Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Arizona On My Mind

Arizona On My Mind


The early afternoon sun shone buttery yellow in a cornflower blue sky this past Sunday. The day was unusually warm and pleasant for a mid-autumn day in my little part of northeast Ohioland. I walked up the rising ground from the clubhouse toward the first tee at a local golf course then stood on the tee. I raised a hand to shade my eyes from the sun and gazed toward the first hole.


What's the distance?” I asked my companion Ray.


165 yards”, he replied glancing down at the scorecard in his hand as he wrote down our names with the stubby yellow pencil.


I fixed my steady brown eyes at the pin on the first hole and noted the fluttering of the flag. Wind a bit from left to right, I thought. I'll hit a full-swing five-iron a smidgen to the right and draw it slightly around. Piece of cake.


I placed the white Titlest golf ball on the tee and took my stance. I gazed to my left again at the hole to affix the sight-picture into my mind, looked back at the ball, waggled the Tommy Armor magnesium iron twice and took a smooth stroke. The ball leaped at the contact with the swinging iron and rose like a fighter jet boosting off the catapult of a carrier, rising sweetly into the bright blue sky and curving ever so slowly to the left before gently settling on the emerald putting surface. I smiled, stepped away from the tee box and said to Ray, “Your turn, partner.”


Of course that's the way I'd have liked to have it happen. That was the way I wished and hoped and tried to have it happen. And, of course, that's definitely not the way it did happen.


What actually happened was this: I was huffing and puffing like an aged steam engine and sweating bullets after climbing the rise to the first tee. I hadn't even touched a golf club for years so when I pulled the iron out of the bag it felt like it was the first time I'd ever done so. I'd even forgotten what brand the club was. I'd looked at the first hole and remembered the dozens if not hundreds of botched shots I'd made there over the years. So, with a thousand conflicting thoughts rumbling around in my head about swing, stance, head placement, ball placement, hand position, grip, backswing, power stroke and followthrough, I deftly pulled my first shot 30-degrees left and directly into the line of residences that sat over there.


Oh crap... out of bounds, I thought. But at least I didn't break any windows!


I could feel my cheeks burning redly with embarrasment as I quickly teed up a second ball and proceeded to top it about a hundred yards more-or-less toward the hole. I was laying three with still a wedge to the green. On this crappy little par 3. Lord... Lord... Lord.


Ray did much better, of course, and continued to do so the rest of the round.


Ray is my newest friend. He's also the husband of a dear, dear lady friend of my wife and myself. He's her second husband, her soul-mate and a guy I wish I'd known as long as I've known his wife Pam. He's also a much better golfer than I. I figured my only salvation on that Sunday was that he had not played for a number of years also.


I like Ray. He's a man of few pretenses. He is what he projects he is. He's not a braggart, but is a man who has done many interesting things. I enjoy listening to his stories, I enjoy being in his company and I enjoy his view on life itself. I'm even beginning to understand his political viewpoint on some issues.


A little.


I've spent the last couple of our meetings trying to place his face. He has one of those mugs that sorta remind you of someone else. Maybe president Truman on a good day? Perhaps John Lithgow in one of his earlier works? Or that actor that played that cop on that TV show... what's it called? The one where...? Hell, maybe he even reminds me of my 8th grade science teacher.


In any event, he had a face that reflected a life well-lived and a joie de vivre about the years that lay ahead of him.


Did I mention yet that I liked him?


His wife was college buddy of mine, a bridesmaid at my wife's and my wedding, one of our best friends during young adulthood during her first marriage and someone I'd trust with the keys to my castle and the combination to my vault.


They were, in all respets, a great couple and I loved being able to call them both friends.


I have no doubts, dear reader, that you'd like them too.


They've called Arizona their home for the past decade-and-a-half or so, in a small desert town not far from the spiritual Mecca and global power-spot of the crystal gazers and new-agers, the mystical Sedona. They're both retired now, Ray from a computer admin position with a well-known tourism company, Pam from a psychological therapist position at a nearby hospital. Since Ray's retirement was recent, they decided to grab their cat, bid adieu to their Arizona friends, fire up the GPS and drive their motorhome east to take the vacation they'd promised themselves for a long, long time. And to take care of some business in their old hometowns.


So early in September my phone rings and I hear Pam's voice saying, “We're here! We're here!” And so they were – parked in the driveway of her mom's house sat a beautiful large motorhome with colorful Arizona license plates.


My wife and I were just about to leave on our own vacation, so, as much as we hated it, we weren't able to get together with Pam and Ray for a couple of weeks. During that time period they accomplished a lot of the business they had to take care of and had visited with many relatives and friends. They'd even taken a short break and had driven to a campground “down the road” and had spent some quality time together alone, too.


Not long after my wife and I had returned from our vacation we finally had a chance to get together with our Arizona buddies. It was a simple movie and dinner outing, but the movie was quite good, the dinner was even better and the company was outstanding! We ended up back at their motor-home where we fiddled around on their laptop for a bit and yakked back and forth for a couple hours, catching up on what we'd been doing over the years and reminiscing a bit about the old days. During the conversation I said something about how Ray and I had never had the chance to “hit the links” like we'd said we'd like to and Pam had said, “How about you guys going tomorrow?”


I replied, “ Tomorrow is Monday and we have to work.”


My lovely wife interjected by saying, “No it isn't. Tomorrow is Sunday.” I'd seemed to have lost a day somewhere.


Dammit!


I paused a moment, realizing that my previous talk about my “vast” experience playing the game was about to bite me in the ass!


I gulped, accepted the fact that I'd been called in this particular poker game and said, “Sure. Sounds like fun.”


Not long after the date was made to play golf we retired to our house and left Ray and Pam alone with their kitty.


At home that night I went to our basement, gathered together my clubs and shoes and pondered on the upcoming match. I thought about the fact that Ray had went through surgery on an arm not too long ago. I thought about the fact that he had a pacemaker inserted not that long ago also. I added to that the fact that he hadn't played for a number of years.


And concluded, after all that calculation, that my ass was still probably toast.


As my luck would have it, the day was picture perfect, in fact it was one of a string of abnormally gorgeous days for that time of year. My hopes of a gully-washer that would cancel our outing and save my face were dashed.


Ray jumped into my car after I arrived at their motor-home the next morning with 3 golf clubs in his hand.


Three. Golf. Clubs.


I asked him if he might perhaps be a bit overburdened with the number of his golfing implements and he smiled.


Ya only need three if ya know what yer doing,” he replied with a grin.


I recalled reading about how the golf pro Lee Trevino used to sucker opponents by playing with a Dr. Pepper bottle tied to a rope and using that instead of a club. And beating them soundly.


And Ray had THREE WHOLE CLUBS!


I was doomed.


You know from the beginning of this blog how the first hole started. I struggled with the first hole, took a snowman (an eight for the unenlightened) and walked doggedly to the second tee.


I suppose I could go on, hole to hole, and describe how we played. But that'd be really boring, wouldn't it? Suffice it to say that we had a great time and, miracle of miracles, my play even got a smidgen better. I wasn't even terribly disappointed with it overall after my gargantuan layoff. Ray even figured out his game a bit and played even better too. Granted that he had to make some adjustments to his game due to the constraints of his healing arm, but by the time a few holes had been played he was hitting them well. My short game was unsurprisingly abysmal and all our putts were short due to the slowness of the greens.


In the final accounting he beat my by a good margin, but I didn't care. We had a great time playing a game we both loved and had relished over the years and we seemed to find each other's company fairly enjoyable.


We shared a beer after the round and some pleasant conversation.


For the last gathering the four of us would have this trip around we ate a lunch at one of our favorite restaurants the following Tuesday. We were comfortable together and spent a nice hour-and-a-half eating, chatting and comparing notes on what we were planning over the next year or so. But all too soon it was time to say goodbye again. We walked to our cars and did our customary hugging and shaking hands, watching each other's eyes, imprinting our faces in each other's minds, holding on to the moment, remembering.


And then we walked away from each other and back into our lives.


So our friends are once again on the road, heading south, south, south and west, chasing the summer, keeping to the warmer climes, forsaking the cold and snow to follow the sun back to their snug harbor in the desert.


I wish you well, my friends. I wish you happy miles on the road, fascinating visits to new locales, good eats, new friends and a warm welcome when you return home.


And, to our friends Ray and Pam, until the next time we meet, all our very, very best.






Friday, October 7, 2011

Jealousy

Jealousy

OK, I admit it. Despite trying not to be, I've become incredibly jealous.


And what might you be jealous about?” the reader might ask. “What has initiated this green funk of jealousy and to who might it be directed?”


Before answering, I'd like to describe for you things that I'm envious of but which don't arouse actual jealousy in me.


For instance, I'm fascinated and envious of the masters of almost any craft or trade. To watch an expert in his field plying his craft is always a delight. My father and my brother are master electricians. They perform their trade with deft hands and consummate skill. The gene for this skill, which you might think is innate in our family, isn't – it skipped me. I've tried performing some of the activities I've seen them do so effortlessly and find my awkwardness around their tools of the trade disconcerting. I know that this is not my forte. Even the effortless way they cut wire, bend it and attach it to terminals is a thing of beauty. I find craftsmen in other trades also marvelous to observe. Carpenters bringing structure and utility out of simple boards, nails and screws; bakers creating masterful breads and pastries and other foodstuffs out of ingredients that in your hands might result in less-than-stellar creations; plumbers who can attach pipes and connectors together quickly, securely and make them function properly the first time and every time.


I am envious of their skills and dexterity.


Other things that pique my interest and envy are the artists who create beauty and majesty out of simple materials. Painters and sculptures and musicians come to mind immediately as the quintessential artists. Who among us hasn't gazed in awe at works created or performed by them?


But the avenue that's drawn my more-than-envy and that's caused me to slip into outright jealousy is writing and those that excel in it.


I fool around with putting words on paper from time to time. I'm definitely not a master in doing so. Perhaps a “beginner who has a smattering of raw talent and who derives pleasure out of the workmanlike placing of words in front of other words and trying to make them say something” might be more descriptive of what I do. And by spending the hours and hours pounding on a keyboard and struggling with making the end result not TOO embarrassing, I begin to appreciate more and more the masters of the game. There are authors that I enjoy so much that I literally have tears in my eyes reading some of their passages. There are others that amaze me with their imagination and their prodigiousness. And still others whose vocabulary and virtuosity with the language are incredible. I salute them as I read them, as a tyro in their world salutes the master.


And with that in mind, I'd like to salute another master at a subset of the writing craft.


Is this writer one who draws me to tears with his virtuosity in language? Is this author one whom I envy for the number of his tomes in the marketplace with his name on the covers? Is he one of the few whose name is a household icon? A King? A Koontz? A Twain or a Huxley or a Poe?


No.


This author plies his trade in what appears, to me at least, to be a venue where a lot of other folks are in evidence but in which few are notable. It's a field of writing that's become widespread recently and in which many people have tried their hands with only middling results. And in this particular niche I think his work is extraordinary. Even on one of his off days his quality remains excellent.


Who is this writer?


Well, I'd like to introduce you to, if you do not know of him otherwise, a gentleman named John Heald. The last name is pronounce as heeled, not held.


Mr. Heald is the Senior Cruise Director for Carnival Cruise Lines and he has become, in the past couple of years, one of its more public spokesman. He has accomplished this by writing a blog. And I think it's a craft he's been born to perform.


And why do I think this?


I subscribe to the school of thought that believes good writing is smooth, polished and clean. It reads easily and effortlessly. Good writing is as easy to read as a chocolate malt is easy to swallow. Good writing goes from the printed page into your brain almost unconsciously, the words as apt and precise as a surgeon's deftness with a scalpel.


But enough with the similies. John's blog conveys the man behind the keyboard to you as simply as his smiling picture conveys his visage. To read his blog is to know the man.


I've read certain blogs of his that would double me over in laughter at one moment and, in the next paragraph, make me as emotional as a child mourning a lost lollypop. He could raise my ire with one sentence and calm me with his next. He could describe a scene in almost grand poetic terms and in his next paragraph lapse into an almost Monty Pythonesque depiction of an event in hilarious British colloquialisms.


As you may have gathered, I just dote on reading John's blog.


I suppose some of my fascination with John Heald's blogging is that he's British. He takes pride in his Britishness and much of his writing reflects that heritage even as he attempts to keep his multicultural audience “in the know” by explaining most of his more oblique English references.


I've always been a bit of an Anglophile. British terms and phrases have always interested me. The Royal Family of Great Britain has always been fascinating and I am not ashamed to say I watched almost all of the recent Royal Wedding on television. I enjoyed seeing the pomp and circumstance of the ceremonies, the almost Gilbert-and-Sullivan-like uniforms of the military officers, the extravagance of the dress of the ladies and their ornate, ever-present hats, the rituals of the clergy and the almost palpable aura of royalty around the Queen and the Royal family. If I wasn't a proud and happy American, which I certainly am, I do sincerely believe I could easily be an equally happy subject of the Queen.


Some of Heald's readers have expressed their annoyance or dissatisfaction with some of the baser forms of his humor, but I always find those references and descriptions both funny and self-effacing from him. They make him three dimensional and human, a man whose diabetes and hemorrhoids are constant problems and whose underpants are a running gag. In counterpoint, his recounting of the fire on the Carnival Splendor late last year and how the crew responded is both fascinating, inspiring and a remarkable journal of the event – a must read if you ask me.


I think that allowing John to become the Brand Ambassador for the cruise line, either formally or informally, ended up being one of the best marketing decisions that the company may have ever made.


John, if nothing else is an “easy read” and, from me, that's the highest form of praise for a writer.


So, that being said, what say you give him a try? If you might be thinking about a cruise or have been on one before, all the better. He speaks the cruiser's language.


He's at www.johnhealdsblog.com. Go ahead and type it in right now.


And prepare yourself for a treat!