Sycamore Golf

In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the woods, is a little golf center called "Sycamore Golf." This fine establishment is just two miles from our home—really the only business two miles from our house in the country.

We've driven by it nearly every day, glancing at its generous driving range, hidden putt-putt course and peeling-paint office. I've thought many times, "We should take Noah there to hit some golf balls." Until this weekend, we'd never followed through on that thought.

But on Saturday, with Great Auntie Peg's birthday cash burning a hole in our pockets, we set off to Sycamore Golf. When we arrived, summery music wafted from the office's speakers, but no one was in sight to check us in. Then we saw a dinner bell with a sign that said, "Ring for service." So David gave it the old ring-a-ding-ding.

Out on the driving range, in a beautiful house that hugs its edge, a man stood up on his gorgeous deck and waved at us. He then whipped down to a golf cart and whizzed up to greet us. When he arrived, I could barely stifle a giggle. The owner of Sycamore Golf was a middle-aged gentleman sporting a well-worn visor, t-shirt and shorts. He could have been straight out of Surfer Magazine.

As if to confirm my thought, his first words to us were (add a generous amount of surfer-style nasal drawl), "Hey kids! Oh wow, man, look at that art on your arm. That's some nice art you got there."

He then launched into a story about how he was an art teacher for 30 years before retiring to the simplicities of Sycamore Golf. Judging from the size of his house, I would say he taught in a rather affluent school district.

After some chitchat he gifted David and Noah with putt-putt clubs (I offered to be ball wrangler/club photographer) and cranked up the radio so we could jam to tunes as we golfed. And then he rolled away in his golf cart once again.




The course was a hoot. It was old-fashioned, with colorful hazards and fading greens. But you could tell everything had been freshly painted, and given the number of trees I would say he has to sweep the course every morning.


Noah has a set of plastic golf clubs at home, so he was infinitely more dangerous with the real-deal club he got to use that day. You really had to watch your toes or face a serious stubbing.



A few holes we attempted to teach him form...and patience. I would consider those seeds just planted, with years ahead before they take root.


Hole No. 2, I think. Every time Noah saw the use of golf balls in the hazards, he tried to pull them out, particularly on one hole when they were literally just glued to the green. He wasn't even sure which ball was his.


That's me beneath the hair and the giant t-shirt. My job was to occasionally try to help Noah make controlled shots. Usually he went for the golf-meets-field hockey technique.


Loved this hole. It had a progression of "windows" that got smaller and smaller as the ball moved toward the cup. Noah managed to crawl through them all except this last one... too small for even him!

The last hole was probably the greatest disappointment for Noah about his first putt-putt experience. He was rather perturbed that hitting the ball into the hidden cup on this hole meant it went completely away. He kept saying, "More balls? I want more balls!" Next time!