Golf-1953

Life’s lessons learned-a golfing story

Our local Dunkin Donuts store is advertising Arnold Palmer Coolattas (half ice tea and half lemonade), a frozen drink tribute to one of America’s legendary, professional golfers. I ordered the drink and reflected on what I term Life’s Lessons Learned.

At the end of World War II, my father took a job as General Manager of the Wilmington Country Club. The position included his meals, an automobile and a two-bedroom apartment, which he considered too small for our family of four. He was fortunate enough to find a three-bedroom, one and a half bath, 1807 house at the edge of the Club property.

Two or three times a week, we ate in the club’s upstairs private dining room (Dad’s meals were free, Mom’s half price and Jerry’s and mine quarter price). I remember Fridays in particular, because catholic mandated “fish day” meant Lobster Newburg to me. Every Friday, we would come through the front entrance at 5:30 sharp, chat with Myrt, the switchboard operator, say “hi” to the cleaning staff and climb the carved mahogany stairway to the private dining room, where we ordered off the menu from the waitress in training. After dinner, we would exit through the kitchen to thank the dishwashers, chefs, food preparers and my personal favorite, the pastry chef. Through those interactions, I learned that respect for the quality of an individual’s work was more important than any job title.

The golf course was also Dad’s responsibility. One Sunday a month he and Gus, the greens keeper, walked the fairways and examined the greens while playing eighteen holes of golf. During the week Dad often played three holes of golf near our home. One day, in 1953 when my future Engineer brother was busy tapping out Morse code to various Hams around the world (not the acting kind-that was my domain), I picked up my newly purchased set of matched and registered clubs to join Dad on his nightly rounds. 

My golfing lessons began on the putting green at age eight. Over the next three years, as my strength built, so did my golfing skills. That summer night, I hit a fabulous line drive heading toward the number four green. Longest drive ever for this eleven-year-old, scrawny girl. I dashed to the ball, looked down and froze. There, under my golf ball was a dead bird. I had committed murder. Convinced that my future would be in Hell, I screamed. Dad tried to convince me there was no way that my shot had killed that bird. He pulled a new ball from his golf bag and placed it at my feet. He tried to distract me by reciting a portion of a poem adapted from Longfellow, “I drove a golf-ball into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where.” He had a poem or song that fit every occasion.

I kept my eye on the ball and was relieved to see it land five feet short of the hated sand trap. Whew! I grabbed my bag and ran to see what club I needed to get me onto the green. Under the ball was another dead bird. I threw down my bag, screamed and scanned the darkening sky. I was familiar with the Lux Radio Theatre of the Air’s version of Daphne du Maurier’s short story “The Birds” and feared retaliation. I started shaking in fear of the consequences of my actions. In an effort to keep me focused on the flag waiting at the center of the green, Dad put down a new golf ball and handed me a club. I sliced to the right, overshot the green and landed in the rough, killing another bird. I threw down my club and zig zagged all the way home passing more dead birds along the way.

After querying Gus, who told him about a wonderful new product they were using called DDT, Dad worried. Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, the government banned DDT and Gus died of Cancer. At the funeral of his best friend, Dad turned his tearful face to mine and said, “I knew something was wrong when you saw those dead birds. I should have followed my instincts and stopped it then. After all I was the Manager, it was my responsibility.” That was the day I began to understand what is required of those who lead.