The war is on.
Both sides are steadfast in their positions. Weapons have been drawn.
There is no turning back as I fight my numerous nemeses. All in the shape of holes… dark cavities which taunt me.
Let me start with those ones on the golf green into which a little ball is to fall…kerplunk! Happy to be housed in its unfamiliar dark domain after many futile attempts at hitting it towards its final resting place.
Why the little opening is so far from the tee is beyond my comprehension. Why the fairway is seemingly endless as I strive to locate the flag which marks the spot of this tiny gap in the perfectly groomed verdant terrain.
And to add insult to injury, smack in the middle of the golf course is a larger aperture, a void, a chasm in the shape of a pond. This abyss which is apparently designed solely to gobble up my hot pink golf balls, mocking me with its voracious appetite and its desire to torment me.
I have my weapons in hand, whether it be a seven iron or a hybrid five iron, both meant to meet my opponent head on. Both fail. I haven’t got a clue what to do with Big Bertha. She drives me nowhere except to bedlam.
As for the pitching wedge… I pitch it with glee. And the putter… okay I get it. I am finally inches away from the elusive hole and voila…in it goes! I am elated. Par 3? You mean par 10.
I think I should stick to the nineteenth hole.
Now I remember why I gave up golf. Seriously, there must be a better and more constructive way to spend my time than chasing around a little ball.
Returning home, somewhat deflated, I feel it is time to lovingly nurture my postage stamp lawn instead as this will undoubtedly prove to be a far more gratifying experience.
I prepare the soil, reseed the lawn, fertilize and water it with love and attention.
Daily I observe my handiwork and am greeted with the verdant lushness of a renewed natural carpet which blankets the tiny space.
As the summer heat promises to prevail, I shall make sure I water it daily with the care and attention it deserves.
I feel a sense of accomplishment.
But as darkness falls, an uninvited nocturnal stranger arrives and burrows a hole deep into my grassy masterpiece.
A mole!
I awake to an ebony mound of dirt with a hole which reaches all the way to China, I am sure!
Undaunted, I reach for my weapons… a hose which I insert into the opening, hoping to drown him into submission. And a shovel to conk him on the head for good measure.
But my efforts prove fruitless.
Mr. Mole has eluded me and as I cover the filthy fissure, I tell myself… another hole… another day. The next morning, I rise to meet the day and my arch-enemy, only to find three more mounds of dirt the size of anthills.
Under which I find three more holes… three more bottomless openings into which I shove the hose. Shovel set aside, I opt for a different weapon. I have finally found a use for Big Bertha.
But to no avail.
Once again, Mr. Mole has proven to be a more cunning and resourceful adversary than me.
I have lost the hole-y war for the time being.
Back to the golf links I go… maybe I can replace the driver with my shovel!
April Lewis is the local communications director for CARP, a group committed to a ‘New Vision of Aging for Canada.’ She writes monthly.