Right back at it

We did get back okay.

Last Tuesday.

Ahm, the dog ate my homework.

We got off the plane here, and jumped right back into the routine.  Mr W went in to work, I had to get the kids to school...haircuts, band concerts, Christmasing up the house...working...cleaning, and taking Audrey to the doctor.

She had a little something, and she passed it on to me.

It hasn't been tooo unbearable, as I have this big, throaty voice that's been entertaining all my friends when they call.

But back to the trip.

I have to say, I am so not a seasoned traveler.  I tried to fake it.

I was outed before we even left town.  Mr W and I packed one suitcase, accustomed to conserving space from when we travel with the kids and all their stuff.

Our bag was overweight.   And the whole computer thing, to check the bag, really didn't save us any time as a result.  Whoops.  Guess I should have looked that up...

Then, we had a one hour layover that was nearly too short.  We got from our gate to the next gate juuuust in time to get on board for the connecting flight.  On a teeny express plane.  You know, the kind where you wonder if there's a kid with a remote control out in the field guiding your plane into takeoff?  Luckily I didn't sleep the night before, and this proved useful--sleeping has a way of taking the edge off of claustrophobia.

One snooty car rental lady later, and we were finally on our way to my father-in-law's house.

Our trip was to visit him.  His health has been questionable as of late, and it's hard to discern from states away if he's worse or worse, especially with my mother-in-law's flair for the dramatic.

Initially, I was concerned when he met us outside his house, he was much thinner than when I saw him last, and a little wild in his golf cart.

But it was really good to see him, and I got over it.

I went outside later in the evening, looking for him and Mr W.  I giggled when I turned around and saw Dad coming down his driveway carrying golf clubs.

It was dark.  What's he up to, I wondered...but knew.

He lives in a large trailer, on a decent sized piece of land.

He came out with a five-gallon bucket half-filled with golf balls.

I should preface, before I go on, that I know nothing about golf.  Nothing at all other than the grass is green and there's a little ball involved.  (I know Remo is cringing at that.) 

Seriously, the only golf I know, I've experienced, has little spinning windmills and gnomes on the course.

But Mr W and his Dad have golf in common.

They hit a couple.  I watched Mr W, I watched my FIL (who is really impressive, considering)...and I took the club from him, as Mr W said, "She has no idea how to hit the ball."  "Bring it on,"  I said.

Of course, Mr W took it upon himself to help talk me through it.  And talk. And correct.

After nearly snapping a wrist hitting the dirt, I caught on.  I hit and hit.

And Mr W kept offering hints.  So much to remember, how does my FIL make it look SO damn easy?  And what the hell am I supposed to do, to work around my boobs?  Straighten your arms; bend your knees, but don't bend them more, wait, you're leaning; rock, don't bounce; keep your eye on the ball...I've learned dance routines that were easier. 

I had a really good time, even though it could be frustrating.

"She's gonna have to go shag all those balls,"  Mr W said.

"Whatever,"  I told him, as we set off to get those we could see.

Suddenly, there's my FIL in his cart, behind me.  With a flashlight.  (And a ball retriever that I threatened to pinch Mr W in the butt with.)

He proceeds to wheel me around his property looking for the balls.  I felt like a princess, and while it was cold, I didn't complain.  I sat next to my FIL, and just enjoyed his vibe.  He's one of the first people I learned to be quiet and listen to, as his body language is more telling than anything he's not saying.  Shoulder to shoulder in the cart, it felt like I'd just seen him yesterday.  Which made me feel a little twinge because it's been about two years and in that moment, I realized how much I've missed him. 

Once we had all the balls, we went back for another go at it.

This time, Dad hit more, and Mr W (much to his dismay) rediscovered his shank.

I hit a few more too.  I got a little frustrated, as I said out loud, "I need to stop aiming for the fences."

"Just try to hit it right and don't worry about distance,"  my FIL noted, suggesting I slow down.  As usual, he was right.  I slowed it down, I got better.

"Here, try this."  "Isn't this one of your titanium dealies?"  I said, nervous, envisioning it bent in two.  "Just try it."

Ohhhh.  Oh, my.  Of course, it felt different, in a good way.  Of course, I didn't want to hand it back, but knowing my record, I did...after a few more tries.

It was just the cat's ass, being out there in the middle of the night, hitting the ball, going after them in the cart, and delighting in the company as well as omg, I hit it over the fence.  And it went straight!

Not bad for a first timer.  I may learn to like this yet, I thought.  Although, I had a few aches and pains due to my mechanical difficulties; I soothed myself with visions of sailing white balls dancing in my head.  Because I'd like to be a natural at something that I can do in public that wouldn't earn me a night in jail or a restraining order.

I tagged along the next morning, when Mr W and Dad went golfing.

My visions of anything sailing went "poof!" at that point...

I'll take "poof!" over the sound of crashing glass any day.