Confessions of a Golf Widow

Let's start with the obvious: I married a golfer.

I'll admit to having precious little knowledge about golf. I recall learning the game in our high school gym class, the teacher demonstrating how to throttle the end of a golf club in a bizarre grip while hunched over in an unnatural position, then admonishing the students that didn't produce a sufficiently relaxed swing. Occasionally my dad could be found watching a weekend tournament on television. But after sitting through five or ten minutes of the sport, I'd wander off and leave him to watch alone.

Never could I understand the attraction of chasing that little white ball over hill and yon, dragging along a heavy bag of clubs, half of which you may never use, scribbling on a tiny scorecard with a miniature pencil.

Then I met Dave.

He and his longtime friend, Keith, played every weekend, both Saturday and Sunday. Even in winter, if the course was open and there was no snow on the ground, they headed out bundled in thick clothing that I imagine would prevent you from making even a halfway decent swing. Yet they never missed an opportunity.

Dave's father was a golfer, and his grandfather before him. It was on those annual trips to Sun City, Arizona, to visit grandparents where Dave learned the game of golf. His grandfather remarked that of all his grandsons, Dave was the only one with any natural talent for the game.

A few times I accompanied Dave on golf outings, where I was given a cushy assignment as golf cart driver. I paid little attention to rules and statistics, but rather spent most of my time observing how the players interacted with one another.

It is a calm, quiet, nearly serene environment until something goes horribly wrong. Next thing you know a frustrated player, cursing loudly, tosses aside the unholy club involved in a ruined shot. Or an even more heinous breach of golf etiquette may occur: talking while someone concentrates on the final putt of a complicated par 5. At this point otherwise happy, fun-loving people suddenly turn deadly serious. It was all I could do to stifle the giggles and steer the cart, without laughing, to the next tee.

During the early years of our relationship, Dave continued playing every weekend, often both days. Once I complained to his mother about the prolonged absences, especially what I considered excessive time spent on the Nineteenth Hole. I mentioned to Marge something along the lines of, "Sometimes I wonder if he's ever coming back." Married to a golfer more than 50 years, she informed me in that calm, quiet way of hers, "Oh, they always come back."

Dave tried to teach me the basics of golf. We ventured out to the driving range where on the few times I actually connected with the ball, it never went far. We played miniature golf together. But these pathetic attempts to learn how to play the game he loves made it painfully obvious that I have no latent golfing skills.

Just as well. Over the years I came to appreciate and understand his love of golf. We have many common interests but there really is no need to share this too. It's something I believe Dave should have all to himself.

More recently I have begun to savor the days when he is golfing. On those days I have a chance, briefly, to live as a single woman again. My golf-day activities might include shuffling about in my pajamas for as long as I like, watching favorite tearjerker movies for the umpteenth time, writing silly stories like this one, or engaging in any number of unproductive pursuits.

Being a golf widow has taught me a few things about the game of golf. The rules may be complex but the rewards are sweet. It is less about competing with others and more about competing with yourself, learning to achieve success in areas that have proven to be your downfall in the past. It's a game that requires patience, concentration, focus. Although at times Dave may seem a bit like an absent-minded professor at home, he does well on the course because deep down inside, he has those qualities in abundance.

As for my confessions, they are really quite boring:

• Sometimes I really enjoy watching golf.
• It's nice occasionally to have the house all to myself.
• I'm proud of the man who made me a golf widow. He is a good golfer and committed to his game. And in my experience, golfers are quality individuals.

Wonder how he played today? I'll find out soon enough. Because, as a wise woman once told me, they always come back.

A Fine Day for a Road Trip

Saturday was a "free day" at Rocky Mountain National Park, along with many other national parks around the country. Instead of opting for the usual mundane weekend activities such as grocery shopping, yard work, and laundry, Dave mentioned the free day and suggested we take a trip to the Park.

Now I'm not one for big crowds. Rocky Mountain National Park is a beautiful place and its proximity to the most populated area of Colorado makes it crowded all summer, especially on weekends. I couldn't even imagine how many people would be there on a "free day" but after the past few hectic weeks at work, I was definitely ready to escape.

We passed through Boulder on the way. Just north of the city, everywhere you looked were people dressed in their finest spandex outfits, furiously pedaling expensive-looking bicycles along the shoulder. At first I wondered to myself if this was some kind of bike race, then realized this was nothing more than a typical Saturday morning in Boulder, one of the country's most bicycle-friendly cities.

Our ride was filled with lots of banter about such fascinating subjects as whether Allenspark is one word or two (we saw signs spelled both ways and agreed: one word), which summit is Longs Peak and which is Mount Meeker (Dave is always better at identifying mountains), and where we went for sixth grade camp (mine was at a beautiful location just outside the Park).

The Park Ranger greeted us with a handful of brochures but as we pulled away he yelled "Wait!" ... he had seen Tonka in the back and wanted to make sure we knew that dogs are not allowed on the trails. Yes, we knew. He gave us a flyer just in case we were tempted to turn Tonka loose and let him chase after elk or some such nonsense.

Speaking of chasing after elk, do you know how to tell when a tourist has spotted wildlife in a National Park? Just look for all the cars parked in crazy fashion along the roadway, usually in a place not designated for parking. Near the summit of Trail Ridge Road, where many elk can be found during the hot summer months, we saw a few such parking configurations.

Sure enough, at one location we witnessed tourists traipsing across the delicate tundra, running to snap a picture of four bull elk sporting impressive antlers. Never mind that the pretty tundra flowers can take years to recover from human activity. Never mind that the elk might not take too kindly to the whirring noises coming from your camera and decide to gore you in the backside as you attempt to run away, breathless, at an extreme altitude. In my mind's eye, this imaginary scenario had me secretly rooting for the elk.

Trail Ridge Road, which runs through the Park, is the highest continuous highway in North America, with a maximum elevation just over 12,000 feet above sea level. We stopped in a parking area not far from the summit to take some pictures of our own. It's always blowing a crazy wind on top of Trail Ridge Road and this day was no exception.

A small group of flatlanders (our affectionate term for folks not from the mountain states) were huddled together in their jackets listening to a Park Ranger explain the geology of the Never Summer Mountains. The clouds coming over the mountains were beautiful and fortunately didn't seem threatening. The weather on Trail Ridge Road can change in an instant, transforming a beautiful summer day into an unexpected taste of winter.

The western side of the Park was less busy as we descended in the direction of Grand Lake. Once more we spied a group of cars doing u-turns in the road and pulling over haphazardly; I predicted this time it would be a moose. Sure enough, there was a female grazing in a wetland meadow. Fortunately, this group of people were smart enough to keep their distance. Good thing, because moose can be quite cranky.

Dave and I had not been on this particular Colorado journey in about four years. We could not believe the devastation from the mountain pine beetle that had occurred in that period of time. Basically the pine trees in forests throughout the Mountain West are being starved by this voracious insect. Rocky Mountain National Park has not been spared. The worst case scenarios have all of Colorado's lodgepole pine forests being completely wiped out in as little as five years.

We stopped in the charming town of Grand Lake to eat our picnic lunch at the park on main street. Everywhere we go Tonka seems to be quite the rock star. People come up to us and say "What a cutie!" and "Isn't he cute?" and "That sure is a cute dog!" Yes, we agree, a bit nutty but cute nonetheless.

Next stop was the lake itself. Grand Lake, originally formed by glaciers, is the largest natural lake in Colorado and serves as the headwaters of the mighty Colorado River. We walked down to the marina and strolled along the boardwalk. Our destination was the pier where dogs are allowed to swim. Dave threw sticks to Tonka; he had a blast playing in the cold mountain water.

Have you ever noticed that ice cream seems to sell itself? After Tonka's water party was over, Dave announced that it was time for an ice cream cone. When we first arrived in town, it seemed that nearly everyone had ice cream. It was our turn now. As we sat on the boardwalk licking our yummy treats, we overheard passers-by exclaim to each other "look, ice cream!" The local ice cream vendors obviously have a booming summer business.

The trip home was quiet, peaceful. Tonka slept on his doggy bed in the back as we listened to CDs. We were all tired, in a good way.

It was a fine day for a road trip.

More pictures here: Rocky Mountain National Park