It was on the par three seventh hole at the Alexandria Country Club, the vending machine. It took two of the three quarters I earned each week for cleaning the house to buy a Gatorade. There was only one flavor then (or should I say color?) It was hot under the summer sun. And I wasn’t allowed in the clubhouse, like most of the girls I was playing with. I was on a summer “local youth” pass, but that pass ended with the final hole. I carried my green bag of five clubs and sat in the parking lot, waiting for my mother, finishing my Gatorade. For me it was the taste of “I still belong here.” It was the taste of “I still won.”  It was the taste of “my mother is coming soon, and she loves me.” 

Maybe it had that power, or maybe I gave it that power, so on the days when I couldn’t quite get there myself, I let it take me. Carry me. And I am grateful for all of it.

Would I have believed in the magic, if I hadn’t washed the mirrors, wiped them with a newspaper for that no-streak shine, to earn the quarters, to buy the drink, to sit outside the clubhouse? Maybe. I don’t know. But I’m so happy I did it. Because I carry that magic still. From state to state. Country to country. 

Yesterday at the Walgreen’s in Tuscon, after hiking in the National Park, I bought two yellow Gatorades. I still live in the magic. It’s where I belong.