COLUMN: Couldn't Do Now What I Did Then

By Tobin Barnes
Alas, I have become woefully soft in these my declining years, though only 55.

Declining years?

Yes, afraid so. Got to face the facts. I’ve become a softy in my old age, if not a soft touch. Not that I was ever a tough guy. Never really wanted to be, but I never wanted to be a wimp, either. Nevertheless, a wimp I might have become. For certain, I no longer have anywhere near the resiliency I had as a youngster.

Couple weeks ago, I was playing in a golf tournament back in eastern SoDak. It was the typical Great Plains summer afternoon the chamber of commerce doesn’t want to talk about. Ninety-four in the shade with a raging 30-35 mile-per-hour wind and a humidity level only corn could love.

A playing partner said, “Thank goodness it’s windy or the mosquitoes would be eating us alive.” No way we would have been out there if it weren’t a special event.

Yeah, it was pretty miserable, despite the excellent company. (My brother-in-law Chuck was along. Never a dull moment with him. This time a club head from his antique set came off when he was hitting a shot. Club head went farther than the ball.) Can’t say I didn’t have any fun. But after four hours on this devil’s barbecue, we were somewhat past well-done. We 50-somethings wanted to bawl like a bunch of calves. Couldn’t wait to get out of our dusty golf carts and back into civilized air conditioning.

Thing is, I wouldn’t have thought twice about such conditions when I was a kid. Heck, I’d grown up back there, spent much of my time on that same golf course, and let me tell you it wasn’t time spent riding in a cart. Back then I was carrying a bag for a buck twenty-five a nine--a buck fifty if the guy wasn’t a tightwad and felt like adding a twenty-five-cent tip.

That’s right, I was a caddy. One of a dying breed right before two-thirds of America started super-sizing their meals and riding carts...uh, kinda like I do now.

Typical summer day started with a several-mile bike ride out to the course. Not too bad if the wind were from the west, a little tougher if from the east. A rare day if there weren’t any wind at all. Of course, along the way I’d be sneezing my head off with the rabid hay fever I used to have, blowing my nose into a soon soggy handkerchief I always carried. But that was neither here nor there. Just life.

If another kid was riding his bike out about the same time, there’d be a hellacious race in that heat and humidity to see who could get to the pro shop first. That’s how caddy jobs were given out--first come, first served.

But that didn’t always work out even if you won the race. Oftentimes the first golfer who showed up didn’t want a caddy at all. Wanted a shagger instead. And here you’d gotten up early and won the race for nothing. Other kid’s laughing as you head down the hill with the shag bag.

We hated shagging compared to caddying. Shagging meant you stood out on the driving range and let a guy hit bullet-hard golf balls at you. Shaggers served a dual purpose. First, as a target, and second, as a retriever. And when the golfer hit all the balls, you ran the bag in, dumped the balls, and ran back out for another round.

Of course, you also paid attention. Hazy days were the worst. In my hours out there, I heard plenty of golf balls invisibly whizzing down from out of the ether--distinctive sound, by the way--but never saw them till they had thunked into the ground a few feet away. Nowadays they’d arrest anybody who put a kid through that, but back then it was standard practice.

And for this you got seventy-five cents an hour--six bits, as they used to say. After an hour or so of that, all you wanted to do was go up to the clubhouse for a Dr. Pepper, a Slim Jim, and some peanut-butter, cheddar-cheese crackers. Yup, an hour’s work gone. Had maybe a dime left.

Nothing like the three bucks you could make caddying 18 holes. Then a kid could build up some savings, maybe stow a wad.

Most hours, however, were spent sitting around outside in the wind and the heat waiting for these kinds of jobs. In the meantime, we’d go down to the putting green and putt for tees or out on the course to look for balls, but most of the time we just sat there, ready for the next job.

At the end of the day, I’d bicycle back home--often against the wind--eat supper, and head up to my stifling bedroom, still sneezing and blowing my nose, with only a window fan for comfort. Air conditioner? Not in my realm.

Put my current soft self into those conditions today, and I’d think I was in hell. Couldn’t take it now. I’d absolutely freak.

Brings to mind a couple oft-stated lessons:

First, you can’t go back in time. (Heck, wouldn’t want to.)

Second, everything’s relative. (I didn’t know anything different, and that was a blessing. Amen.)