from a series of posts by Colin on Best Slowly. Each posting is a walk, a sansaku, about 500 words long
6/5/17
If I had to simplify, I’d say my father wound was a deep disappointment that came from a divine expectation. The masculine let me down, I expected so much more. Corder felt pressure to perform and gave reason for the great expectations. He was highly successful.
But it turned out he couldn’t fake it all that well. He told me the story of how it happened. But here’s the rub, when he stopped faking it, something unexpected happened. He played a different game.
Speaking of games, my old golf partner and friend died a year ago today. I need to make a call to Mary Ellen. I want to thank her. We were with her when he died.
Both Wendell and Corder died in style. One of our artist friends said, “Wendell could not have sculpted it better.” They were smooching just before it happened. He died incredibly fast, but slow enough to let us say good-bye.
When Corder died, he called his best friend. Doug answered, “What’s up?” Doug was a director at the hospital and not that far away. Corder said, “Don’t forget the bet we made.” Doug had no idea what he was talking about. But he knew Corder had his reasons. He went up to the fourth floor to explore.
By the time Doug arrived, he was gone, long gone. The guy had sneaky powers and pulled his final trick that day. Doug called me, much as Mary Ellen had. I was a day late that time.
I boot-legged father therapy from Wendell and he didn’t seem to mind. He was part of the healing. Once I got to know them, neither let me down. I was far from disappointed.
If Corder took his courtroom skills to the Crystal Palace Saloon, Wendell took his classroom to Hillcrest, the golf course. They both liked center stage and definitely the microphone. Golf is a game where the announcers whisper. He whispered loudly, sure we would hear.
He liked my game, which was wild, erratic, and uneven on the best of days. I could hit a towering drive and chunk a wedge. I sank long putts and missed the easiest one. My foibles made him smile.
He wasn’t one to bet against. While he might improve his lie and take a putt or two, he was the one you wanted in a clinch to take the shot or make the putt. He didn’t often put his money where his mouth was, but if he did he could. And he had quite the mouth.
When he was playing badly, he’d say, “Now I’m livid.” For the next two or three holes, he’d actually try. It was fun to watch him care. Usually he said, “It’s a paradox, I never keep score but I always know what it is. I do the same with others. It’s not what I care about.”
I knew what he cared about.
He couldn’t help but clown. He was one of those Shakespearian fools who knows. Most golfers are stuck in their heads and their heads are in the wrong place. He let them know in the most colorful of ways.
On his last day of working at the coop, some thirty years before, he carried a water bottle and sipped a fine chardonnay he’d opened at home. He said, “The wine deserved fine crystal, but I’ve never tasted better.” He was unrepentant and free, but a little guilty. It allowed him to be honest with his occasional up-tightness, like with money.
Money is a clinical issue and largely overlooked in practice and theory. This is strange, given the symbolic weight it carries. Wendell, like my father, was open with his secrets. He related. That’s the secret.
