Sticks - A Golfer's Tale by W. Sautter (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

had gone undone for so long and had been a continuous source of irritation to her, now became an amusement for Bob. He lost himself painting the kitchen, trimming the hedges and tidying up the garage, all of the things that had taken a distant back seat on Saturday mornings of the past.
As time moved on, his memories of that sordid incident drifted deeper and deeper into oblivion. Oh, there were still times when he had nightmarish flashbacks but thankfully they were becoming less and less frequent.
More often however, there were visions of what, he had to admit, he still fondly missed. That perfect tee shot, the soaring five iron to the green landing inches from the cup as if magically guided there by an invisible hand. These haunting memories were hard to readily forget. He missed the thrill of the long, low three iron into the wind and the pride and exhilaration of the final putt in a winning round.
When feelings such as these erupted, he consciously attempted to erase them from his mind with a sudden recall of that dreadful morning months ago. He would relive every agonizing minute and instantly knew that no amount of pleasure could ever be worth paying the price of that pain again.
“Bob,” Maryanne called to him as he readied himself for his now familiar, weekly regiment of yard work and household chores.
“I’m going to that house sale over on Monroe Street this afternoon. Why don’t you come along with me?”
Maryanne had been a house sale fanatic most of her life. She started as a child in her mother’s arms and had never stopped. She and her mother used to make a ritual of reading the ads in the newspaper every Friday night in preparation for the next day’s adventure. They would set up a schedule for every Saturday extending from early morning into the late afternoon. Often, they would travel hours to satisfy their “house sale appetite.” They never really bought much. They were hopelessly addicted to browsing, many times covering four and five house basements and attics in a single day.
Maryanne’s mother had died two years earlier but Maryanne continued alone to make the weekend pilgrimages regularly. It was as if somehow, she was keeping part of her mother’s spirit alive by doing so.
Bob hesitated. He had gone with her many times during winter months, especially just after her mother had died but that was simply to help ease her pain. It really wasn’t the kind of thing that interested him. After a short time he became bored, a condition which he found difficult to conceal from her.
“Come on! ” she insisted. “We’ll only stay a little while,” she prodded. “I’ll buy you whatever you like,” she continued to coax convincingly.
“Well - alright!”
He finally surrendered. It wasn’t as if he had other plans anyway.
It was an old two-story, with a large, open, wraparound front porch, bounded by an old spindled railing with missing spokes. It had several large peaked gables and was clad in dark brown, wooden siding in need of painting.
Its gutters clung desperately to the edge of the roof and several of the downspouts, having become detached from the house, swung freely in the light breeze. It was circa nineteen twenty or earlier but it still managed to retain some of its bygone elegance even through a deteriorated exterior. The long, steep, stairs creaked ominously as they walked up, sounding as if they were threatening to collapse at any instant. They made their way, timidly, to the porch with Maryanne in the lead.
As they reached the top, they encountered a small frail figure, seated in an antiquated rocker, gliding back and forth with a slow measured rhythm. He appeared every bit of eighty if not more. His weathered hands were darkened with age spots and protruding veins. His long, gaunt, unshaven face was covered with coarse, gray stubble and his severely receded white, hairline exposed clusters of brown patches above his forehead. He sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, dressed in clothes that although clean, had long outlived their usefulness. His eyes were sunken in their sockets but a bright glimmer radiated from their recesses when he spoke.
“How are you folks today? ” his voice quaked slowly.
“Here for the sale?” he queried. “It’s been pretty slow. Just go and look around for yourselves. Let me know if you see anything you like. I’ll be right here,” he continued without even waiting for the replies to his questions.
Bob and Maryanne nodded politely and entered the house. The place was neat and clean but furnished in the style of the forties with heavy draperies over the living room windows and large overstuffed chairs and sofa as of the era. They moved through the dining room brushing passed the high-backed chairs with faded cushions that surrounded the table. Maryanne’s eye darted to and fro as they walked, noting the items, which she planned to examine more carefully upon her return. The kitchen too, looked like a page from a nineteen forty-eight “Life” magazine advertisement. Again, it was neat and clean but sorely lacked all the basic modern conveniences. Throughout were the signs of constant care amidst the scars of many years of use. The newly waxed linoleum on the floor bore a deep strip of wear down its center and long cracks extended across the vinyl surfaces of the sparkling clean kitchen chair seats. The faded pink, Formica on the counter surfaces had long lost its shine and the wooden cabinets bore dozens of retouching marks.
Maryanne meandered and poked about the place in her usual painstakingly, deliberate manner. Bob wandered down into the basement. The treads flexed and groaned as he descended. The place was heavy with the smell of age. A single, naked light bulb at the foot of the stairs cast a dim light over a pile of ancient paint cans, newspapers, and magazines. Off in the far corner, hardly visible in the shadows he noticed what looked like a small workshop. He carefully made his way closer, eyes squinting and occasionally stumbling in the dark, all the while diligently searching for an unseen light switch. Then, what felt like a pull string gently slid across his face. He reached up, grasped it, and sharply snapped the light on above him. The illumination flooded the area revealing an assortment of vises and tools carefully positioned over two, long narrow workbenches. Lying on benches, along with the tools were several golf clubs in various stages of construction. One vise held an old wooden driver with the sole plate removed while another clamped a shaft fitted with neither a club head nor grip. Several aged golf bags in the corner held collections of random clubs in each.
Bob looked over the workshop with keen curiosity. “All this stuff belongs in an antique shop,” he thought.
There wasn’t a fiberglass or graphite shaft in the place. All of the woods were made of the old persimmons; no metal woods were to be found. Even the irons were old, solid construction. There wasn’t one cavity back or perimeter weighed iron in the place.
“It’s the kind of stuff you’d expect to see in the forties and fifties, I guess,” he thought to himself.
In spite of its obvious antiquity, he found himself intensely interested as he continued to examine the contents of the shop. He inspected each and every item on the bench and as he did, he found himself becoming more and more curious. Soon, his curiosity drew him deeper and deeper and found himself digging through the contents of every cabinet and shelf, every closet and drawer. Each was packed more tightly that the one before with the odds and ends of an obvious craftsmen. He drew forth one tool after another, holding each up to the light, trying to guess its use as he examined it. After an hour or so, his fascination exhausted, he ended his investigation and returned to the first floor. Maryanne was still roaming about the second floor bedrooms. He should have known better, he told himself. This was going to be a lot longer than she had led him to anticipate.
Resigned to his fate, he walked out to the front porch and seated himself in a chair adjacent to the old man. The old man continued to methodically rock back and forth, appearing almost oblivious to Bob’s presence.
After a silence the old man spoke.
“See anything you like? ” he asked.
“That’s really my wife’s department. I’m just along for the ride if you know what I mean? ” Bob replied.
“Oh yeah, I know. I was married forty years. I know,” he answered. There was another long silence.
“Are you a club maker? Golf clubs I mean? ” Bob asked, trying to twist the silence into a conversation.
“Saw my workshop down there, huh?”
The old man turned and looked at him as he spoke.
“Yes,” Bob replied.
“Used to be. Can’t even get downstairs anymore. The legs you know, they aren’t the best anymore. I don’t think the hands would work too good either and besides everything is different now. Metal woods, graphite, and all. You know what I mean,” he continued.
“I thought it was pretty interesting, kinda almost like a golf history lesson of sorts – like a museum,” Bob said flatteringly.
“You play?” asked the old man.
“I used too,” he answered.
“What do you mean - used to? ”
“Well,” it’s a long story,” said Bob hoping to discourage any further inquiry.
There was a long silence.
“Looks like we’re going to have plenty of time. I haven’t seen your wife for over an hour. Go ahead. Shoot!” the old man urged.
“By the way young man my name’s Merle Arthur. What’s yours?” he added and reached over extending his long, thin hand in Bob’s direction.
“Bob. Bob Andrews,” he replied as he grasped it and squeezed gently.
“Alright Bob then let’s hear it.”
Bob hesitated. He didn’t want to recount his story to anyone, much less a stranger. But somehow the old man’s face drew the words from his lips. Reluctantly, he began to speak, slowly at first and then more and more freely as his tale unfolded. Soon, he found himself confessing every lurid moment of the entire experience from start to finish, omitting not even the smallest detail. He told about the new clubs he had bought, his marvelous expectations and how the whole thing had ended in catastrophe. It was as if he was a repentant sinner and the old man was a priest. The more he spoke, the better he felt, relieved of his foolishness, as if shedding his burden of embarrassment.
Merle sat silently and expressionless as he listened to Bob’s tale, never indicating approval or disapproval, sympathy or disdain, but instead absorbing and digesting every word.
“I always wanted to play the game well and I guess when I bought those clubs I tried to buy the skill I didn’t really have. I should have known that you can’t just buy talent off the shelf. I didn’t really appreciate that then but now I sure do. I wish I had known. I could have saved myself a lot of suffering,” he concluded somberly.
Finally he finished, feeling fatigued