Dry Joys and the Tarantula

 

Selections

Been a while between paragraphs.

It is a smoky Saturday morning, and my robe feels to ask for more use—who am I to ignore the request? Looking out over the meadow, there is little contention, save for the mock battles of blue jays and other feathered things—more a game of tag, methinks. In any case, they’re relentless and none seems to get hurt.

On the other hand, where roads collide and machines blare in the quiet, there is an uninterrupted and obvious anger, silent and not.

The signs neighbors used to post on their lawns are now dares and have become self-righteous declarations of degrees of patriotism. Most are just bait, I’m afraid, baited by a glass eye skillfully nurtured by the choice of a button on a remote. Neither choice’s side has patriotism in mind. It is about ratings and sponsors, fueled by whatever head-slapping lie or exaggeration can be offered to keep the “channel” connected.

There was a time when friends could disagree, when signs on a lawn weren’t even discussed as the coincidence of neighbors picking up the morning paper together never interrupted a morning smile or wave. And through the smoke of a BBQ, political protests usually lasted as long as it took to have a can or bottle opener tossed your way. Elections were not seen as a threat by any selection. And when existential fears were offered up by a side or sides, they somehow dissipated like the wrinkles below an iron, because we had memories of fairness and realities that always eventually pressed the button of conscience that never became too remote.

It is our life that is reality. Not a cause. Not a theory. Nothing threatens the very next moment; why should we believe some glass eye in our living room that tells us where our future seconds will land?

Now is the moment of happiness.

An unlikely happening ...

Par 4 tenth. Red tees. First drive yanked out of bounds. Second drive 10 inches from the hole ... Par!

 

Herd futility

Herd futility is interfering with my false sense of impending safety!

Angel Falls and a cold beer to wash away the covid!

I’m reminded of that Bruce Willis movie, “Die Hard,” where he’s crawling through the ventilator shaft and he repeats his wife’s invitation: “Come on out to the coast; we’ll have a few laughs.” It’s exactly what I thought of when Sally suggested we take the short trail to Angel Falls. “I saw on a hiking site that no one is going up to Angel Falls; we can do the short hike and see where all those people bought it.” In some odd way it appealed to me.

With the help of Google maps and a guy named “Dave,” we found the trailhead. The initial portion of the trail was absent of anyone. I was feeling particularly confident, although my right foot reminded me the whole time that it had been operated on last year, a message that only resonated louder as the trek continued.

So.

I hear voices ahead and wait to examine the expected partially obscured faces as they come down towards us. Nothing partial about these faces. Two orange-shirted mask-less Bass Lake employees make their way by us, chin nods seemingly without regard for the suggested social-distancing protocol. I glare at their backs as they pass and then at Sally, who shrugs and rolls her eyes.

A few other “no one is going to the falls” people show up, and all appear without masks, save one.  His eyes say it all: “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Lewis—or are you Clark?”

From then on, the parade of people who weren’t supposed to be there grows and grows. Every time one of them passes, I feel like I am in a seat at AT&T Park with everyone in my row walking by my seat at once, and I have to stand to let each go by. No one in masks and no one practicing social distancing. I did see one guy who I was sure had practiced it at least once—via a restraining order.

A group of bathing-suited young women passes by, giggling and appearing quite oblivious (intentionally so?) to current events. I’m losing it now. Where the fuck am I? Why the fuck am I? I look down at the moving creek and suddenly I’m Gregory Peck fishing with Ava Gardner (dream on, Raj) in “On the Beach,” surrounded by tons of Australians singing “Waltzing Matilda.” Suddenly Sally taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Ava who?” I know, if you haven’t seen the movie, you can’t appreciate the complete depression it rallies.

Back at the car I see what appears to be a ticket on my windshield. A close examination reveals I’ve been charged $10 for parking in a lot that has no such demand for a fee written anywhere! WTF? Sally says, “There’s a Ranger over there walking; I think he’s placing them on cars.”

I drive over, and behind him on a billboard in large print I see: TEN-DOLLAR USE FEE. Hey, I parked an eighth of a mile away. It didn’t say anything about a fee! I mean, how about a discount for the distance I parked from this fucking sign! This guy could be “tagging” cars in North Fork and who would know what for?

I start to get out of the car and Sally says (in “the voice”), “SIT.” Okay, now I feel like I should be wearing a flea collar!

“But …”

Sally spins around and says, “It’s going to take you at least ten minutes to undistort your face. I’ll handle this!”

She gets out of the car, and the guy, who has a patch on the front of his polo shirt and a pad of these “tickets” in his hand, is stuffing $10 bills in a black fanny pack. Sally positions herself between us and won’t even let me do my best angry glare! I begin to raise my hand with its middle finger displayed and then I realize that I’d be paying for days for two seconds of satisfaction. I settle for gritted teeth, which grit tighter when Sally says, “Oh, don’t worry, we understand.” Who is the guy? He could be some con man who figured out the perfect con! Buy a shirt and logo and make $2,000 a week!

Now, did that antagonize me? Well, let’s just say I wanted to exit my Subaru and beat that man like a baby harp seal. Now the challenge is changing the face I own into that plastic smile I used when someone would call me a pig. She sees it immediately and says, “I just kept you out of prison—or I saved a baby harp seal.”

The drive home was a quiet one, with lots of nods from me until I felt I could talk. I finally said, “I’d like a very cold beer to wash down my Covid-19.” Yes, there was laughter.

The falls were gorgeous. Worth the trip? I’ll tell you in two weeks …

Eagle in the clouds...

When your game has gone to shit!

Friday I lost seven balls. Lost seven balls! You can’t hide the fact that you’ve lost a ball when you’re playing with witnesses! Just how embarrassing and frustrating is it when they have to disconnect from their game to assist you in finding your ball—or, in my case, yet another ball! I mean, you can only talk about how great the weather is on a few tees; after that, you get “the stare”—the one that says (silently), “Yeah, Raggio, we already agreed on that four tees ago, are you turning into the Rain Man?”  Don’t you just love standing over your ball, not having one clue which direction it will go, land, end up? It’s like that experimental recipe she’s been working on all day and wants you to taste—at least that’s 50/50!

My game has gone to shit.

I’m over the ball and I suddenly realize I’m looking down at a future orphan. I have about as much confidence in my backswing as I do with what comes after. I’m hearing the encouraging remarks and I figure half of them are for me and the other half are hoping they don’t have to play Lewis and Clark again. No confidence means no “real swing,” and thus the ball is acting like it’s part of a prison break. I cop a stare at the others as I pick up my tee. They’re both checking to see if their shoes are tied. Weak smiles follow. I want to grab Lyle by the throat and yell, “What kind of friend hits it down the fucking middle every time?!”

My game has gone to shit.

Doubts arise about my pre-retirement plan to “get good at the game” again. Maybe it was a mistake: tennis was an option, as were adult baseball, writing, hiking, and becoming a monk in Argentina! I can so see the ricochet to pickle ball, poker, and any participation without humiliation!

I have purchased cheap golf balls. Told them up front, “It’s every man for himself; I’m not even going to look for you guys—write your wills now.”

I’m over my orb on the second hole pretending I’m ignoring the water when I suddenly see my ball sinking in the water past a guy named Mike Nelson. Now I can’t get Sea Hunt out of my head. I step off the ball as if there was some purpose for it, I check the wind, waggle the club, and sink a new ball for some bass to harass. I could take the incredulous stance and stare, look back at the others as if with disbelief—but I couldn’t keep a straight face if I tried.

My game has gone to shit.

I could blame it on a myriad of maladies—hand, back, foot, age, lack of sleep, wheat toast—but it would be a disingenuous effort. “Raggio, you need some range time.” Range time is like taking a rubber mallet and whacking yourself in the head until you’ve forgotten why you’re doing it. And I hear, “You should go see Mike.” A lesson with Mike is two-hour aspirin for a four-hour headache; it works if you have the ability to retain the information. At my age, the only thing I'm retaining is reflux. Gee, I wonder why I’m not in skins!!! And I know a future team that would love to have Quasimodo as a teammate! I’d rather play in more scrambles, where at least I’d have three other chances to make the fairway!

My game has gone to shit …