Evening at the Driving Range

Another summer comes to an end. School’s back in session. Another annual goodbye to having my kids around, although this year there’s only one kid to say goodbye to. The other kid graduated from college and is now working. This school year is our family’s last one. One more year of college and then it’s two parents alone. It’s all good, and I’m extremely grateful, but darn — not a fan of goodbyes.

The other night the four of us spontaneously rummaged through the shed to find our old golf clubs, and then hightailed it to the local driving range to squeeze in an hour or so of hitting golf balls. None of us golf. My husband used to golf, but it’s been a long while.

There’s a small logistical set-up to hitting golf balls. You pay at the pro shop, take your tickets to the ball machine, fill up however many buckets you paid for, and then find a spot in front of the driving range. For a newbie, it helped to build the mystique.

The evening we went to hit balls came at the end of a hot August day. We’d considered going earlier in the day, but the heat was too discouraging. That night, however, was like pulling a bouquet of flowers out of a hat. It was magical and beautiful. A small cold front was coming through, so there was a soft, building breeze and the temps reminded you of Spring. The sky — oh, that sky. It was magnificent.

Not many folks were there that night, so we chose four contiguous spots on the upper level, which meant we were hitting balls off a roof. It was dusk, so the balls we hit were illuminated by both the last tinge of daylight and the powerful lighting system that lit up the place for the night ball hitters. I was more of a ball whacker, to be as honestly descriptive as possible.

There was a bit of an adjustment as we moved from a life of non-golf to golf-out-of-the-blue. Sometimes we hit the ball in front of us after we swung. Sometimes we managed to hit it off the tee area. I will say, it was a big bonus when you grazed the top of the ball and then got to hit it again. Each ball cost twelve cents to hit, or six cents when you hit it twice. Double your money.

Above all, the benefit of that night was being together. We were trying out something as a group. We were enjoying the lovely night — the soft breeze, the pink-blue sky, this new golf concept, being a collective of beginners. We were having — as I like to say — one of the moments of our lives. When you realize you’re having one, it’s fruitful to explicitly acknowledge you’re having it. The memory doubles down; the gratitude multiplies.

When my husband and I were dating, we’d go golfing with his parents. They’d generously include one or both of us in many of their beloved pursuits — golf, birding, sewing, gardening. My mother-in-law, Bev, was a gifted teacher, which makes sense, as this was her occupation for many years. She was patient when teaching. She was positive and encouraging. She laughed a lot, which made learning easier.

Bev would pair off with me, and Ed, my future father-in-law would pair off with my future husband. We’d travel along the golf course like this, and it worked well. To this day I’m grateful for that time we had together, because not long after, their son and I moved from near their home in California to the East Coast where we’ve lived ever since — nearly thirty years. We would visit, which cost money as our family grew and expenses mounted, so it was rarely more than once a year.

So, hitting golf balls for that short hour or two the other night with my husband and kids — I knew how precious the time was.

We’ve lived in the same house in northern Virginia since my kids were born. I walked each of them to the corner of our yard to our bus stop by the mailboxes on their first day of kindergarten. Those mornings must have been as scary for them as they were sad for me. Over the years, there were many a tear wiped from my eye at those mailboxes.

That’s how it went for all the big first days of school — a tear or three or ten. It happened even on some rather ho-hum mornings when it was business as usual, but when I’d suddenly notice the time slipping away.

This year my youngest son starts graduate school like his brother before him, and I doubt it’s scary for him anymore — but it’s gotten sadder for me.

Why would I ever feel sad about such a wonderful event? Because I’m human. I’m a regular old mom who’s nutty in love with her kids. It’s a part of life. Kindergarten, middle school, high school, sports, activities, graduations. The years drip away in the background silently until you can’t ignore the silence any longer and you hear what’s there — a long passing of time. The recognition of this can sink your heart sometimes.

The other night, when we finally handed in our empty golf ball buckets, I went into the Pro shop and asked about the six deer that were lounging their way through their snack of weeds on the driving range. “Hey,” I asked, “Do any deer ever get hit by the golf balls out there?” Nobody had heard of such a thing — or nobody in the shop that night. This puzzled me. Golf balls were flying like hail out there, and the deer stood oblivious in the middle of it. Maybe that’s me, too. Time flying past my head while I stand there in a daily dream.

When we got home from our first family golf outing, we crashed together on the couch to watch TV. We passed around the ibuprofen and wrapped band-aids around the open blisters on our fingers. We propped pillows under our backs and behind our necks from the muscles we strained. I put ice on my forearm. What athletes. Phil Mickelson has nothing on us.

I noticed how easy that simple night was for our family, how relaxed we all were. I know this is a gift — to be with family or friends and feel so at home. This makes me wonder where is home anyway. Is it in a building? In a country? Is it in a group of people? In a stretch of time? Is it in a set of values or beliefs? Is it in ourselves?

It’s a combination of these, and it evolves over time, and it’s in the memories we hold. Love has everything to do with it.

Regarding love, I don’t love the first day of school, but I’ve made my peace with it. I waved to my youngest son when he drove out of our driveway the other day to go back to college. I silently kissed him as I watched the car stop at the mailboxes and then turn to drive out of sight. I wiped a tear away like clockwork. My kids are my home.

Summer’s over. New learning begins — for the students, for all of us. Happy Fall, friends.