You’ll have to forgive me. I couldn’t find the time to write a
column this month—too busy stepping over boxes and making lists.
In a couple of months, my wife and I will be moving—and not
just across town. We’re pulling up stakes and moving across the pond,
expatriating to Scotland for a two-year sojourn in St. Andrews. I’m not exactly sure why. I just feel this
pull, undoubtedly some sort of mid-life crisis—a return-to-the-womb-of-golf
thing, perhaps.
Whatever the motivation (or diagnosis), we’re going. So,
we’re in the process of selling our house, which means we have myriad decisions
to make on its contents. Ergo the lists. At this moment, every item in every
room has been examined, discussed and ultimately consigned to one of four fates:
- Take it
- Toss it
- Gift it
- Store it
Most of the calls have been easy to make. All raingear and
our warmest sweaters go with us. Our 1,000 or so randomly accumulated issues of
National Geographic, Gourmet, Popular Science, Rolling Stone and The Economist
get trashed. The antique chandelier in the dining room gets stored. And the
Franklin Mint collection of imitation silver coins commemorating legendary
artists and musicians, presented to me by my great-aunt with three of the 50
geniuses missing, goes to anyone who will take it—probably my grandniece.
The process had gone along painlessly until we got to my
den—and my golf trove. How did I possibly accumulate all this stuff? A
preliminary inventory reveals: 1,500 books, magazines, journals and tournament
programs; just under 100 videos (a shameful none of them X-rated); six complete
sets of clubs, plus seven “backup” drivers and 17 wedges; 26 putters; eight
pairs of shoes, half of them moldy and curled up at the toes; nine golf bags,
two of which have never been used because they’re tour-pro size and have my name
emblazoned in six-inch letters on the side; approximately 200 paintings, prints,
photos and other assorted wall-hangings; and a ghastly assortment of golf-themed
tchotchkes.
It’s one thing to over-accumulate golf items that either
serve a function or would be considered acceptable décor among educated people.
It’s another thing to amass a storehouse of kitsch.
How, for example, did I acquire a first-edition copy of
“Arnold Palmer and the Golfin’ Dolphin?” What am I doing with a Power Pod driver
and a Basakwerd putter? When did I come into possession of a bright red,
20-pound tee block from “Het Girdle,” the par-3 fifth hole at the Gleneagles
Kings Course? Why would I have a copy of “Basic Golf,” a how-to paperback in
which all the swing-position photos are of naked women? (Don’t answer that.) And
what prompted me to purchase a full set of 14 sterling silver golf-club olive
picks? But those are questions for another day. The thing now is: What to do
with all of it?
