Recently I was invited to go golfing by a friend of mine, Kelsey, who was herself invited to play by the dean of our law school at his country club.
Beforehand I figured it would be a good idea to get some practice in by heading out to a local public driving range just across the street from our townhouse, which turned up a new surprise all on its own.
No, it wasn’t that I was suddenly and miraculously good at golf. But my daughter, who decided to tag along, can smack the holy crap out of a golf ball. My inner tiger mom came out in force and before I knew it I was standing in a Dick’s Sporting Goods with her picking out a club more appropriate for her size.
Since we are on a law school budget she only got two, a wedge and a putter.
I have to tell you, spending this time with her and watching her play has been one of the best experiences of my life and it got me thinking about all the time I had spent with my dad when I was young.
Many reading this actually know my dad, Wayne Woodward; he’s actively involved in the community as a business owner, volunteer, and is currently serving on the Carbon School Board, a position he’s served in faithfully and effectively for over a decade. I’m sure everything good I could say about him can be topped by countless others.
When I was young my dad used to take me and my older Brother Brennen on adventures that could fill volumes if I were to write them all out.
There were little hunting trips for rabbits, pheasants, and dove in our old blue Jeep Wrangler. Bigger hunting trips, like our annual deer hunt, involved cousins, uncles and grandpa, where we would all pack into dad’s big white sheepherder’s tent.
I never felt safer than when I was my daughter’s age, holding onto my dad’s plaid shirt as he drove our four wheeler across the tops of the Wasatch Mountains.
Dad would, every summer, take Brennen and I backpacking, an event I sorely long for as the years pass.
With fly fishing rods in tow dad would lead us off, away from that old Jeep, into the mountains to brave the wilderness where we would either get lost forever or emerge victorious over nature, a little more like “men” than we had been before we left.
I can remember in great detail all the fish we caught. It’s easy for my bother, since there were so few on his part. Dad’s reassurance that the campsite was always just another ridge or bend away, the awful taste of mosquito repellant that would accidentally get licked off of fingers at dinner, and how great it felt just to be out of civilization on an adventure.
As I stood in Dick’s with my daughter picking out her clubs, or as I work on her swing outside of our place, I continually have flashbacks to all the times my dad spent with me and my brother in this or very similar circumstances.
All the trips (there were many) to Kirkhams to pick out sleeping bags, backpacks, and dehydrated food, and the evenings going over maps and making plans for this adventure or that.
I hope I, for even a second, could be half the dad to my kids as my dad was to me and my brother growing up. She deserves a collection of those timeless childhood memories spent with her dad.
Reflecting on timeless childhood memories with dad
NEW NATHANIEL WOODWARD