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Marshalling at Poplar Creek

Epistemic status: First hand account, additional reflections on life are purely my own musings.

Throughout the past spring, I have been volunteering as a golf marshal at my local municipal golf course. It's a simple, but highly relaxing job, which has given me a new perspective on how a golf course is run and maintained. I'd like to document just what goes into a typical Saturday morning shift at the golf course in this photographic illustration post.

On the particular day when I was taking these pictures, Eddie, our Saturday morning "cart guy," needed me to drive a broken down gas cart as it was being towed.

Pushing carts around

Most of the actual work seems to consist of moving golf carts from one location to another throughout the day, which I find to marvellously fun.

I line them up in a neat little row. When we run out, I go to "The Barn" to unplug the charging batteries and tow more to the clubhouse.

The rugged and useful look of the batteries inside is so surprising compared to the cheap and toy-like look of the cart itself. It seems like so much power when you see the batteries tethered together, and yet it feels so weak when you hear the little whirring motors as you try to climb a 1% incline. I suppose this will enhance my respect someday when I get to see the inside of somebody's Tesla.

Finally, the tow bars tie the carts together into a dopey little snake that slithers through the course. The tow bar connects straight on to the axle, allowing the cart in front to turn the wheel in whatever direction it is pulled.

It's quite monotonous, but I like the opportunity to not think so much. To just listen to my podcast or audiobook, with the comforting knowledge that there isn't anything else I could be doing then. I committed to this time, and I am stuck in the slow lane for now. Maybe it's partly the golf course, partly the boredom that remind me of when I was young and there was nothing to do in my boring little run-down steel town. It's nice.

A fine walk spoiled

I basically spend the rest of the day sitting under this tree and watching golfers pass. There are a wide range of birds that pop in under there: crows down to hummingbirds. If anybody looks angry, I drive around a bit to act as a reminder that other humans still exist in this world.

As I sat there today, I listened to Kate Atkinson's Life After Life. Thanks to this little weekly respite, I had a bit of time to wax poetic, aimlessly scrawling on my coffee cup wrapper.

Memory of my future memory of now,
Do I already remember where I'll be and what I'll do Thursday after next.
And if I can't remember yet three Thursdays past, isn't it just as future-like?

Sometimes it's nice to do a boring thing. Of course, afterwards I have to go home and write about how special this boring thing is.

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