alone. Left with my eldest brother “in charge”. The second poor decision that lead to the upcoming travesty.

 

My brothers and I were down in the basement watching F-Troop on TV when the phone rang. Well, that started a free-for all (as most things did back then) with the three of us all racing to get up the steep narrow stairs and into the kitchen first so that we could answer the phone.

 

I am sure that bruises were involved, and wouldn’t be surprised to know that blood flowed either.

 

Well, it turned out some fool had miss dialed and called our house in an effort to reach the newest pizza parlor in town to order a pizza.

 

Frustrating.

 

Not that we hadn’t enjoyed the fight across the basement floor, the general trampling that occurred on the stairs, setting the kitchen table and chairs back upright, and re-gluing the tile knocked loose from the counters, but, the call hadn’t even been for us.

 

After glumly clumping back down to the basement and setting in front of the TV again, the phone rang a second time.

 

More bruises were collected.

 

More blood was shed.

 

My memory tells me that in that first Friday night, we got several such misdialed phone calls.

 

Saturday night was the same. A few Sunday, and then hardly any more…..until the following Friday.

 

Another Bridge night. Parents gone again. Brothers and I watching F-Troop on TV. Phone ringing.

 

Bruises.

 

Blood.

 

Yep, we boys developed a short fuse when it came to those pizza calls.

　

 

Looking back, it is relatively obvious of course that we could have chosen to ignore Friday night and Saturday night phone calls…..but then this wouldn’t be much of a story, would it?

　

 

I can’t tell you who to blame. I know it had to be one of the three of use boys, since we were after all the only ones home. A line of reasoning that Mom and Dad fell back on often as I recall.

 

And I am sure that I was much too polite, kind, and generous for it to have been me. So I am going to arbitrarily blame Barry.

 

After-all, Mom and Dad had left him “in-charge”.

 

Of course, there are any number of elderly childless spinster ladies today that used to ply their trade as teenage babysitters back in the day who will enthusiastically tell you that being “in charge” of my brothers and I was akin to tossing three angry ally cats in a single gunny sac and trying to keep them apart at the same time.

 

In any case, since we have all come to agreement that we are going to blame Barry; Barry answered the phone only to hear someone ask to order a pizza….AND HE POLITELY TOOK THEIR ORDER!

 

I stood there with my mouth hanging open. Barry thanked them, told them that the pizza would be ready for pickup in 20 minutes and hung up.

 

I remember asking him; “What happens when it isn’t ready”. To which he said; “What do we care, they will be at the counter then, not here”.

 

Well, that was the beginning. And the beginning of the end as it turned out, though my brothers and I never considered it. After-all, our only thought was we were getting “even” with the people who couldn’t even dial their phones right.

 

Call after call, we politely took orders, suggested add on sales, and promised pickup times.

 

Funny thing, in a town that only ever saw one or two snow flurries in the 20 years that I lived there, things kinda snowballed from that point on.

 

It wasn’t too long before someone (okay, someone on our end of the phone call) offered our new pizza delivery service. Promising that if the pizza wasn’t in the customer’s hands in 35 minutes or less, it would be free.

 

It’s amazing, really, how many home deliveries you can promise to people before the first person’s patience runs out and they call back irate that their pizza hasn’t arrived.

 

It’s even more amazing how apologetic an irate person gets when they think they messed up dialing the phone.

 

But, before you think too badly about us, we didn’t keep that up for very long.

 

But before you give us too much credit;

 

I suppose I should admit that the pizza parlor didn‘t last out the summer.

　

© 2014, Marty K Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved