My concept of home is a bit of a conundrum. That is if I interpret home as somewhere where I feel truly comfortable and at ease with myself. I'm not putting on a performance, but I am playing. I have friends and people who make me feel welcome although I'm not very talkative and I'm not a people person.
I say it's not a home because nobody lives there, unless you count the the club secretary who is always in the same seat at the bar waiting to tell me that I could be a scratch golfer if only I'd get my putting under control. My home or at least where I feel the home connection the most is at the Summit Country Club in Cresson, PA. This is where my mountain people are. For those of you not familiar with this town, it's about 20 miles "up the mountain" from my physical house.
From the first time I pull into the parking lot each spring and yank my bag from the trunk, I look forward to what is ahead of me. I know each roll hillock and neatly trimmed fairway. I know what sounds I'll hear once the birds return to the trees and the people who inhabit these 18 holes are genuine. They're just as interested and friendly to play with as I am in my desire to spend time with them.
It's on the fifth hole where I hit my tee shot and dip down into the little valley or artery that leads to the very heart of my home. It leads me the furthest away from the road, away from civilization and it's here that I'm free to absorb the trees on either side of the fairways and the little openings where I've found so many lost balls, but more importantly it's here as I'm searching for an errant shot that I can do most of my thinking. Aside from my frustration at the last shot, this is where I really plan out stories I want to write or I imagine where the world will take me because in that time I can get away with that. On the course, there are no consequences just potential.
I find my ball and do my best to hack it out of the woods and save a good score on that hole, but it doesn't matter I know by the time I make the turn and go into the bar to buy a powerade and a granola bar, I'll be met with hearty greetings, a few pats on the back and questions about my game that are thinly veiled inquiries about how I'm doing as a person. Up there, there seems to be a bit of a code, but it makes the caring any less genuine.
By the time I climb the last mountain on the 18th hole, I'll be able to wave and be welcomed by the guys on the first tee or who ever's working out on the range and I'll be sad to leave in November when the leaves get so bad that you don't want to bother looking for your ball. Every winter I leave this landscape and these people that I know so well and I go into hibernation until I can do it all over again. I'm already anxious to get back there. To hop over the creek and listening the clacking of my clubs echo through the trees. This is where I really belong.
That sense of feeling like one belongs is the common thread in many ways. Especially interesting that you feel so comfortable here, even in the presence of other people (I am not a people person either).
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