For my thirteenth birthday my mother gifted me a set of starter golf clubs purchased from the Sears catalog. No one in our family golfed, that I knew of…but that never stopped me before. Neither had they painted a picture, nor written a poem, so the ship that housed the fear of the unknown had already sailed, and I made my way to the golf course. 

She could afford the junior summer membership at Arrowwood. Not a second of which could be wasted, she picked me up on her 30 minute lunch break and drove me to the course, slowing down the light blue Chevy Malibu station wagon just long enough for me to drag the emerald green cotton golf bag from the rear, loaded with six catalog clubs. 

I knocked my way solo from tee to woods to pond to green. Smiling with each stroke under the summer sun. On the weekends, if she wasn’t too tired, or mostly I suppose, even if she was, she walked the nine holes with me. And even when my ball ended with a splash or a ricochet, she marveled and said, “I can’t believe you hit it that far!” And she was the first in pond or forest to retrieve my short supply of balls. 

I think of it, her, as I struggle with my morning French lesson. If today were a golf course, I would be momentarily demoralized by my working class swing, that is, until I see her, and I do see her, her knee deep enthusiasm from the pond, hand raised overhead with ball, yelling, “I’ve got this! You’ve got this!” What can I do but keep trying! I, we, in everything we do, owe it to those who came before us, who walked beside us — we have to keep trying!