'Fore' My Father

by Christine Neilson

Honk! Honk! Honk! "Did that guy just flip me off?" 

I am angry every day that I spend in Los Angeles. There are some legitimate reasons I dislike L.A. It is spread out and you need to drive to get to places. Moreover, L.A. has no neighborhoods. It just seems to sprawl forever and it's filled with too many agitated people. (Who can blame them?) There is a sense of entitlement as drivers dart in out of lanes and compete for parking spaces to obsessively shop until they drop. It's a stark comparison to Cambria, where I rarely leave town. Time is spent on Moonstone Beach, walking the Fiscalini Ranch trails perched above the Pacific, or lounging on Lily's Coffee House's patio with friends.

Okay,  my glass is half empty.  I only see negatives in L.A. It would be hard not to. But I often wonder if I see those things more because I long for the warm, fuzzy childhood memories of Southern California in the '50s. I was born in downtown L.A. at the Queen of Angels Hospital (now called the Dream Center) and from birth to age 11, my life was idealic.

Summers were spent on Huntington Beach in a cabana. Yes, on the beach 24/7. The city allowed people to construct a one room module house and place it on the sand. Volleyball games, full moon gruion runs, and shell collecting were among beach activities. There were day trips to Long Beach's Pike to ride the roller coaster or to Palos Verdes to Marineland, the world's largest oceanarium, opening one year before Disneyland. Disneyland? I was there on the opening day, strolling Main Street with my cousins.

Knotts Berry Farm was a farm, not an amusement park. On Sunday mornings, we'd travel to it's old west town for breakfast.

My parents were a typical post-WWII couple in a flourishing Southern California economy. Dad, was a residential developer/contractor throughout the San Gabriel Valley. Mom, a homemaker. The high point of my day was when Dad's red Ford pickup roared into our Covina driveway after work. My sister and I would sprint through the door to the front yard to greet him. There were no complaints about traffic jams or accidents expounded by Dad—just hugs and kisses. Soon he'd have us rolling around the grass, tickling, teasing, and blowing on our tummies.

After our gleeful greeting, we'd be fed dinner first, then be sent out to play, while my parents indulged in their cocktail hour and watched the news with Walter Cronkite. When we were called in for the evening, our family TV time included The Donna Reed Show, Father Knows Best, I Love Lucy, and the Twilight Zone. Then, off to bed. Dad read us storybook tales. Together my parents would tuck us in with the memorable phrase: "Sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite, see you in the morning light . . . good night."

At the age of  eight, I didn't see it coming. Our routine family life was suddenly struck, turned upside down. My dad "took up" golf. So did we. Golf became our family's favorite pastime. Weekend afternoons were spent watching my dad behind his 8-mm movie camera lens capturing practice swings. Each flickering frame, later viewed,  focused on my slim, long-legged mother dressed in a floral halter top with matching shorts, barefoot and swinging a nine iron. On Sunday mornings, our golf clubs were tossed into our '54 white Ford convertible's trunk and we were off to the driving range in Glendora.

But not all our practice outings were pleasant.

Here's the scene: my dad standing behind me with golf stance instructions: "Arms straight, head down, focus on the ball, slight bend of the knees, right hand over left hand grip, begin your back swing, right elbow pointing at the ground." Here's the crisis point. I forget to wait for dad to move away before I make my swing to hit the ball. Whack, smack! My back swing sent my club square into his forehead.

Back home, he laid motionless on a red sofa trimmed in lime green, ice pack melting on top of a bulging bump on his forehead. Silence. A couple of days later when I was still fretting over the accident, my dad took me aside saying "You have to roll with the punches. Keep a stiff upper lip." (A saying from his Golden Gloves boxing days.) It's okay. It's over with."

What prompted my dad to become a golfer? It was more than a random sport or pastime selection. It was genetic. A Scottish heritage. My paternal grandfather was born and raised in Greenock, Scotland until the age of 16. So we all understood it when Dad started donning Scottish knickers, knee socks, tams for "a spot of yee ole golf." Through the '60s, '70s, and '80s, he was confident in his abilities on the links with a couple of club championships and a handicap of eight. My dad was satisfied with his athletic endeavor. He played all of the top California courses: Monterey's Pebble Beach, Spyglass, etc. Then, in 1981, a trip to the original links with Mom to St. Andrew's Golf Course in Edinburgh, Scotland.

San Luis Bay Golf Course, Avila Beach

After retiring to Avila Beach in 1984 to a home on the fringe of the San Luis Bay Country Club, my parents bought an electric golf cart and a repetitive golf pattern began: twosomes, foursomes, tournaments, the 19th hole at Mulligan's Pub. All enjoyed until their passing.

So it goes.

When leaving LA, I put my foot on the gas, put frustrations aside, and revel in my idealic past.

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