Melissa's Place

Rattlesnake Point Golf Course

Yesterday could not have been hotter or muggier. And we were to go golfing with Gina (a coworker of Mark’s and whose children he also tutors a few times a week) and her husband Norm. They’d invited us over for dinner a few times and we’d kept having to cancel, so I knew this was it. Despite not being a golfer in the least, I was not getting out of this one.

I was covered in a slick layer of sweat, Toronto smog, pollen and chalk dust by 3 o’clock, so I was glad that Mark picked me up early and we could go home to change quickly before meeting Gina and Norm. I was doing my best to put on the golfer guise. I had khaki cotton pants and white runners and a pink visor. I think golfers wear visors. I even had a golf shirt on. It’s actually CALLED a golf shirt – what could BE more golf?

We got in our car and went to Gina and Norm’s. There, Mark realized he hadn’t brought any golf balls for me. I already had no golf clubs. (I thought this was an excellent way to start off a golf game). Gina had an extra set (for show) and in actuality we were going to share hers. I was telling myself that this would be just fine. Gina was making a big deal out of how terrible a golfer SHE is and how she NEVER plays. It was sort of making me feel better. But I also suspected she might be one of those people who SAYS they’re awful then makes you feel several layers south of awful because she’s world’s better than you are.

The drive was stop-and-go and I was beginning to feel queasy. It was hard to distinguish whether it was the traffic making my tummy act up, or the fatalistic nausea of a soul facing her doom. Then the skies began to look black to the west. We began to debate whether the haze was just smog or a storm approaching. To our east, the smog was a light gray. To our west, a blacker gray. I began to pray.

We pulled up the beautiful winding laneway of Rattlesnake Point and it really was gorgeous – and ritzy. Norm ran to get the golf cart. Mark unloaded the car. And I peered hopefully up at the sky. Make hesitated then and whispered superstitiously, “It really does look like R-A-I-N.” I smiled. “Golfers never say the R word, Melissa,” he explained.

In my mind, I said, “RAIN RAIN RAIN RAIN RAIN.”

Then we saw lightning. And we heard thunder. Norm had no sooner packed two sets of clubs onto the back of a cart when we realized we would not be golfing that night. He took the cart back and we went into the clubhouse.

We started out on the patio, but the winds soon became too relentless. From inside, we watched the rain begin its pounding (and sideways) fury while trees bowed humbly at the storm’s mercy.

I sipped my wine gratefully.

And God whispered, “You’re welcome.”