Not Even Not Traveling 74: Canada - Tweed Pt. 1

Canada - Tweed 

We alternated between being tourists in the area - Donna being our expert guide - and giving Donna some help around her house. Since it was a busy time at work back in the DC area - and I mean at both offices I participate in - I spent a few hours each day doing telework, too. It cut into my chores but, since some of the work was billable, it also extended my Canada vacation.

For the next little while, I concentrated on cleaning the house. And I tried out the shower nozzle I'd fixed. It worked perfectly.

In the late morning, we all took a break. Donna directed us into Tweed for a game of golf with Paul and his wife. Paul was friend of Donna's in high school. They had managed to stay in touch despite all the time and, often, lots of distance. The golf course Paul chose for us was called Nine. Not surprisingly, we played nine holes, not a full game. Paul had to teach me to chip, to choose clubs correctly, and more. I knew I was getting good advice (even though I sailed a chip shot across the green and into the rough). In fact, Paul could not be a more relaxed, more fun golf teacher.

It was especially impressive for someone who introduced himself by saying, "I'm not a golf teacher."

All five of us kept an eye on the golfers behind us and ahead of us, aware we were beginners and therefore slow. Eventually, the game degenerated into a match that was basically a coaching session, just Paul and me. Our lady friends entertained themselves by speeding around with the golf carts and planning our lunch, including our strawberry margaritas.

I think my level of play could be described by three of Paul's remarks.

"Wow, that was a pro shot!" he shouted as my drive sailed down the middle for three hundred fifty yards.

"Wow, that's ... something. I wonder what happened." He said as I hooked one into the water.

"Wow, we're not going to find that one." He pointed to the reeds, or perhaps the forest, or perhaps a distant ocean.

When I did get my scheduled lessons two days later, the golf pro made pretty nearly the same remarks. We were on a different course. He taught me chip shots, to start with, at my request, because I knew I was bad. Then he taught us putting. When we finally got to the driving range, he found my drives appalling and entertaining in equal measure, with sprinkle of 'wow.'

"Wow, did you play little league baseball?" he asked.

"Yeah." Every boy in North America had, around 1972. But I didn't want to say that to someone born in 2006.

"Looks like it, Good contact," he said encouragingly as I sliced high into the net that protected the real golfers. I was apparently developing a sort of consistency, meaning I was reliably inconsistent. And for someone who was old enough to be my grandchild, my pro seemed often patient, sometimes amused, and sometimes extra determined to be patient.