No, I'm not fed up with Pete. There simply is no such thing as too much of him. :-)
I am fed up, however, with golf. Here is why I hate golf:
It reminds me every time I play of the athlete I once was but will never be again. This is not about age but about age+disability = ugly reality. One of my most cherished and deeply held memories is of running down alongside my brother-in-law's house on Gull Lake. It was a moment. That's all. A flash of recognition: to be long-legged and move like a gazelle, the freedom, the grace of it. And know it. Revel in it.
I pretend everyday of my current life that I am able-bodied. I loathe reminders of the truth. Golf is always that.
Pete and I play for some pretty hot stakes — a dollar a hole. Up until today he also always gave me one stroke. Most games he outscored me but I came home with a few extra bucks. It softened the chronic losing. We played 18 this afternoon; I owed him $8 for the front nine alone. Which means I lost eight holes out of nine, and the ninth we tied.
Once I was a natural athlete, good at any sport I chose to play, all-state in basketball. Now all I have is memories of those times. Small consolation in the face of the everyday reminders of what I cannot do. Like play golf.
Here's what I love about golf (there has to be something or why keep coming back?): the deer overseeing the 18th tee, the wood stork coming in low over the sixth fairway, four hours of Georgia blue sky, making a lone par.
Truffle: The soul-soothing tranquility of late afternoon sun, a dog, a husband and a bottle of wine on Lin's dock.
Quote of the day: "In search of my mother's garden, I found my own." (Alice Walker; in memory of Marjorie Cope Stout, b. 02.23.1911; d. 03.13.1981, who might have been 99 today)