Maybe, Sometimes, You Can Go Home Again

“You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing's sake, back home to aestheticism, to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love,' back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermuda, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time--back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”
-Thomas Wolfe, "You Can't Go Home Again"

For most of us, especially those of us who are separated from family and friends, we conjure up our past remembrances and cling to them as they are real. You can believe me when I say that I have conjured up my own reality many, too many, times. Through all my disappointments at trying to synch the storied past with the bland present. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Memories have a way of taking their own form, creating their own realities in our minds. We would hate to think that the joys and victories of our youth have become no more exciting than the time clock on your old VCR just blinking, blinking 12:00 over and over. Too inconsequential to bother with. Like this trip, when I visited Cannon Beach with Haystack Rock at low tide. In the past, always a delight to visit no matter the weather. Now it sits as a window dressing to the houses and condos that have clogged the horizon since I was there last.

I've been fortunate to play golf around the world. From Marrakech to Malmo and from above the Arctic Circle to Florida I have played golf courses famous, unknown, public and ultra-private. However, Tokatee is my favorite, the one I think of often with pleasure. I've played Tokatee many times in my daydreams. Each shot perfectly placed for the next, Pars fall one after another, a perfect par game every time. Even though it is my mind's eye, I still realize that i shouldn't be greedy. Par is wonderful, even in my imagination.

Forever linked with Tokatee will be the Toke'n'Tee. I can't think of one without the other. The memories are vivid but dusty. Like most of my stoner era past there needs to be a bit of fine tuning, like when I need to wear glasses typing this page. I remembered pulling in the gate but were those sentry evergreens there last time? Maybe they were too young to remember three decades later? The tree in the middle of the road is gone. I was reminded by the split in the road. There's a parking space for RVs. I did remember when we parked the Winnebago we drove down from Seattle whereever there was room to pull it over. There's a new clubhouse, I thought, but the visible greens, driving range and the Sisters were just as I remebered.

Horse Creek was further off the road than I recalled, but the spaces were still marked off. Just emptier than thirty years ago. Like I said, my memories need some specs but for the life of me if Peter wasn't there i wouldn't have recognized anybody. It seems that besides the trees growing, time has passed on the gang camping out. Motel rooms have taken the place of tents and restaurants have retired the grills.

However, the Toke'n'Tee spirit remained. The tribal gathering for the pairings, the Coolies and beer have now been joined by martinis. That was different. Sophisticated drinks like martinis because, if my memory serves, sophistication was not one of our strong suits at the humble beginnings of this turnout. The golf was friendly and, for me, so satisfying. Whether rejoicing or despairing about a personal game the winner is applauded and the weekend appreciated. I do remember this. Three days is never enough.

Yes, the spirit of the Toke'n'Tee remains. For me, there were spirits felt but friends departed. Many of my old Tokatee friends are gone now. I have a hard time dealing with the fact that they're just not there to talk to. I can't call them up for a golf game anymore. Old friends die on you, and they're irreplaceable. You become reliant. In my case, reliant on memory.

My memory will have to do. It's all that I have left of the friends who have gone on before me. As Cicero said, "The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living." For us, the living, and for my peace of mind, the souls of the faithfully departed are always at the prime of our life together. Back when all we were concerned with was how long will it be until the next Toke'n'Tee at Tokatee.