Roots of a Frisbee on Father's Day
Nobody’s Opinion: I had one of the most spectacular days of my life, on Father’s
Day---and I am a mother.
My son Brett had called and asked my husband (his step-dad) and me to go play some disc-golf on Saturday, in honor of Father’s Day. We had planned to play golf, but my son decided that so many people would be on the golf course, that all we’d be doing is waiting around.
None of us are great “waiters.” The last time we played golf the people behind us kept driving their golf balls over our heads, and that just about started World War II and a half. You don’t try to hit old soldiers with golf balls…
Not a good idea.
So, we all agreed. Disc-golf would have less of a “waiting” crowd, and therefore we probably would all live.
This was a first. I had no idea what a “disc-golf” course was. I was excited just to get to see my son. He was finally out in the world making his life, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
But still…it’s a mother thing---give me a break.
As we were driving out to a local Missouri park in his first brand new car that he worked so hard to buy for himself, I remembered all the times he had ran out of the door when he was in his teens saying, “We’re going to play disc-golf mom…I’ll be back.” And off he would run with a gang of buddies. I would imagine these teenage boys running around this little sort of putt-putt field, throwing their little Frisbees into some kind of tree.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As my son walked up to the first “tee-off” and told me to look for the first “net,” I knew that this was not going to be a day at fun-co land. The sign said, Par-4…890 yards.
Okay…this is real.
I also knew, after watching my son take off his shirt, a Kodak moment was coming. He took a running jump, and I watched his Frisbee fly as far as a regular golf ball. Good God…who thought this up?
The last time I saw a Frisbee thrown was in the sixties, when guys would get stoned at the park and flip it about ten feet to impress the girls. (It never impressed anyone but the local stray mutts, but we girls didn’t have the heart to tell them.)
This was more like discuss throwing at the 3046 Olympics! If we judge our country by the current Frisbee throwing capabilities of the younger generation, we should make it to Mars with no trouble at all. We’ll just have them all throw the modules.
No way was I was going to go eighteen holes with two men---one a personal trainer (my son) and the other an x-navy seal. I got a ‘9’ on the first hole. My son got a birdie.
“Okay, you guys need a spotter?”
Anyway, there wasn’t a soul but us on this beautiful- trees in full bloom-day. Imagine having a private golf course all to yourself—sweet.
As I watched my son, in the prime of his young life, so strong, so smart, so healthy…he looked like a young Greek God. I realized I was finally witnessing my own father’s roots. Right in front of my eyes was the final product of three good men: my father, my brother, and my husband. (Okay, I take some credit too, but not on Father’s Day.)
You see, my first husband left my son and me when my son was only one---so my dad took over.
And my dad couldn’t have been more thrilled with his new buddy. Every Saturday, my dad and his little “buddy” would be out on the golf course to play eighteen. My son, at five, got so good at golf, that my dad had him scoring in the low eighties for eighteen holes. I’m sure, had my dad not come down with a cancerous brain tumor at sixty-three, my son would have been on the tour with Tiger by now.
But anyway---life goes on.
After our great family outing, (Brett finished 4 under par) while sitting at Dairy Queen, my son announced that he had a new goal---get a job as a personal trainer at a golf course. (Like his grandfather he wanted to someday be a pro.) Then I remembered that it was my second husband who had bought my son his first work-out center when he was sixteen.
The roots of two strong men had finally combined to make this wonderful son. My son, took the memories and lessons from my dad, and the lessons and love from his step-dad, and knew exactly what to do with them.
Men are amazing.
Now--- I must tell you right now. My father and I were not close. But I do remember one day that breaks my heart whenever I think about it.
I wanted to plant a few small rose plants in the back yard one spring, but my dad went out and bought me three big rose bushes. When he was planting them, I kept saying, “Dad, don’t you think those holes are big enough…you’ve been out here for so long, it’s so hot, you can quit---do they have to be so deep?”
And he said, “No…you’ve got to make the holes very deep and big, so that the roots will go down and really take hold. I need to go deeper.” It took him a good two hours.
You could have buried a fully loaded golf bag in each hole.
He knew what he was doing—he couldn’t tell me he loved me, he was showing me. He knew how big those bushes would grow. I didn’t…I had no idea.
He planted those bushes over thirty years ago. And every year I have thousands of beautiful pink roses, on both sides of the fence. I’ve never seen such a magnificent display of roses anywhere…ever. And every year on Father’s Day, I look at that gorgeous display of buds, and really feel his love even though he never said “I love you.”
Day---and I am a mother.
My son Brett had called and asked my husband (his step-dad) and me to go play some disc-golf on Saturday, in honor of Father’s Day. We had planned to play golf, but my son decided that so many people would be on the golf course, that all we’d be doing is waiting around.
None of us are great “waiters.” The last time we played golf the people behind us kept driving their golf balls over our heads, and that just about started World War II and a half. You don’t try to hit old soldiers with golf balls…
Not a good idea.
So, we all agreed. Disc-golf would have less of a “waiting” crowd, and therefore we probably would all live.
This was a first. I had no idea what a “disc-golf” course was. I was excited just to get to see my son. He was finally out in the world making his life, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be.
But still…it’s a mother thing---give me a break.
As we were driving out to a local Missouri park in his first brand new car that he worked so hard to buy for himself, I remembered all the times he had ran out of the door when he was in his teens saying, “We’re going to play disc-golf mom…I’ll be back.” And off he would run with a gang of buddies. I would imagine these teenage boys running around this little sort of putt-putt field, throwing their little Frisbees into some kind of tree.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As my son walked up to the first “tee-off” and told me to look for the first “net,” I knew that this was not going to be a day at fun-co land. The sign said, Par-4…890 yards.
Okay…this is real.
I also knew, after watching my son take off his shirt, a Kodak moment was coming. He took a running jump, and I watched his Frisbee fly as far as a regular golf ball. Good God…who thought this up?
The last time I saw a Frisbee thrown was in the sixties, when guys would get stoned at the park and flip it about ten feet to impress the girls. (It never impressed anyone but the local stray mutts, but we girls didn’t have the heart to tell them.)
This was more like discuss throwing at the 3046 Olympics! If we judge our country by the current Frisbee throwing capabilities of the younger generation, we should make it to Mars with no trouble at all. We’ll just have them all throw the modules.
No way was I was going to go eighteen holes with two men---one a personal trainer (my son) and the other an x-navy seal. I got a ‘9’ on the first hole. My son got a birdie.
“Okay, you guys need a spotter?”
Anyway, there wasn’t a soul but us on this beautiful- trees in full bloom-day. Imagine having a private golf course all to yourself—sweet.
As I watched my son, in the prime of his young life, so strong, so smart, so healthy…he looked like a young Greek God. I realized I was finally witnessing my own father’s roots. Right in front of my eyes was the final product of three good men: my father, my brother, and my husband. (Okay, I take some credit too, but not on Father’s Day.)
You see, my first husband left my son and me when my son was only one---so my dad took over.
And my dad couldn’t have been more thrilled with his new buddy. Every Saturday, my dad and his little “buddy” would be out on the golf course to play eighteen. My son, at five, got so good at golf, that my dad had him scoring in the low eighties for eighteen holes. I’m sure, had my dad not come down with a cancerous brain tumor at sixty-three, my son would have been on the tour with Tiger by now.
But anyway---life goes on.
After our great family outing, (Brett finished 4 under par) while sitting at Dairy Queen, my son announced that he had a new goal---get a job as a personal trainer at a golf course. (Like his grandfather he wanted to someday be a pro.) Then I remembered that it was my second husband who had bought my son his first work-out center when he was sixteen.
The roots of two strong men had finally combined to make this wonderful son. My son, took the memories and lessons from my dad, and the lessons and love from his step-dad, and knew exactly what to do with them.
Men are amazing.
Now--- I must tell you right now. My father and I were not close. But I do remember one day that breaks my heart whenever I think about it.
I wanted to plant a few small rose plants in the back yard one spring, but my dad went out and bought me three big rose bushes. When he was planting them, I kept saying, “Dad, don’t you think those holes are big enough…you’ve been out here for so long, it’s so hot, you can quit---do they have to be so deep?”
And he said, “No…you’ve got to make the holes very deep and big, so that the roots will go down and really take hold. I need to go deeper.” It took him a good two hours.
You could have buried a fully loaded golf bag in each hole.
He knew what he was doing—he couldn’t tell me he loved me, he was showing me. He knew how big those bushes would grow. I didn’t…I had no idea.
He planted those bushes over thirty years ago. And every year I have thousands of beautiful pink roses, on both sides of the fence. I’ve never seen such a magnificent display of roses anywhere…ever. And every year on Father’s Day, I look at that gorgeous display of buds, and really feel his love even though he never said “I love you.”
I never thought that my own father cared much for me. But, finally, this weekend, I saw just how much he did; my son made that all so clear...and that thought made me feel as high as a Frisbee thrown by the arms of the men that I love.
Now, if I could just get my son to play tennis….
Labels: life
posted by Joyanna Adams at 10:24 PM
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