Caddyshack

I’m in a very Caddyshack mood lately. You’d never know it because I’m not smoking pot, playing golf or having any fun but it’s on my mind.

I grew up on a golf course. My dad was (still is) a greenskeeper. I spent every day hanging out with the members “down the club.” The alcoholic cooks (there were many) always gave me free ice cream. As I got older, the bartenders snuck me alcohol. I took golf lessons from the pro-shop owner. I played on the putting green, alone around age 5-10 and the old man members would applaud when I made a shot. I’d wave at them like they were news cameras and fans and I was a lady pro.

I waitressed there eventually, watching all of the old members get drunk and do awkward moves on the dance floor. I heard those industrial sprinklers every morning, TSHHH TSHHH, sshhh, shh, shh, shh, shh…

Whenever I walked into my backyard (the 4th hole) freshly cut grass stuck to my feet.

Golf balls would occassionaly almost wipe me out on my swing set – and they’d come through the living room windows. CRASH!

High school boys with their shirts off would wander through my house cleaning grease stains off their hands. My dad had an office that looked like Carl Spackler’s home, Go-Buggy’s everywhere. Our course did have a gopher problem as well as a Canadian Geese Problem.

I helped my dad at night change the cups and tee markers so that the hole on the green was in a new place a few times a week. I helped him replace divots.

The members were like my extended family. Always in my business. Screaming at the house to my dad, “Ronnie take her God-damned traning wheels off, already. She’s seven!”

I’m going to write a short story, Ode To Caddyshack (not an ode but sounds better) about how I once didn’t appreciate this and as a seven year old wished that my dad was just a laywer like the other dads and we could live in a gated community. Until my parents sat me down and made me watch Caddyshack on TV and I was transformed.

But I’m going to actually write that story now. Just had to warm up.

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