The wonderful people at my husband’s work purchased two dogwood trees and arranged to have them planted at Veteran’s Memorial Golf Course in Hudson’s honor. The planting was Friday morning, and along with some select coworkers and members of our family, we went out to the course to see them planted.
The trees were planted at the back of the 9th green. When I heard that was where they were going, I was pretty stoked. The hole is short enough that I can usually get to the green in two, which means I have two shots to make par. For me, this is a golf victory.
Bogey is my par.
Anyhow. The Hubs and I show up at the course to witness the trees being planted. Knowing that this was primo photo op time, I decided to go a little dressy. Then the “certified arborist” walks up, introduces himself, and hands me a shovel.
I guess I’m digging a hole in these white pants and high heels. No biggy!
Holes are dug. Trees are planted. They are two beautiful dogwoods, one white and one pink. Pink and white! Perfect Hudson colors.
So we had some time to kill this weekend and it was too beautiful a day not to golf! So we went out to Vets and we played the front nine.
Every time we play out there now, I think of Hudson. I guess that’s easy to do when you’re thinking of your baby nearly all the time. But I played nine holes out there the day we went into labor. So now I bend over to tee up my shot, and I think of the early contractions I was feeling back on July 10.
I wish I could go back.
So I’m already thinking of Hudson. And then we walk up to the tee box on nine. The Hubs says:
“I really want to par this hole.”
We hit our tee shots. Neither one particularly impressive.
I popped mine up and over to the cart path. Mr. Whiskers ended up in better shape. His second shot ends up right off the green. So does my third shot.
We walk up the fairway to line up our putts.
In my golden memory of this moment, we are holding hands as we walk up the fairway. But in reality, that didn’t happen. But imagine it that way anyway, it’s better.
We have pretty similar looking shots. We give each other a read, “I don’t think it breaks that much up here.”
The Hubs hits his putt and immediately groans. It’s starting out way right. We didn’t think the hole had any break. Mis-hit.
His putt goes in for a birdie.
He calls it a miracle. Throughout the rest of the day, he told his parents, my brother, a few friends:
“I birdied Hudson’s hole!”
I missed my par putt and settled for a tap-in bogey. So I guess the Hubs used up all the miracles on nine.
There’s always the next round.
And now every time I walk up the fairway on nine, I will think of Zeb’s miracle birdie and our miracle baby.