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Marty’s Memories: More Than “A Good Walk Spoiled” by Marty Trower

The Great Chebeague Golf Club looms large in our lives here. You can’t miss the course if you’re arriving on the island from the Stone Pier: it flanks either side of the road as we drive on to our destinations. We probably tune it out most of the time, we’re so used to it. It’s fun to think of it though, in the 1920s—all pasture and cows—and to imagine the “founding fathers” planning and finally putting their idea for a nine- hole course on the spot where it is in now. My grandfather, William K. Trower, was involved in this process, donating the land for the third tee and those annoying gullies in front of them. He and my uncle Bill and now my cousin David became obsessed with the sport. My father, my sister, and I swung toward the ocean for our recreation, and it was sailing for us. I often feel badly though, for my grandfather’s sake, that I did not inherit his love of the game. There were some good reasons. I tried to be a golfer when I was young, but in those days the junior members had to weed the sandpits and that was such a drag it soured me on the whole thing. I did enjoy hanging out in the clubhouse, however. Lots of us did, summer people and year-rounders. We played cards at those big round tables, bought candy bars and gum from the teenaged attendant on duty, and pretty much irritated the grownups who were serious about golf. I really should just speak for myself here because many of my contemporaries did play and have gone on to become terrific golfers and valuable and respected members of the club. Somewhere, there is an 8-mm movie of a humiliating drive I took off the first tee at the Swatfest when I was about twelve. I hope the film has deteriorated by now in its round flat tin can, but the memory is very clear and must be let out. It is foggy and my Toni- permanented hair is huge, as are my two front teeth. I am jerky and

nervous, and I swing at the ball two or three times without hitting it while all of Chebeague stands around watching quietly. The fourth time I tap it slightly and the ball rolls off the mound and stops at its base. No more do-overs: I whack the ground in front of the quivering tee several times in frustration while the hushed crowd says “Awww” in unison.What an embarrassment to my parents and sister watching and to my grandfather who, thank goodness, wasn’t there. To add insult to injury, when I was sixteen, I got my first job as an attendant at the club and this didn’t turn out too well either. Sure, I could legitimately hang out at the club for hours, but at the end of the day I had to bring a bank bag of that day’s chits and the money taken in down to Dr. Stanley Weld’s house on the east end. I never could reconcile what came in and what went out, and Dr. Weld, the treasurer, always scolded me. When the members had their directors’ meeting at the end of the summer, I had to sit in the kitchen and wait until it was over, but I could hear every word that was being said. When it came to the part about hiring the attendants for another year and my name came up, Dr.Weld yelled out, “She can’t add!” My poor father had to hear that as he was a director at the time, and I’m sure he thought he’d rather be sailing at that point. Of course, it was quite true that I couldn’t add or subtract well under pressure but oh, how humiliating. I find it hard to believe that I returned to the club and the same job fifty years later, after retirement, and did no better at all with the math challenges at the end of the day. Some things never change. The amazing good news is that at some point in recent years I actually went out after closing time and played a round of golf with Donna Colbeth and my grandniece and grandnephew and did well and really loved the whole experience!

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SEPTEMBER 2018 CHEBEAGUE ISLAND COUNCIL CALENDAR