5 hours Ago
As a child, I never celebrated Easter. In the spring, my family looked forward to Passover and the seder, at which the kids could search for hidden afikomen (matzoh wrapped in a napkin) and request presents from the adults at the table. (One year, my son, 10 year-old Jesse, asked for tuition to Stanford.
An uncle gave him $10 and he was thrilled.) The first time I saw a Christmas tree in someone’s house was in 1971, when I celebrated the holiday with my college girlfriend at her home in Watertown, New York. (My mother was not pleased, to put it politely.
) It was a lovely house with a large, sparkling tree, ornaments and small treats hanging on its branches. Gifts galore were piled underneath. From that point on, I dated only “shiksas.
” I don’t know why. It just happened that way. And in 1979, my wife, Jan, and I were married in her parents’ backyard.
My Bubbe Ruth refused to attend the wedding, though less than a year later, told me how much she loved Jan. Two years passed and we welcomed our first child, Emmie, into our “mixed” household. Two years after that, I went on my first Easter egg hunt, watching Emmie beam with joy as she hunted for decorated eggs.
At this point, dear, devoted column-follower, you must be thinking: “OK. This guy doesn’t write autobiographies. Something big is brewing, an ah-ha moment, something that will provide meaning and substance and, possibly, enjoyment to an otherwise pretty dull, insignificant piece of writing.
” You are partially correct: Let us call what’s coming an “ah” moment. Last week, I was walking around Cherry Hill, the lovely little nine-hole golf course in Amherst, where I am a member. The course is closed for the season, so I wasn’t there to golf.
Instead, I was there, you could say, to ungolf, to search for golf balls, lost by duffers like myself in the woods, brambles, and wetlands. Groundskeepers have told me that, after each season, they retrieve several thousand balls. Article continues after.
.. Cross|Word Flipart Typeshift SpellTower Really Bad Chess I set about my task, willing to waste a good half hour of my time left on our planet engaged in this inane activity.
But as I tramped through bushes and marshes, unearthing (sometimes literally) balls of all makes and colors, a thought dawned on me (here IT comes, dear reader!): discovering golf balls is the adult equivalent of a child finding Easter eggs! I realized how delighted I was each time I spotted a yellow ball half-buried in muck or or a white one stuck in a thorn bush. I felt like a treasure hunter, collecting bright, round nuggets, 1.68 inches in diameter.
Of course, 30 minutes later and 24 balls richer, I had to ruin the experience by asking myself why. Why did I spend my time doing this? Why was I willing to be pricked by thorns (I bled only twice) and risk slipping or falling to add a few used golf balls to my bag? If a bunch of quarters had been scattered all over Cherry Hill, would I do the same to find them? Absolutely not. Even if I knew that a few one-dollar bills were hidden in the shrubbery, there is no chance I would head to the course, intent on finding them.
So what is it that attracts me to finding golf balls? I am cheap and want to save money on buying new balls? Well, I admit that I do like having a stash of free golf balls, but I can afford to purchase new ones, as I have often done. I can honestly say that saving money did not cross my mind. Perhaps I’m thinking that some of these balls might be mine anyway! If so, I am simply taking back what are rightfully mine.
Of course, I have absolutely no way of knowing if these balls belonged to me; the odds are very slim, indeed. Besides, I play approximately 80 rounds of golf per season, which means I lose approximately 80 balls! I will never find enough to break even. I do find comfort in discovering proof that I am not the only lousy golfer at Cherry Hill.
This is absolutely true, but it is not the guiding force behind this endeavor. I must return to this column’s headline to explain why I like finding golf balls: It is a joyful experience! As bizarre as that may sound, I’m not kidding (a bit off-kilter, maybe, but not kidding.) It’s a walk in the woods with a purpose.
It’s an adventure with a hint of danger (again, the thorns.) As a (Jewish) senior, this is my way of celebrating Easter in November. Bubbe and Mom, please forgive me.
Gene Stamell celebrates all the holidays in Leverett. He can be reached at [email protected].
.
