Painting the Passports Brown

I have a friend who plays tennis. She’s not playing to become the next Martina Navratilova. She plays because knocking the hell out of a tennis ball is therapeutic. I was reminded of this yesterday when I played golf with my brother. For me, knocking the hell out of a golf ball is therapeutic, especially if I get past the idea that with enough practice, I could play on the PGA tour. I’m working on that. Suffice it to say I understand two things now: I’m an amateur and I should enjoy the good shots and forget the bad ones. Oddly enough, when that happens, I have more good shots than bad ones. Weird how that works out.

Anyway, I had a nice day in the sun. Came home tired. Went to see the work on a friend’s place just outside Albert. Ate dinner. Watched a bit of TV and retired. I need to do more of that. It’s good to work in the garden, for sure, but golf uses a different set of muscles and they like to be exercised too. Besides, it gives my mind something to think about, especially if I go at with the attitude that I just want to have fun whacking the hell out of golf balls. It’s easy entertainment. I used to do it a lot when I first got in-home care for my wife. It was a nice retreat. But when she finally went into memory care, I lost interest and just sort of retreated into myself.

I can tell you from experience that retreating into yourself is not a good plan. It’s like being in Dylan’s Desolation Row or T.S. Elliott’s The Waste Land, someone is coming with a heart-attack machine or you’re stuck with Madame Sosostris. I had a professor once who would give extra credit if you did a paper comparing the two works. I tried but could never get there. I thought I did once, but I forgot to take notes and I lost the thread. Even now nearly 50 years after that class I think about it and wonder if I should give it a go. Maybe I should. It might be as much fun as whacking the hell out of a golf ball.