A Charm of Goldfinches

Second chances rarely happen least of all at the first tee of a golf course.

A Charm of Goldfinches

My bedroom closed in on me. Even with my head buried in the pillow, the desolation remained. Held hostage by grief, I hadn't set foot on the golf course in over a month. I needed to move on, and playing nine holes felt like a good first step. School would start soon, and so would my chance to qualify for the varsity golf team.

Munching on a power bar, I walked the fifteen minutes to Maxwelton Braes, knowing I would be golfing alone. My robin-egg-blue golf bag, with its white stripe and shoulder harness, looked new. The bag and clubs had seen countless rounds of golf yet remained pristine. I had inherited the bag and clubs from Granddad. I wore my Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap, a gift from Granddad when the baseball season started, and my matching blue Brewers windbreaker.

As I strolled through the dew-kissed grass toward the first tee, I noticed each dewdrop on my tennis shoes reflecting sunlight like a thousand pieces of cut glass. With the sun barely cresting the horizon, the chilly morning air sharpened my senses. A gentle breeze caressed my back. Following Granddad's ritual, I scooped up a few grass clippings and tossed them into the air. The shards flew from my hand, showing an easterly wind of perhaps five miles per hour. I sensed a smile on my lips. The wind at my back would propel my drive an extra few yards, more if my swing were perfect.

My clubs and bag felt lighter today. I wondered whether my running and strength training were paying off. I chuckled. "Tiger Woods, watch out."

Upon arriving at the first tee, I sat on the green bench and changed into my golf shoes while admiring the tranquil landscape. The fairway was immaculately manicured. The first hole was an oasis of deep green, contrasting with the chartreuse-to-light-green fairway. A white pole stood in the middle of the green. Its white flag, bearing the number one, waved defiantly, challenging me to approach.

I carefully placed the tee in the ground, reminding myself to pick it up after my stroke. I took one of the new Titleist golf balls from the dozen Granddad had left me. My hand shook as I set the ball on the tee. It tumbled off. My second attempt was successful.

I liked the sound of the course at 5 AM. A charm of goldfinches, with males sporting gold-colored breasts, added to the morning glow. Their twittering and warbling serenaded me. They darted en masse between nearby pine trees. I recalled Granddad's story about goldfinches. They symbolize resurrection, new life, and hope. I just thought they were pretty.

Honeybees made their way from flower to flower on a nearby cluster of hydrangeas. Occasionally, they zipped past my ear, tickling it. Granddad had told me that bees carry messages from the spirit world. If they were delivering a message, I didn't understand it.

I looked over my right shoulder. The clubhouse was closed, and three rows of golf carts, neatly lined up next to the building, waited for the morning rush of golfers. In a couple of hours, golf leagues would swarm the course. I'd better get a move on.

I caught sight of the groundskeeper from a distance as he drove his golf cart, inspecting the greens. He didn't stop to chat; he just waved and drove on.

A month ago, Granddad and I had planned to meet at the first tee for nine holes. Granddad had collapsed at this very spot from a heart attack. I'd been the first to find him. The groundskeeper arrived later and said that if I'd arrived a few minutes earlier, I might have saved him--I hated his saying that.

I sighed, said a brief prayer for Granddad, and prepared to do what we both loved: nine holes of golf.

Granddad would have told me to clear my head before my drive.

I glanced at the light-blue golf bag. I brought the clubs and bag to honor the man I adored. I pulled Granddad's prized driver from the bag and ran my fingers over the initials RLM. Holding the club as Granddad would have, I found it felt just right.

Smiling, I recalled the driver's history as my granddad had told it.

#

"Me and your grandma toured Ireland some 20 years ago. We shared an Irish heritage and a love of Irish culture. We walked trails in Reenadina Woods on the Muckross Peninsula in County Kerry. I raved about the intricate, eerie maze of yew trees and their root systems."

"After our hike, we found a nearby pub for lunch and then browsed the storefronts of local artisans. I was keen to have something made of yew. We came across a studio specializing in woodcarving."

Granddad would look at me with a twinkle in his eye. "It was as if the fairies had guided me to a corner of the shop."

"A pile of discarded failed wood carvings caught my eye. In the shop's dim light, I spotted what looked like a walking stick. Rubbing my eyes and looking again, I saw it was actually a golf club, a driver."

"I called your grandma; look at this. I beamed at the unexpected discovery. This would be quite a conversation piece with my golf buddies."

"Grandma shook her head and said, 'Don't be daft. It would probably break the first time you hit a ball.'"

"An older man walked from behind the counter. He spoke with a seductive Irish brogue. 'Aye, I see you found something rare.'"

"I smiled. Is it rare?"

"Let me get my sin-seanathair, ah, my great-grandfather. He knows the story."

"As the ancient-looking shopkeeper shuffled off, I turned to your grandma and wondered in a hushed tone about the great-grandfather's age."

"In a few minutes, the shopkeeper reappeared, helping his great-grandfather, a frail-looking little man with a mane and beard of pure white, walk toward us. The great-grandfather, who spoke only Irish, greeted the strangers in his native language. 'Dia duit.'"

"The shopkeeper translated. My great-grandfather told me that someone had crafted the staff before his birth. A long-forgotten artisan had made it from the most exquisite root of a yew tree. Some believe it is the work of the Draoi, Druid priests."

"Grandma tugged my sleeve and whispered, 'Someone kissed the Blarney Stone more than once.'"

"Embarrassed, I narrowed my eyes at your grandma and whispered, 'Be nice, or he'll jack up the price.' I looked back at the shopkeeper and asked, 'May I hold it?'"

"The shopkeeper nodded."

"I felt a tingle in my hands when I grasped the yew root. The wood seemed to reshape itself into a perfect handgrip. I exclaimed, 'Wow, it's like it's made for me.' The length is ideal for my six-foot-three-inch height."

"The end was wide and bulbous, with a flat surface, making it a perfect clubhead for a driver."

"I asked, May I?"

"The shopkeeper and Grandma stood well back. I took three practice swings, careful not to damage anything."

"I looked at the shopkeeper and his great-grandfather. 'Is it strong?'"

"They conversed for a moment. 'It's very strong. Let me show you.' The shopkeeper suspended the carved yew root over the opening between the two counters. One minute, please. He returned with an enormous sword. He explained that this is a two-handed steel sword. With great effort, he lifted the sword and struck the yew root. There was a dull clang, but no damage."

"The shopkeeper turned to me with a satisfied smile and asked, 'Your turn?'"

"Fit and in my early fifties, I asked, 'If I break it, do I buy it?'"

"The shopkeeper smiled wryly and confidently replied, 'Don't worry.'"

"The great-grandfather spoke. The shopkeeper translated. 'Don't be shy. Get on with it.'"

"I lifted the sword like a knight going into battle, screamed, and struck with all my strength."

"There was a loud clang. 'Ouch! My wrists. It's like hitting a concrete wall.'"

"The great-grandfather nodded and chuckled. He haltingly said in English, 'Americans', and shook his head."

"The shopkeeper's face reddened, but he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, 'So, do we have a deal?'"

#

I emerged from reminiscing and refocused on golf. The morning sun illuminated the club's intricate details. A brownish-red hue marked the heartwood, while the sapwood was yellowish-creamy. The grain along the club's length was distinct, with knots adding visual texture. The wood flowed along the shaft, expanding into and wrapping around a dark knot at the clubhead's center. A luminescent finish on the club made it visible in the dark. Granddad couldn't figure out how the ancient Irish had done it.

I swung the driver a few times to limber up. It was pleasant. Being here brought me closer to Granddad, as if he were hugging me. As I gripped the club, my hands tingled, and the grip felt...comforting.

The morning birds were still softly serenading. I wished I could share this moment with Granddad one last time.

The breeze picked up, causing me to glance up. The cerulean sky had a few wispy clouds. A tiny black cloud in the east seemed out of place on the otherwise perfect morning.

I addressed the ball like Grandad had. "Good morning, ball." We had always laughed.

I looked at the fairway and hoped to reach the green in my first or second shot. Stepping back, I took a couple of practice swings. Stepping forward, I planted my feet as Granddad taught me and focused on the golf ball.

I started my backswing and froze. A strong wind rustled my windbreaker and blew my hat off. The sun disappeared--plunging me into darkness. My first thought was of the black cloud. Could it have moved so quickly?

A tingling sensation washed over my body, intensifying with each second. My muscles contracted. The sky split into kaleidoscopic hues. There was a silent but blinding flash, then pain--my scream caught in my throat.

#

Did I pinch a nerve? I dropped the club to my side, trying to understand, when a familiar voice said, "Why'd you stop, champ?"

I turned, my eyes wide. "Granddad!?"

I blinked and stared, taking inventory of my granddad's appearance: tall, muscular, with short gray hair and a gentle smile. It was him! I tried to speak. "How...how...how can you be here?" But he spoke before I could get the words out.

"Well, yeah, who else would it be at this god-forsaken hour?" Granddad studied me for a second. "You okay there?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine." I continued haltingly. "I guess... I guess I was so deep in concentration that I forgot you were here."

Grandpa chuckled. "Just as well. Your backswing was a little off. Try to relax more."

I thought I was hallucinating--a result of the lightning strike. Was I in a coma, dreaming weird dreams? But how could I know if this was a dream? I pulled out my phone. The date and time were correct. I walked over to Granddad and hugged him. He was solid, real--not imaginary.

"Whoa there. Are you feeling okay, Roddy?"

I stepped back. "Yeah, just happy to see you." I still needed convincing.

"Oh, Granddad, I forgot to charge my phone. What time is it?"

Granddad looked at his watch. "It's 5:13 AM. We'd better get busy if we want to play nine holes. Grandma expects me home at 9."

"Okay, thanks. Oh, it's July 29th, right?"

Granddad looked concerned. "Yeah, the 29th all day, but it will be the 30th if we don't get moving."

My mind couldn't catch up. What was happening? I stammered, "Right, right."

I readied myself and took a few practice swings. I stopped and looked at Granddad.

"Granddad?"

"Ugh, now what, Rod?"

"I'd like to try your driver."

"You want to try my Irish pride and joy?" Granddad chuckled, walked to his golf bag, pulled out the requested club, and handed it to me. He said, "Yeah, you're fifteen. You're a man now. Have at it."

When I took the club, I felt a tingling in my hands. I set up to swing, but stopped mid-swing to see Granddad fading away. The tingling intensified. Everything went dark, then a blinding flash.

#

My eyes focused on unfamiliar surroundings.

The first tee wasn't as I remembered. There was a white bench where a green one had been. On the bench, I saw a coat of arms and the words "Horseshoe Bay Golf Club."

The cool air told me it was morning. The sun was just above the horizon. The pine trees were gone, replaced by poplars. The course was quiet and clear. I stood motionless until I heard a familiar voice.

"Okay, you're all set. Remember to bend your knees, relax your swing, and follow through."

It was me! I was speaking. I was addressing a young girl--perhaps ten or twelve years old. She had long red hair tied in a ponytail. She was tall and muscular, wearing professional golf attire.

She nodded. "Okay, Dad."

I started coughing and almost fell over. The word dad rang in my head like a thousand church bells. Wait! What! I have a daughter. How, when, and where?

My daughter swung perfectly, sending the ball straight down the fairway.

A voice whooped from behind me. "Way to go, Krissy! Your dad couldn't have done better."

I muttered to myself over and over, "I have a daughter. I have a daughter. I have a daughter." My brain turned to Jello, and I almost yelled, "I have a daughter named Krissy," but whispered it instead.

I was bursting with confusion and, strangely, pride. But then I stopped myself. When did I become a dad? Who's the mother? Am I married? In the fog of unanswered questions, it slowly dawned on me--who just called my daughter's name?

"Roddy?" I heard an unmistakable voice.

I swung around. "Granddad?"

A much older Granddad sat in the golf cart. He had the same smile and twinkle in his eyes. He seemed smaller, with less hair and more wrinkles.

I stuttered again. "Grand...Granddad?"

He chuckled. "Are you expecting Scottie Scheffler?"

My disorientation re-emerged. How is this possible? Did I drop into my future life? Who did I marry? When did I have a kid? I wanted to know, but couldn't ask without seeming insane. I recovered my senses somewhat. "Ah, Granddad, you up to taking a swing?"

Granddad rolled his eyes. "Now, don't be cruel. You know my game went to hell when I got these new hips."

Granddad drove the cart close to me and whispered. "I still love watching you play. I love watching you teach my great-granddaughter."

It occurred to me that Granddad had to be in his nineties. I wanted to ask about Grandma, but I was afraid. I looked down, somewhat relieved that he still wore a wedding ring.

Krissy headed to the cart. Granddad hugged her when she sat next to him.

"Okay, Krissy, let's find out if your dad is as good as you are today."

I moved to the back of the cart for my driver. I believed Granddad would enjoy watching me use his Irish driver, but I discovered it was the only driver in my bag.

My reflection appeared in the cart's chrome. I was older, much older than fifteen. Oh God, I grew a mustache--poor choice. And worse, I'm bald!

I also noticed I was wearing an expensive sports shirt bearing the Horseshoe Bay Country Club emblem and my name in gold lettering. It could mean only one thing. I'm the golf pro at the most exclusive course in Door County!

I teed up the ball, took a few practice swings, and looked at Granddad. He shouted, "Make a hole-in-one like in the tournament last week."

I snapped myself straight and stared wide-eyed. Do I play in tournaments? Am I on the pro circuit? So many questions, but I sensed my time was running out.

I focused on Granddad's driver and the golf ball. A familiar tingle spread through my body. I watched Granddad and Krissy fade away. The sky darkened. A dark cloud enveloped me, and then a bright flash.

#

My eyes opened slowly. "Whoa, that was so weird." The details of the dream evaporated like the morning dew on a sunny morning, but the feelings lingered. I shook myself awake and got dressed. The clock read 4:30 AM, plenty of time to meet up with Granddad, my golf coach. I had been three under par yesterday and hoped to do even better today. My skills and confidence had grown over the summer. I knew I could secure a spot on the Sevastopol High School varsity golf team, a rare achievement for a sophomore.

I grabbed my golf bag and slung it over my shoulder. The golf clubs rattled with anticipation. I grabbed a Pop-Tart as I passed through the kitchen, downed it in three bites, grabbed my water bottle, and headed to Maxwelton Braes. As I sauntered toward the course, I pulled out my phone. The date and time sent chills down my spine. It felt like a tornado siren had blasted an alarm. All I knew was that I needed to get to Granddad.

I threw down my golf bag. The clubs clattered as they spilled out when the bag hit the ground. I ran to the first tee as fast as I could. Every fiber of my being screamed, "You needed to get to Granddad."

Panting, I approached the first tee and saw Granddad standing there. I breathed a sigh of relief and dismissed my alarms. As I watched, Granddad dropped his prized driver and fell to his knees. I screamed, "No!" and ran faster.

By the time I arrived, Granddad had fallen face down. I moved as if in slow motion. When I reached him, I knelled and checked for a pulse--nothing. I rolled him over, yelling, "Granddad...granddad," as I shook him--nothing. I dialed 9-1-1, but the call didn't go through. I looked around, hoping to find the groundskeeper or another early golfer--no one. The earlier words of the groundskeeper resurfaced. "if you had arrived a few minutes earlier, you might have saved him." The hurt those words caused echoed in my mind sending me to the edge of despair until I realized that this was my second chance. I screamed, "No! Not this time!"

I didn't know CPR, but I remembered a program that said the rhythm was like the song "Stayin' Alive." I breathed into Granddad's mouth and performed compressions. "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive." Breathe. After a minute, I checked for a pulse--nothing.

The specter of failure robbed me of the strength to continue, but then I noticed the Irish driver lying on the ground beside us. Memories flooded back. I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the driver. The sky darkened. I welcomed the blackness as it appeared. I knew what was coming. The electrical charge surged through my body. In my dreams, the driver sent me to different times or maybe even other universes. But not this time.

The electricity intensified. My muscles contracted in pain. I hyperventilated. Sweat dripped from my forehead. Dizziness overtook me, and as I neared unconsciousness, I heard a pulsing bass drum in my ears and felt a dark veil cover my eyes. I wailed in agony and willed myself to hang on.

My last thought was to place both my hands over Granddad's chest. I felt a jolt of electricity surge from my body into his.

Granddad's body jerked just before I passed out.

I opened my eyes slowly. I breathed through the pain coursing through my body. There was a strange smell...a metallic smell...ozone? My hands burned. I looked at them expecting to see charred meat but they were merely red. My head cleared. I looked down. Granddad was still not breathing. I checked his pulse--nothing. Tears welled in my eyes as I shook uncontrollably.

Then, a rasping gasp--Granddad's chest rose--he was breathing! Shallow breaths at first, but then he took one deep breath, then another. I held his hand as he regained consciousness.

"Oh... Did I pass out?... Why are you kneeling?... When did you get here?"

"You don't remember?" I hugged him and smiled, tears falling. I kissed his forehead. He was becoming more alert. "I guess I got here just in time."

Granddad smiled. "Come on, help me up. Did I have a heart attack?"

As he struggled to his feet, I said, "Yeah, I think so. I'm calling an ambulance."

"Nah, Roddy. Just get me to the car."

Once Granddad got his footing, I said, "I'm taking you to the hospital."

Granddad frowned, then replied, "Yeah, you're right. Call your grandma on the way."

As we left, I looked where I had dropped the driver. Burned grass outlined where it had once lain. At the center of the outline was an ashen heap. How could I ever explain to Granddad what had happened to his cherished Irish driver? Would he even believe me? I shrugged off these concerns--a tale for another day. As we walked arm-in-arm toward the clubhouse, I felt relief and gratitude while the goldfinches sang.

#

Far from Door County, a day and an hour later, A lone man had wandered the village aimlessly for the past hour, lost in his thoughts. Rain forced him to seek shelter. He glanced up and saw an intricate sign with carved Celtic knotwork surrounding the shop's name, Caoineadh, written in spellbinding calligraphy. Unexpectedly, despite the chilly rain, a warm breeze pressed him toward the door.

The small bell over the shop door tinkled.

"Good morning to you, sir." An Irishman ambled from behind the counter, sizing up the man who had entered.

"Guten Morgen!" The man's tone was flat. "Oh, sorry. Good morning."

The shopkeeper spoke in a welcoming voice. "You're German?"

The man, possibly in his 70s, nodded and spoke in English. "I guess it's obvious?"

The shopkeeper teased. "No, sir, no, sir. Just a lucky guess on my part." He studied the man's sad expression. "Is there something you're looking for?"

"Your signage is a work of art."

"Thank you. My great-grandfather carved it."

"May I ask the meaning?"

"The literal meaning is keening."

"I am not familiar with this word."

"Think of a lament."

The German still looked puzzled.

The shopkeeper tried again. "A wailing cry of grief."

The German nodded with a recognition that revealed his pain; his eyes grew moist.

The shopkeeper added, "My great-grandfather says our shop is where grief finds its answer."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Is that so?"

The shopkeeper cocked his head and spoke gently. "May I interest you in something?"

The man shook his head. "No, just browsing. I plan to walk the trails in Reenadina Woods. I'm passing the time until the ground dries out."

"Ah, we have had a fair bit of rain around these parts. The weatherman said the afternoon looks glorious." The shopkeeper spoke warmly, trying to lift the man's spirits, but failed.

"Ja, I hope that is correct." The man started to leave.

The shopkeeper spoke. "Is someone going to join you on your hike?"

The man looked back at the shopkeeper, hesitated, then looked down. Something in him melted. He spoke in a manner tinged with sadness. "No, I'm walking alone."

"Oh, I see." The shopkeeper's sympathetic smile invited the man to say more.

The man let out a sigh. "We had planned this vacation together."

The shopkeeper spoke, his voice rising. "We?"

"My wife and I dreamed of touring Ireland." The man's eyes filled with tears, and he took a deep breath. "I lost her in a car accident six months ago." His voice shook. "I believed this trip would honor her."

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

The man responded out of reflex. "Thank you."

The common understanding of grief embraced them. Their eyes locked. The shopkeeper spoke softly. "If I may suggest, since the paths can be tricky, I would like to show you a walking stick made from the root of a yew tree. It might help you make the trek more safely."

The man stepped toward the shopkeeper. "I appreciate the concern. I would be happy to look at it."

The shopkeeper shuffled off and returned with a handcrafted walking stick, its wood rich in a mix of cream and red hues, its dark knots varying in size. The clouds outside cleared, and sunlight broke through the window, illuminating the stick's intricate details. It looked dazzling, even hypnotizing.

The wanderer's eyes lit up. "It's beautiful. My wife would have loved it."

The shopkeeper held out the staff in front of him. "Please take it...to honor your late wife."

The gentleman responded slowly, choked up by this act of kindness. They stood motionless in this most human of moments until the gentleman asked, "Would it be possible to tell me the history of this exquisite carving? I want to tell my children when I return to Germany."

The shopkeeper sucked in air through his teeth and nodded. "I must confess, this item has been in the shop for many years. So many years, in fact, that I need to get my great-grandfather to tell you its origins."

As the elderly shopkeeper left to fetch his great-grandfather, the man held the walking stick. It molded to his grip, sending a tingle through his body.

The gentleman from Germany smiled for the first time in months.

END