Not Even Not Traveling 76: Canada - Even More Golf

Canadian Golf

The rules may be different. 

We set out the next morning for golf our lessons, which required a drive of twenty minutes. From Queensborough, it always seems to take twenty minutes. To anywhere. This might be a rule specific to rural Canada: no matter where you are or where you're going, you will drive for twenty minutes (rule enforced by the Mounties).

Our destination was a golf course in Tweed, where we met our instructor, a young man who I am fairly confident was old enough to drive. He wore a light blue shirt, khaki shorts, a baseball hat, and sunglasses.

He led us past the driving range and past the putting green to a fairway just east of those. On the way, he grabbed a super-bucket of golf balls. He seemed to have picked our spot based on my request to learn the fundamentals — chip shots, putting, a whole beginner's curriculum. He started in the half-sleepy way of a young man who has taught the same lesson before and will again.

After rubbing his bleary eyes, he watched us. He made corrections. He seemed to wake up to our beginner status.

By the time we strolled over to the driving range, our pro seemed almost alert. He spent time on Diane's straight-legged stance, getting her to take more of a karate, bent-knees approach. After that, he seemed almost encouraged. It was like having a driving instructor relax because he thought we were going to stop knocking over mailboxes.

He kept asking us to switch clubs. He wanted us to find the ones best suited to our style and, at nearly three dollars a club, I thought we were doing our fine. But the instructor excused himself for a few minutes. He returned with a new five iron.

I didn't have one good enough for Diane, he thought.

"People lose clubs here all the time," he explained. "We've got a bunch. Don't worry about it."

It wasn't until I was loading the car that I discovered the full scope of the operation: there was already an extra club in my bag, one I hadn't thrifted. Apparently, Paul had done the same thing the first time we played golf. I think he left me with a three iron.

At this point I started to feel a little like the golf equivalent of a stray cat that keeps showing up and getting fed. The more I thought about it, though, the less bad I felt. These people were being nice. Maybe the stereotype is true, and Canadians really are polite, generous, and appalled by my ancient, thrift-store-special golf clubs. Of course, Paul is American, so maybe the attitude isn't limited to Canadians.

I'll admit the alternatives might be simpler: it could be Donna knowing nice people or it could be a small-town way of living. Tweed was the biggest town around for miles. At a booming population of six thousand, however, Tweed could still the kind of place where everybody's business is everybody's business and good people have the power to exert more goodness.

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In the afternoon, we went to play golf with Charlie. Charlie was a genuine resident of Queensborough. He had bought the old hotel and fixed it up to be his house. When his family were away, he liked to golf. That's why he met us outside of the clubhouse. 

We shook hands and arranged to rent carts. We figured out how to handle our bags and take turns with the clubs. We had gotten lucky with the weather - it was a calm afternoon, sunny, and the temperature was right for short sleeves but not so hot we broke a sweat.

All four of us played. We relaxed and took shots, lost our golf balls sometimes, socialized, sank our putts, and kept moving. Charlie and Donna are neighbors and they started off most of the early conversations. But soon enough we were all making remarks, mostly about golf. Charlie found himself drafted as our golf coach for this session and he was a good sport about it.

The next day, I found another golf club in my bag. I think it must have come from Charlie.

I'm not sure how he did it or why. Anyway, two days later Diane and I returned to the same little golf course, this time for golf lessons. We so clearly still didn't know anything, the instructor seemed a little scandalized. We practiced for a while and then he told us to go ahead and play without him. We hadn't paid the course fees, so it seemed odd. He dashed off to the clubhouse and returned with two sand wedges, one for Diane, one for me.

"People just leave them," he explained. "Don't worry about it."

In the end, we decided to return to the clubhouse after a partial round of golf, and I donated money to a charity golf event prize. After all, I had still not paid my greens fees or even for the golf lessons and I had gathered two more clubs. So I donated. The lady at the front desk, apparently our instructor's mother, seemed very happy about it.