Thursday, April 21, 2011

Golf Man the Great

My high school sits rather reluctantly on the edge of a sprawling golf course, of which you must pass if you wish to reach the school. So every morning I watch the workers steady the flags at each hole, and watch the sun and fog waft softly through the trees. It’s peaceful in the morning, as if its relaxing from its hours of work during the day. 

But this morning, it wasn’t empty. A rather unsteady and plaid-shorted man was jogging excitedly from hole to hole, and while at a stop light, I watched the man as he shimmied and shifted in his position before swinging his shiny golf club and promptly hitting himself in the head on his back swing rather than the ball, which stood defiantly in it’s little peg. The man looked at it as if a magic trick had been preformed on him, and rubbed his head. He swiftly glanced at the street, saw he had an audience and quickly completed an adequate swing to redeem his skills. I smiled as I drove away, wondering what the Golf Man was doing at seven-thirty in the morning attempting to improve himself at golf. He certainly had a great attitude, expressed through his admirable new-looking hat with a pom-pom on the top. 

And while Golf Man might  tell people he’s a pro at golf, I’ll always know he’s just like everyone else, making mistakes. I see people sometimes that look so wonderful on the outside – you think of how their life must be, how beautiful they must feel all the time – but really we’re all just people. Some people are loud, some are smart, some sing well, some dance horribly, and others should not play golf. 

Well wishes, Golf Man. May you go back to hole number nine and try again tomorrow, for I will be cheering you on. 

Saturday, April 2, 2011

Searching For ...

Spring is so very elusive in New Hampshire. Yesterday, conveniently on a day in which we could all hope that the meteorologists were playing a wicked joke on us all, we received snow. Enough snow for a snow day. In April. Though it has since melted quite quickly, as if it was only a test of our optimism. The weather is restless, it seems, and so is everyone else. We're just waiting for something, though we don't particularly know what. So I've been taking pictures, searching for what everyone seems to be anticipating. 

  I think spring brings the restlessness on by its self. Looking at the bare trees, the dry grass, the darkened sky - everywhere is potential for beauty, for golden sunlight, a warm breeze, and being able to go to the beach without wearing three pairs of socks. And waiting for summer is difficult sometimes. If it doesn't come soon, the collection of people who are taking notice of the change have an almost childish fear of it not coming at all. 

I went to the Robert Frost Farm for a project. It didn't feel like any type of work. It was just breath taking to watch the open fields as they seem to breath along with the swelling wind. To look at the house and know that one of the greatest minds in literature once walked on the same paths as you are now. I'm a little jealous, to be honest. Any writer would prosper in a place like that. 

Anyone will prosper when they're surrounded by beauty.