A LITTLE GOLF ANECDOTE - AND THE UNASSUMING, CHUGGING-ALONG, OF SMALL BUSINESS
SOMETIMES WHAT IS GENTLE AND QUIET, CAN COME TO LIFE WITH A ROAR
I'VE BEEN THINKING A LOT RECENTLY, ABOUT SOME OF THE EDITORIAL COMMENTS BEING MADE LOCALLY, PREDICTING THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL OF OUR MAIN STREET BUSINESSES. I'M ALWAYS INTERESTED IN READING THESE PAID-FOR PIECES, TO SEE WHAT PROFESSIONAL WRITERS CAN COME UP WITH. I DON'T ACCEPT MONEY FOR MY WORK, ANY MORE, EVEN WHEN PUBLISHED IN A MAGAZINE, SO I'M JUST A FELLA WHO LIKES TO WRITE. I'M NOT SURE IF A CARROT WAS DANGLED, WHETHER I MIGHT BE SWAYED OR NOT. I DON'T KNOW. GETTING PAID TO WRITE MIGHT MAKE ME CRAZY, AND I'D HAVE GRANDIOSE IDEAS ABOUT SPENDING TIME, SLURPING COFFEE IN PARIS CAFES, AND STROLLING ABOUT IN GLASGOW, OR SHUFFLING ALONG A COUNTRY LANE, IN ENGLAND'S MIDSUMMER REGION, WAXING POETIC ABOUT LIFE AND PHILOSOPHY, AND WELL YOU GET THE PICTURE. THE THOUGHT OF BEING A PROFESSIONAL WRITER AGAIN, MAKES ME NAUSEOUS TO BE HONEST. I WOULD HAVE TO LIVE UP TO HIGH EXPECTATIONS OF THE PUBLISHER, WHO WOULD WANT TO GET HIS MONEY'S WORTH. I REALLY DO THINK THAT I MIGHT GET MEAN, AND FEEL IT NECESSARY TO WRITE PIECES THAT SHOULD MAKE A POINT, BUT MOST LIKELY WOULD FALL A LITTLE SHORT. I'D PROBABLY GET ALL FULL-OF-MYSELF, AND COMMENCE KICKING KITTENS, OR CHIPMUNKS. AS A WRITING PRO, I MIGHT FEEL ELEVATED FROM OLD PLEASURES……THE SAME OLD-SAME OLD. COMING TO HATE THE SIMPLE, COUNTRY WAY OF LIFE, BECAUSE READERS LIKE THAT KIND OF THING. THEY DO AROUND MUSKOKA. ESPECIALLY GRAVENHURST. THERE SEEMS TO BE A DESIRE AMONGST SOME PROFESSIONAL COLUMNISTS, TO PROGNOSTICATE HOW THE END WILL FINALLY COME, WHEN OUR DOWNTOWN IS PACKED-UP, CRATED, AND HAULED AWAY. DISPOSED OF, BEFORE ANY MORE BAD BUSINESS CAN OCCUR. OR SOME OTHER KIND OF DEBACLE THAT MIGHT BE SEEN, EDITORIALLY AT LEAST, AS CATACLYSMIC IN NATURE.
I WOULDN'T WANT TO FEEL OBLIGATED, YOU SEE, TO STRIKE OUT AT GOOD FOLKS, EVERYDAY CITIZENS, OLD AND YOUNG, AND OH YES, SINGLE MOTHERS. NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRY, I COULD NEVER USE THE ADVANTAGE OR DISADVANTAGES OF OUR CITIZENS, WHOEVER THEY ARE, TO SACRIFICE FOR A READERSHIP. SOMEHOW, NOT HAVING A PAY CHEQUE TO WORRY ABOUT, MAKES WRITING SO MUCH LESS DAUNTING, AND ANYWAY, I DON'T HAVE A HUGE AUDIENCE TO CULTIVATE WITH NEW VIGOROUS ATTACKS, OR ANY REAL DESIRE TO STAND ON SOMEONE ELSE'S SHOULDERS, JUST TO GET A BETTER VIEW. THE WHOLE EXERCISE OF BEING A BLOGGER, WITH NO MASTHEAD, SEEMS MUCH MORE RELAXING AND HAPPILY COMMONPLACE.
WHEN I READ WHAT THE PROFESSIONAL WRITERS ARE FORECASTING, FOR OUR TOWN, I SUPPOSE IT WOULD BE WISE, TO TELL MY SONS TO CLOSE-UP SHOP, BECAUSE THEY CAN'T POSSIBLY SUCCEED IN THIS UNFORTUNATE ECONOMIC ENVIRONMENT. I MIGHT SUGGEST THEY TELL ALL THEIR CUSTOMERS, AND BUSINESS CONNECTIONS, NOW STRETCHING ACROSS CANADA, THAT IT IS ALL SO POINTLESS, TO LIVE-UP TO THE CRITICS' OVERVIEWS THESE DAYS. DESPITE THE PROFIT, DESPITE THE FACT WE HAVE TO KEEP RACING AROUND FOR MORE INVENTORY, AND THE RECENT NEWS WE HAVE LAUNCHED THE SECOND EXPANSION FOR THIS YEAR……MAY ALL BE A WASTE OF TIME. IF OF COURSE, YOU HAPPEN TO SUBSCRIBE TO THOSE OF LITTLE FAITH, AND THAT CRUEL PENCHANT TO PEN DOOM AND GLOOM COLUMNS, THAT APPARENTLY SELLS NEWSPAPERS. WHAT SHOULD WE DO? WHAT WOULD YOU DO? IS OUR SUCCESS A MIRAGE? ARE THE LARGE BANK DEPOSITS ALL JUST A DREAM, OF WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN? ACCORDING TO THE SELF-APPOINTED EXPERTS, WE ARE SUFFERING. WALLOWING IN OUR OWN CRAPULENCE. IT'S GOING TO BE TOUGH TELLING OUR LADS, TO STOP MAKING MONEY, STOP BEING SUCCESSFUL, STOP GETTING MORE WORK, SELLING MORE STUFF, AND HELPING THE REST OF THE ECONOMY, BY BUYING OTHER PEOPLES' STUFF.
NO, BEING A PAID WRITER CAN MAKE YOU MEAN. IT SEEMS TO IMPEDE OBJECTIVITY. APPARENTLY, ONE CAN BE SWALLOWED WHOLE BY STATISTICS, WHICH INSPIRES RAGING SPECULATIVE TIRADES ABOUT HOW LIFE AND COMMERCE MUST PROCEED, TO BE MEANINGFUL IN ANY WAY. I THINK GETTING PAID TO BE A COLUMNIST INCREASES THE RISK OF BECOMING ABSURD. WHEN I WAS A COLUMNIST QUITE A FEW YEARS BACK, I SUPPOSE I WAS ABSURD AT TIMES. AT LEAST THE READERS WHO FILLED THE LETTERS TO THE EDITOR PAGE, THOUGHT SO. OCCASIONALLY, I'D HAVE A READER PUSH ME OUT OF THE WAY, AT THE DAIRY COOLERS, AT THE GROCERY STORE, BECAUSE OF SOMETHING I WROTE. I HAD A BEER TOSSED ON ME ONE NIGHT, BY A STRIPPER, WHO DIDN'T LIKE MY EDITORIAL SLANT. ONE FELLOW, AT A LOCAL PUB, ASKED WHETHER OR NOT, I'D LIKE TO CARRY MY HEAD HOME, UNDER MY ARM. ONCE AGAIN, IT WAS A READER SEEKING REVENGE. IT MUST BE THAT PRO WRITER THING THAT GETS IN THE WAY OF AN UPBEAT STORY.
I'M JUST SO DARN HAPPY AS AN UNPAID WRITER. I CAN GO ALONG THE STREET KICKING A CAN, SINGING TO MYSELF, CHATTING AWAY TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR, IF THE URGE ARISES, AND I CAN LOOK UPON THIS TOWN, AND SEE SO MANY WONDERFUL THINGS, AND OTHER CHEERFUL PEOPLE, TENDING THEIR GARDENS, THEIR YARD SALES, BUILDING SIDEWALKS, AND PAINTING LAWNCHAIRS. I WILL STROLL UPTOWN, AND SEE PLEASANT WINDOW DISPLAYS IN OUR MAINSTREET SHOPS, AND WATCH SATISFIED CUSTOMERS, WITH PARCELS IN TOW, TELLING PARTNERS ABOUT THE GREAT DEALS THEY JUST GOT. I WILL CATCH THE SCENT OF GOOD FOOD BEING PREPARED, AND GET THE URGE FOR FRENCH FRIES AND GRAVY. MAYBE A HOT DOG, OR PIECE OF PIZZA. I WONDER WHY WE SEEM SO HAPPY HERE? WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BE STARVING TO DEATH! LIVING OUT THE LAST OF OUR DREAMS. YOU KNOW, MAYBE IT'S MY UNPAID FREEDOM TO SEE THINGS DIFFERENTLY, BUT IT'S NOT AT ALL LIKE I READ ABOUT, THESE DAYS. AND NOT ONCE, SINCE I BEGAN WALKING HERE, HAVE I BEEN HIT BY A ROGUE PIECE OF SKY, FALLING TO EARTH.
TODAY I WRITE WITH GREAT SATISFACTION, ABOUT WHAT I SEE, AS A COMPETITIVE COMMUNITY, WITHOUT EVER FEELING I HAVE TO BATTER SOMETHING, JUST TO EARN MY WAGE. I HAVE NO WAGE. NO PRESSURE ON MY SHOULDERS, TO GRANDSTAND, OR BECOME AN EXPERT THAT I'M NOT, JUST TO PLEASE A READERSHIP, OR WOW A PUBLISHER. I'M NOT WILLING TO HURT THE FEELINGS OF PROUD BUSINESS OWNERS, AND COURAGEOUS ENTREPRENEURS, JUST BECAUSE BEING CRITICAL IS IN VOGUE, AMONGST THOSE LOCAL WRITERS WHO MAKE MONEY FROM THEIR CRAFT
I LIKE THIS TOWN TOO MUCH, TO EVER GET PAID TO WRITE ABOUT IT! I AM A WRITER WITHOUT FETTERS. THE CHAIN I MAY HAVE FORGED, LINK BY LINK, AS A PROFESSIONAL WRITER, TRYING TO WIN READERS, WAS CUT-OFF A LONG TIME AGO. I FEEL SO MUCH LIGHTER, AND LIBERATED BEING POOR.
THE ANECDOTE I PROMISED - SMALL BUSINESS - THE GOLFING FARMER
I have a million anecdotes. I guess you're not surprised. I was in the media business a long time, and I was in some pretty strange yet interesting situations, on the news beat. The story I'm going to relate, is true. Strange, odd, and even remarkable. It happened to me. I was influenced by the unsuspecting golfing farmer, of Bracebridge's Bangor Lodge Golf Course. The story seems appropriate, at least to my way of thinking, when I look at many of the unassuming, but stalwart, small businesses in Gravenhurst. Businesses that seem to chug-along without any extravagances, outrageous claims, that they are the best small business in town, or the world, and are operated by folks who like what they do…..and how they do it. They invite patrons into their shops, and instead of being greeted by glitz and glamor alone, they witness enterprises that are curious, and alluring; entertaining, honest, and neat……they treat visitors with respect, and seem genuinely pleased, these guests came to sample the fare in South Muskoka. They put in long, hard days, and when they lock-up at nights, they bid adieu to neighbor business owners and staff, doing the same…..and the goodbye, is always accented, so charmingly, "See you tomorrow," as if it really matters, that friends should meet up again, when once more, "it's business as usual." Some writers would complain that "business as usual," is wrong-minded, and a sign of imminent failure. There are people these days, who mistakenly weigh success, as meaning a million dollars. There are real people, in this town, who have a million dollar's worth of fun, just being small business owners, with aspirations of another day, another dollar, and feeling good about the town in which they work. So when I relate this story, of modesty and happiness, possibly you will find the parallel, to what it means to love your job, and business, a million bucks or not.
I knew Bill Pearcey because he was my girlfriend Gail Smith's uncle. When Gail and I were dating, back in the late 1970's, I used to golf regularly with her other uncle Fred Pearcey, and Gail's sister's boyfriend, Danny Seto. We'd go over to the Bangor Lodge course, on Golden Beach Road, in Bracebridge. It was a fairly nice nine hole course, and the great part, was that it was on the honor system, and cheap. It would cost us a couple of bucks each, at that time, and there was hardly ever a crowd on the course. It was a little different, of course, in the summer months, when the lodge was full with summer guests. We liked to play in the fall of the year. Danny was a young lad, who used to make Fred and I look real bad on the course. He had a Tiger Wood's swing, and could make it all look so easy. Fred and I hacked around, making fools of ourselves, and sneaking a few cold beer out of the old canvas golf bags. Danny looked the part of a professional golfer, and if you had seen us together, you would have said something like, "What the hell are you doing with these guys." Wouldn't have blamed anybody for thinking this, and honestly, we felt bad about destroying the kid's game. "Awful" in golf, does rub off.
I began golfing as a teenager, and from my earliest days on the links, I heard the story of the "Farmer Golfer." He was a country legend. I heard dozens of stories, about this old geezer, in black rubber boots, who could drive a golf ball two hundred and fifty yards, as straight as an arrow, and seldom if ever needed to two-putt a green. I'd hear these stories, when I worked at South Muskoka Memorial Hospital, as a student painter. Hospital Administrator Frank Henry and my maintenance partner Doug Fitzmaurice, would talk about this old fella, he figured I'd run into one day, and be taught a lesson about thinking oneself, a better player, than was true. "Yea right," I'd toss back at them. Doug always had a twinkle in his eye, so I knew the farmer had a name. For years I thought it was him. Maybe he was the golfing farmer, who was beating all the young golfers, and those who were under the delusion they were ready for the pro tour. Doug didn't wear black rubber boots to golf. He was however, a great golfer, in casual attire.
Even amongst the young golfing crew, there was talk of this old dude, and the couple of clubs he walked the course with. No golf bag. No golf shoes. No golf glove, and he didn't even keep score. Now you see, for a lot of golfers, who have paid a fortune for the proper golfing regalia, and have taken expensive lessons, to look at least partially competent on the course, hearing about a guy in black rubber boots, who could finish nine holes in 36 strokes, or maybe better, presented some bad karma. We'd arrive at the golf course and start looking over our shoulders, in case the strange duck, showed up on the tee. Apparently, he'd ask other golfers if he could join them. Then all hell broke loose. He'd make them all look like schmucks, and then disappear at the end of the match, like a vapor in the wind. He had an almost werewolf-like aura, at least to those who had never seen him. One minute he was a farmer-kind and the next, he was Arnold Palmer.
So on this particular outing with Danny Seto, a good and solid golfer, Fred and I got so pissed-off by the about the fifth hole, of him drubbing-us with pars, to our triple bogeys, we became the ilk of "the horribly deceitful." It was Dan's first time on this course, and when he asked us, at the tee, "Is that the hole down there," we didn't really lie to the kid, but like they say, we came as "as close as spitting." "That's a green all right," Fred mumbled, and I concurred, that it was indeed one of the golf holes to play. The kid whacked the ball to within about three inches of the hole. He looked at us, as if to say, "why am I out here with you losers?" "Nice shot Danny," Fred said, winking to me. So when I was next on the tee, (which didn't have the markers by the way) I took my shot in the opposite direction, and hit my ball about a hundred and fifty yards, right down the centre of the fairway. That was funny on its own, considering it was the first time that round, I kept a drive on the fairway. 'What they heck did you do that for, " asked Danny. "The green's over there." As Fred moved to the tee-off as well, he whispered to Danny, "The green for this fairway, is over there," pointing to a lovely little hollow, about two hundred yards, from where our friend had sat his ball. "What are you talking about? You told me that was the green down there," he asked in a wee panic, as he tipped the brow of his hat, to see Fred's lips describe what had obviously been misrepresented. "No, Danny, we said that it was 'a green.' We didn't say it was the green for our next hole," answered Fred, as I started to choke on my beer. Well sir, Dan was one mad dude. We let him take the shot over, but he still wanted us banned from golf forever. "We're not golfers Danny, we're garden variety hackers, and we have no governing body," I told him, doubled-up with laughter at this point. The kid teed-off, hit the right green in two. Not bad. Fred and I managed double-bogeys that time.
Late in the game, we met Uncle Bill Pearcey, just finishing up his chores at the course. He looked after the grounds at Bangor. He was a great guy. Neighbors of his, on Ontario Street, in Bracebridge, used to get a kick-out of seeing Bill putting on his lawn. He'd actually made a putting green where most of us would have boring, ordinary grass. It was a pretty flat green, but Bill liked to "putter" around the house, let's just say. So when he came up behind us, at about the seventh green, carrying two irons and a putter, and asked if we'd mind if he played the last three holes with us…..well, we were delighted. Bill had an infectious laugh, and when he and Fred got going, it was hilarious. I'd start laughing at them just because they laughed so hardily, I couldn't help it. Talk about good attitude. They both loved life and a tad of golf when the mood struck.
Bill said he'd tee-off last. Danny was first. The shot was brilliant as usual. And it even landed on the right green. Fred was next, and he smacked a decent shot a little to the left. I sliced that son-of-a-bitch so deep in the woods, I needed a compass to get back out. Fred made some anecdote or other, about the woodsman I had become, and Bill started laughing again. Dan didn't know what to make of us old farts. So here's Bill, killing himself laughing, teeing off, and hitting the bloody ball like a Babe Ruth homerun. Well sir, Danny and I stood there, watching this ball climb like it was on a ladder, and it actually seemed to go in spurts of speed, as it hit pockets of turbulence, and the ball landed within a whisker of the green. We looked at each other, as if to say, "My God, what the hell was that."
Bill shrugged it off, as an okay shot, and we headed off down the fairway. I got out of the woods in four, Fred flubbed the next two shots, Danny, I think hit the flag-pole, and it nearly dropped, and Bill sunk his chip shot for an Eagle. Maybe you see where I'm heading on this one. I was sitting down, watching everybody else drive off the ninth hole, thinking to myself….."there's something strange in the neighborhood." Once again, Bill got up, chortling about something Fred had said to him, and by golly, he almost knocked the cover off the ball. In only three of nine holes, he kicked our asses good. After we finished, I sat down on the bench at the clubhouse, and worked on our scorecard. "Do you keep score Ted," asked Bill. He could see I was, so I just nodded. "You know, I used to keep count, but then I just figured it was a waste of time. It's not like I'm going to turn pro or anything." I looked up, as he was replacing someone else's divot on the first tee, as was his day job. I looked at him, dressed casually, (some would say, farm casual), and I couldn't help notice he was wearing black rubber boots. "I don't believe this. Fred," I said, "Bill's the golfing farmer I've been hearing about for five years." Fred looked at me, with a big smile, winked again at Bill, and said, 'Well Ted, that's not possible. Bill isn't a farmer. Our brother Peter is, though." Of course, Bill was the local legend, I'd been looking over my shoulder for….because that's how he usually turned up to join a golf group. He'd just happen to be on a countryside amble, dressed like a farmer, on the course he looked after, with a couple of clubs and a cut-up, grass-stained ball. Just as he had snuck up on us. He didn't see it that way. He just wanted a bit of company.
Bill worked on a golf course, you see, and for coffee breaks and lunch, rather than go home, he brought out several of his favorite clubs, and played two or three holes at a time. He played gently, quietly (when not laughing), and never took himself too seriously. He never had a lesson in his life, and never felt the need. That would have made the game too formal and cumbersome. He enjoyed the game on his rules, which were pretty basic, and always ended with a low score, and a contented feeling. Bill Pearcey didn't teach me too much about golf. I was too far gone by that point for redemption. What he did teach me about, was having a sunny disposition, and the life benefits of good cheer for a weary soul. Bill didn't need a fancy golf bag, or monogramed balls, custom made clubs, or a golf glove. He didn't need a scorecard or a bottle of beer. What he needed was a little companionship and some precious recreation. It makes you wonder, about what seems successful or prosperous to some, and what makes a satisfying existence to someone else. Bill didn't ask or even want to be a role model. He just was.
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