Father's Day question du jour
What is your best memory of time spent with your father?
This would've been sometime between 1965 and 1967, making me six or seven years old, because I remember riding in the '64 Galaxy we had back then. My dad always had his Rolaids on the red bench seat, and memory conjures up the aqua blue label on the plastic bottle their chalky-mint taste.
One summery evening, we went to the driving range. My dad was an avid golfer, and even had a trophy from the Early Bird League atesting to his prowess.
I remember the route we took to the range, South Ave, which was a wooded two-lane road in those days, and over to Richmond Ave; we came out near the produce place where my Aunt Mary went for veggies. Dad was always finding back roads and shortcuts, a trait that rubbed off on me when I began to drive.
He got his clubs out of the trunk, and went to the little building where he got golf balls to hit. They came in a round metal bucket, 40-50 of them...IDK, I never thought to count. It was only a dollar a bucket, so he often shot a couple of them.
Dad walked down the line to the far end, away from the shack. I sat down on the glass far enough behind him to be out of club's way.
Each swing of the club sent a ball lofting out into the distance. They went so far---I could see that not everyone got that much distance. I always thought Dad must be the best golfer in the world. (Today, watching pro golfers, they seem so effete. Dad's swing walloped that sphere; it wasn't one of those strokes that looks like a wind-up toy.)
That evening, I got a special treat: A dime, to spend in the Coke machine. This was when a dime actually bought something of value, and Coke really tasted like Coke, that brown-sugar undertone that lingered on the palate. Granted, it wasn't a very big bottle---8 or 10 oz, the cute little baby size---but it was something I sseldom if ever got at home. It was fun to open the narrow glass door and pull out the bottle. Then the opener on the side of the machine helped me pop its crinkled cap.
He gave me a dollar to go get another bucket of balls, which made me feel important, walking up to the window with the empty bucket and the bill and exchanging them for a full one.
I know we were there until nearly dark. I don't really remember the drive home. But that evening, sitting on the grass and watching my dad swat golf balls as I savored my Coke---that's a memory that burns brightly in my heart.
(I miss you, Dad!)
.
This would've been sometime between 1965 and 1967, making me six or seven years old, because I remember riding in the '64 Galaxy we had back then. My dad always had his Rolaids on the red bench seat, and memory conjures up the aqua blue label on the plastic bottle their chalky-mint taste.
One summery evening, we went to the driving range. My dad was an avid golfer, and even had a trophy from the Early Bird League atesting to his prowess.
I remember the route we took to the range, South Ave, which was a wooded two-lane road in those days, and over to Richmond Ave; we came out near the produce place where my Aunt Mary went for veggies. Dad was always finding back roads and shortcuts, a trait that rubbed off on me when I began to drive.
He got his clubs out of the trunk, and went to the little building where he got golf balls to hit. They came in a round metal bucket, 40-50 of them...IDK, I never thought to count. It was only a dollar a bucket, so he often shot a couple of them.
Dad walked down the line to the far end, away from the shack. I sat down on the glass far enough behind him to be out of club's way.
Each swing of the club sent a ball lofting out into the distance. They went so far---I could see that not everyone got that much distance. I always thought Dad must be the best golfer in the world. (Today, watching pro golfers, they seem so effete. Dad's swing walloped that sphere; it wasn't one of those strokes that looks like a wind-up toy.)
That evening, I got a special treat: A dime, to spend in the Coke machine. This was when a dime actually bought something of value, and Coke really tasted like Coke, that brown-sugar undertone that lingered on the palate. Granted, it wasn't a very big bottle---8 or 10 oz, the cute little baby size---but it was something I sseldom if ever got at home. It was fun to open the narrow glass door and pull out the bottle. Then the opener on the side of the machine helped me pop its crinkled cap.
He gave me a dollar to go get another bucket of balls, which made me feel important, walking up to the window with the empty bucket and the bill and exchanging them for a full one.
I know we were there until nearly dark. I don't really remember the drive home. But that evening, sitting on the grass and watching my dad swat golf balls as I savored my Coke---that's a memory that burns brightly in my heart.
(I miss you, Dad!)
.