Some of my fondest memories revolve around the days when the game of golf dominated my free time. I practiced putting on the living room rug, teed it up on the driving range whenever the opportunity arose, and digested Golf Digest. All in an effort to straighten a ball flight that forever insisted on fading to the right. OK....I'll be honest. That fade was often described as a banana slice by the unbiased onlooker.
That frustrating little detail aside, Saturday mornings spent with my Dad, Uncle Harmon, Cousin Jim, and Cousin Lonnie were special. Those times spent chasing after a little white ball produced innumerable memories that never fail to bring a smile to my face. During that one, all too short season of life, the five of us would often convene for our standing golf date at our favorite rondevu point - Meadow Park Golf Course just south of Tacoma in Lakewood, Washington.
Now the Greens Keepers at Meadow Park loved us because we did so little damage to the fairways. The majority of our divots were taken in the rough. Ahhh.....the sixth hole. I can still see it vividly in my mindseye and feel the anticipation of walking up to the tee. A par four. From the tee the fairway was lined with trees on both sides. The drive was slightly uphill to a blind landing area with the green unseen, slightly dog legged left and beyond. The contour at the target area of the drive sloped wickedly downhill towards the trees on the right and funneled into a small, shallow gully. And as you probably guessed, my "fade" inevitably caught that downhill and leaped with one enthusiastic bound towards the rough before disappearing into the remote. A pained mutter, something about "every time", and then the conversation continued with me posing questions and myself providing answers as I made the solitary walk to a very small yet distinct area that I came to prize. Prized because the laws of physics never fail and those foundations afford a glimpse of God's creation. In turn, the living world teaches of a mind radiant and proclaims the glory of God Almighty.
All too often, at the spout of the funnel, at the bottom of the gully, at the trunk of the first Douglas Fir rooted immovable just outside the fairway's rough, loomed the largest ant's nest ever imagined by man or beast (slight literary license) - with my golf ball gathered next. Some of the ants had already begun to muster about the ball but the limitless majority continued about their business. I always allowed myself a moment of fascination. Industry, selflessness, and dogged determination in perfect union. Then in deference to their collective wisdom the ball would be removed so as not to do any damage with my next swing. The rules of golf are vast and speak to almost every conceivable circumstance....and then some. Nonetheless, I doubt if any rule addresses "admiration". But as far as I'm concerned, there should be. So I confess to never taking a penalty for that "pick up". Besides, the ball remained so deep in the abyss that anyone with even a mite of compassion would simply offer a charitable smile. Another hack, a silent tribute to the colony as my tool of vexation was returned to the bag, and on I went.
That one recollection is unique amongst the countless that echo with camaraderie and laughter. With regret, that very special season passed many years ago only to leave a lasting awareness of blessings abundant. My golf swings have been few and far between ever since. Some memories just shouldn't be diluted.
Spring arrived here in the Pacific Northwest just a few days ago and it has come to pass that the joy of striking the perfect ball flight has been supplanted by the fascination of working on mysteries without any clues. That quest led me along a trail within one of my favorite hunting grounds. Turning a bend, the forest gave way to open fields farther distant, and rays of sunlight became visible as they touched the moisture rising from the shade. And almost like the proverbial pot of gold at the end of a rainbow lay a black mass nestled deep in the undergrowth. The warmth had induced an emergence from below.
My mind raced to seasons past. Special times of joy surfaced without reservation. I can see them vividly in my mindseye. I can feel them.
March 26, 2021
Western Thatching Ants build large mounds covered by small pieces of plant material. My nest at Meadow Park was about 18 inches high and maybe four feet in diameter and constructed mostly of dead fir needles. I read where the nest may burrow as deep as five feet underground. Thousands of individuals make up the nest and sometimes individual nests are connected by underground tunnel passages forming colonies which can expand the populations into the millions. Nests have been known to thrive for decades.
I hope to revisit this nest in late August to see what my friend's efforts have produced.
Proverbs 6:6-8 - "Go to the ant.....Consider her ways....."
August 24, 2021 - I had the opportunity to revisit the nest yesterday. Sadly, there was nothing there to be found.
