DIED 1981
THOUGH A GOLF CLUB is a hive of activity, a pleasure dome, a Peyton Place, a plantation, a parking lot for helicopters, golf carts, riding mowers, and Jaguars, there is often a sense of solitude when you are out on the course. Among the emerald fairways, the ribbons of oak and maple and cherry, the fluffy banks of pampas grass and pussy willow, the turquoise ponds reflecting geese, even the most overburdened, chased-down person feels he or she has escaped. It is this that helps to balance the aggravations of the game.
My mother weathered my childhood with frequent recourse to that verdant oasis, usually with The Queen of New Jersey and one or two others of their little group of devoted women golfers, and sometimes with a traveling golf pro whom she adored, a debonair Dean Martin in shades and cleats. He came to New Jersey in the summer and went back to Boca in the winter, but what he did for my mother’s swing lasted all year.
Recently we were driving to a party in some fancy-schmancy seaside town and came upon a small enclave of unusually modest homes. Oh, look where we are, said my mom. This is where my friend the golf pro grew up. He brought me by once to show me. I could picture the two of them, in a big 1970s car, wearing sunglasses and cardigans, my mother happy and relaxed. He was a big ladies’ man, she said.
It was winter, when he was in Florida, that he fell ill. My mother, visiting the Queen at her apartment down there, got word and went to the hospital to say goodbye. At his bedside, they spoke in whispers, like spectators at a golf match, like the rushes at the edge of eighteen.