To point out that small towns in the South can be strange is no surprise to anyone who’s
spent some time in a small town in the South. A demure, mannered lady from these parts,
when jilted, will kill her intended and keep his body in her attic for years. Lest you think
Faulkner was merely hypothesizing in “A Rose for Emily,” there’s been more than one
Homer Barron in this part of the country. That’s what I hear at any rate. And the South is
haunted as well. Of course, the world is haunted, I realize that. But the ghosts of the
South have their own peculiar stories to tell. The war between the states and all the
history which surrounds the bloodshed informs the moans and mumblings heard in
graveyards from Gettysburg to Savannah. After sunset in Marietta, just north of Atlanta,
spent some time in a small town in the South. A demure, mannered lady from these parts,
when jilted, will kill her intended and keep his body in her attic for years. Lest you think
Faulkner was merely hypothesizing in “A Rose for Emily,” there’s been more than one
Homer Barron in this part of the country. That’s what I hear at any rate. And the South is
haunted as well. Of course, the world is haunted, I realize that. But the ghosts of the
South have their own peculiar stories to tell. The war between the states and all the
history which surrounds the bloodshed informs the moans and mumblings heard in
graveyards from Gettysburg to Savannah. After sunset in Marietta, just north of Atlanta,
the old Confederate tombstones bear witness to the cry of a
soldier boy who suffered a morphineless demise defending
his home and family on the fields below Kennesaw
Mountain. Just beyond, a voice rages at the rope being
placed round his neck merely because of the rich brown
color of his skin – and that the white men of the town
thought he’d dared to look at one of their daughters.
soldier boy who suffered a morphineless demise defending
his home and family on the fields below Kennesaw
Mountain. Just beyond, a voice rages at the rope being
placed round his neck merely because of the rich brown
color of his skin – and that the white men of the town
thought he’d dared to look at one of their daughters.
But for the most part, the living don’t hear these ghosts.
Even beyond the big bold cities of the New South – the
Atlantas, the Charlottes, the Jacksonvilles – the old
plantations are being subdivided, retirement homed, golf
coursed, and Burger Kinged out of existence. The ghosts
will just have to learn to adapt to their new surroundings.
Time marches forward whether any of us want it to or not.
Ancestor worship is passé. Wrongs were done, but it’s time
to heal. Life is for the living. We need new clichés.
Even beyond the big bold cities of the New South – the
Atlantas, the Charlottes, the Jacksonvilles – the old
plantations are being subdivided, retirement homed, golf
coursed, and Burger Kinged out of existence. The ghosts
will just have to learn to adapt to their new surroundings.
Time marches forward whether any of us want it to or not.
Ancestor worship is passé. Wrongs were done, but it’s time
to heal. Life is for the living. We need new clichés.
In Atlanta's Oakland Cemetery rest the bones of Bobby Jones. He, the great sportsman
and gentleman, designed the Augusta National Golf Club. That course is home to The
Masters. I’ll leave it to the more learned to decide where he ranks among the other two
giants of the sport, happy Jack Nicklaus and self-destructing Tiger Woods. But the list of
shared life events and character traits between me and Mr. Jones is uncanny, and parallels
those profound coincidences which tie together the lives of Presidents Lincoln and
Kennedy. For instance, both Jones and I graduated from Georgia Tech in Atlanta. He
earned a Mechanical Engineering degree while I, after changing majors several times, was
awarded a diploma with no actual major. He earned his English degree in three semesters
from Harvard. I have heard of Harvard. We both attended Emory University School of
and gentleman, designed the Augusta National Golf Club. That course is home to The
Masters. I’ll leave it to the more learned to decide where he ranks among the other two
giants of the sport, happy Jack Nicklaus and self-destructing Tiger Woods. But the list of
shared life events and character traits between me and Mr. Jones is uncanny, and parallels
those profound coincidences which tie together the lives of Presidents Lincoln and
Kennedy. For instance, both Jones and I graduated from Georgia Tech in Atlanta. He
earned a Mechanical Engineering degree while I, after changing majors several times, was
awarded a diploma with no actual major. He earned his English degree in three semesters
from Harvard. I have heard of Harvard. We both attended Emory University School of
Law in Atlanta. He passed the bar exam after one year and
then withdrew from school to join his father’s law firm. I
attended for three years, barely passed the bar, and work in
someone else's firm. And, we both love golf. There are
many more eerie similarities between Bobby Jones and I,
but I think you get the point.
then withdrew from school to join his father’s law firm. I
attended for three years, barely passed the bar, and work in
someone else's firm. And, we both love golf. There are
many more eerie similarities between Bobby Jones and I,
but I think you get the point.
Bobby Jones after winning the
Open Championship in 1927
Open Championship in 1927
But unlike Jones, I was not destined for a life playing golf.
For the longest time, I laughed at the sport. I called those
who played it rude names. Only watching grass grow could
be more boring than chasing a golf ball all over creation.
Then, the publisher of a newspaper I used to work at gave
me a set of clubs and offered to take me out to play. Not
wanting to seem ungrateful, I went along. Thus began my
descent into an addiction from which I’ve yet to recover –
nor am I seeking treatment. I’ve been chasing golf balls all
over courses around the Southeast for the last decade. One
For the longest time, I laughed at the sport. I called those
who played it rude names. Only watching grass grow could
be more boring than chasing a golf ball all over creation.
Then, the publisher of a newspaper I used to work at gave
me a set of clubs and offered to take me out to play. Not
wanting to seem ungrateful, I went along. Thus began my
descent into an addiction from which I’ve yet to recover –
nor am I seeking treatment. I’ve been chasing golf balls all
over courses around the Southeast for the last decade. One
course I particularly enjoy playing is Belle Meade, not too far from where all those
memorable Masters of yesteryear were played.
I had played Belle Meade several times before the eve of my encounter. When you’re a
duffer like me, the course proves plenty challenging. Sometimes I play it with my father-
in-law, Mike. Now he’s a hell of a nice guy. But like me, he’s no golfer. We keep score
for about the first five holes. That’s the time required playing by cart for us to polish off
two cans of Budweiser apiece. The score keeping and quality of our shots deteriorates
from there.
Belle Meade is a semi-public course – which is to say it’s also semi-private – but being a
half-hour outside of Augusta near the metropolis of Thomson, Georgia, we can play our
game without endangering the lives of too many fellow golfers. We have bagged two
squirrels and a crow though. Perhaps we shouldn’t be allowed to play. But we wear
collared shirts and the cashier always takes our money. And we always let the other
golfers play through. Besides, the driving range gets old. Oh, I do on occasion become
intemperate and make an oath to get serious and improve my game. With Mike however,
time on the driving range is limited. And practicing pitching or putting is akin to using the
TV Guide when there’s a perfectly good remote control available. It’s just not done. Just
like there’s no rush to find the right channel, we’re never in a rush to get the ball in the
hole.
My golf talents approach unique. I tell people I shoot my intelligence quotient and they
laugh. Truth to tell, I’m not that smart. I warn people I’m with to make sure they’re
standing behind me whenever I’m readying to swing. But even that’s no guarantee. I did
once hit a ball backwards. As for Mike, much like duck hunting or NASCAR, golf is a
power sport. It’s all about how clean a ‘ting’ he can get from his wood and how far he
can send that sucker. If the ball goes straight, that’s a bonus.
I’ve seen Mike pull out a driver on Belle Meade’s 17th, a one-hundred-and-forty yard,
par three, and hammer it. This was off the tee mind you. He was not attempting some
clever, Tiger Woods-type surgical shot to get off a patch of dirt encrusted straw without
hitting some low lying branches between him and the flag. Furthermore, we were on a
hill, probably thirty yards above a huge green, making this a good candidate for a pitching
wedge even for a player with my ability. Once on this hole, using a seven-iron, I simply
let the weight of the club be my sole source of momentum and – just like when you’ve
got a room full of monkey’s tapping at word processors for a million years you’re bound
to get a sentence from Othello – I put the ball a mere five feet from the hole. I then
proceeded to two-putt. But Mike called for his driver.
That’s right. If you want to know where the inspiration for my golfing dogs cartoon
came from – the one where Dudley pulls his driver out and Frederick is yelling at him to
put it away because you could almost touch the flag from the tee – it was my father-in-
law Mike. In real life, I didn’t scream at Mike to put away his driver. I just smiled and
watched him rocket a beauty across the little green pond, slight fade, over the spacious
bent-grass green, and into the deep woods. This time, the ball was located.
Mike and I get some of our best practice on Hole Three. Because this is a driving
tournament, we only hit from the big boy tees meant for the real golfers. At Hole Three,
there is the opportunity to hit across a two-hundred-and-fifty foot stretch of brown-red
soup which is home to some bass, a sea monster, and possibly a body or two. There is
rumored to be a Redneck Mafia in operation around Thomson. But I digress. The tee
shot on Hole Three is a definite highlight. Mike and I take several practice balls and whale
away! Though I do manage to hook a fair number left into the center of the kidney-
shaped lake – and occasionally slice a few dangerously close towards the oncoming traffic
of Highway 78 heading south from Athens – even I, given enough time, can hit one far
enough and straight enough to just sneak up onto the beautiful fairway, still a hundred
yards from the target. If I can manage to do this on the first or second shot, then for me
the entire day is a success. It’s like shooting under par for a normal golfer.
It’s kind of like following Highway 78 north to Athens where every other year round
Thanksgiving, Sanford Stadium hosts the Georgia Tech Yellow Jacket’s and University of
Georgia Bulldog’s football war. If only Tech can manage to win that one dang game, the
season will be declared an irrefutable success by Tech fans all over. Now, the Bulldogs
have had a stronger program in our state since the Jacket’s miracle 1991 season and
National Championship. So, whereas a victory does make the season for Tech, it’s more
like a loss can ruin the season for the Hairy Dawgs. Victory is expected.
memorable Masters of yesteryear were played.
I had played Belle Meade several times before the eve of my encounter. When you’re a
duffer like me, the course proves plenty challenging. Sometimes I play it with my father-
in-law, Mike. Now he’s a hell of a nice guy. But like me, he’s no golfer. We keep score
for about the first five holes. That’s the time required playing by cart for us to polish off
two cans of Budweiser apiece. The score keeping and quality of our shots deteriorates
from there.
Belle Meade is a semi-public course – which is to say it’s also semi-private – but being a
half-hour outside of Augusta near the metropolis of Thomson, Georgia, we can play our
game without endangering the lives of too many fellow golfers. We have bagged two
squirrels and a crow though. Perhaps we shouldn’t be allowed to play. But we wear
collared shirts and the cashier always takes our money. And we always let the other
golfers play through. Besides, the driving range gets old. Oh, I do on occasion become
intemperate and make an oath to get serious and improve my game. With Mike however,
time on the driving range is limited. And practicing pitching or putting is akin to using the
TV Guide when there’s a perfectly good remote control available. It’s just not done. Just
like there’s no rush to find the right channel, we’re never in a rush to get the ball in the
hole.
My golf talents approach unique. I tell people I shoot my intelligence quotient and they
laugh. Truth to tell, I’m not that smart. I warn people I’m with to make sure they’re
standing behind me whenever I’m readying to swing. But even that’s no guarantee. I did
once hit a ball backwards. As for Mike, much like duck hunting or NASCAR, golf is a
power sport. It’s all about how clean a ‘ting’ he can get from his wood and how far he
can send that sucker. If the ball goes straight, that’s a bonus.
I’ve seen Mike pull out a driver on Belle Meade’s 17th, a one-hundred-and-forty yard,
par three, and hammer it. This was off the tee mind you. He was not attempting some
clever, Tiger Woods-type surgical shot to get off a patch of dirt encrusted straw without
hitting some low lying branches between him and the flag. Furthermore, we were on a
hill, probably thirty yards above a huge green, making this a good candidate for a pitching
wedge even for a player with my ability. Once on this hole, using a seven-iron, I simply
let the weight of the club be my sole source of momentum and – just like when you’ve
got a room full of monkey’s tapping at word processors for a million years you’re bound
to get a sentence from Othello – I put the ball a mere five feet from the hole. I then
proceeded to two-putt. But Mike called for his driver.
That’s right. If you want to know where the inspiration for my golfing dogs cartoon
came from – the one where Dudley pulls his driver out and Frederick is yelling at him to
put it away because you could almost touch the flag from the tee – it was my father-in-
law Mike. In real life, I didn’t scream at Mike to put away his driver. I just smiled and
watched him rocket a beauty across the little green pond, slight fade, over the spacious
bent-grass green, and into the deep woods. This time, the ball was located.
Mike and I get some of our best practice on Hole Three. Because this is a driving
tournament, we only hit from the big boy tees meant for the real golfers. At Hole Three,
there is the opportunity to hit across a two-hundred-and-fifty foot stretch of brown-red
soup which is home to some bass, a sea monster, and possibly a body or two. There is
rumored to be a Redneck Mafia in operation around Thomson. But I digress. The tee
shot on Hole Three is a definite highlight. Mike and I take several practice balls and whale
away! Though I do manage to hook a fair number left into the center of the kidney-
shaped lake – and occasionally slice a few dangerously close towards the oncoming traffic
of Highway 78 heading south from Athens – even I, given enough time, can hit one far
enough and straight enough to just sneak up onto the beautiful fairway, still a hundred
yards from the target. If I can manage to do this on the first or second shot, then for me
the entire day is a success. It’s like shooting under par for a normal golfer.
It’s kind of like following Highway 78 north to Athens where every other year round
Thanksgiving, Sanford Stadium hosts the Georgia Tech Yellow Jacket’s and University of
Georgia Bulldog’s football war. If only Tech can manage to win that one dang game, the
season will be declared an irrefutable success by Tech fans all over. Now, the Bulldogs
have had a stronger program in our state since the Jacket’s miracle 1991 season and
National Championship. So, whereas a victory does make the season for Tech, it’s more
like a loss can ruin the season for the Hairy Dawgs. Victory is expected.
This way of thinking irks me to no end.
As an alumnus of our state’s premier
engineering institute, the lack of respect
which Georgia Tech gets here is
something I just don’t get. My brother,
who went to the University of Georgia
and was a male cheerleader there – he
still won’t tell me how much money he
spent on razors trying to shave his legs
– informs me that Bulldog fans don’t
consider the Yellow Jackets their main
rival. According to my not-so-good-
looking, not-as-smart brother – who
can beat me up, but lives too far away
these days to do so – Bulldog fans
consider the Florida Gators to be their
main nemesis. For them, the game
against their cross-state rival is a game
of interest, but secondary to the
World’s Largest Cocktail Party held
annually in Jacksonville. What a bunch
of $#@%. But I digress.
As an alumnus of our state’s premier
engineering institute, the lack of respect
which Georgia Tech gets here is
something I just don’t get. My brother,
who went to the University of Georgia
and was a male cheerleader there – he
still won’t tell me how much money he
spent on razors trying to shave his legs
– informs me that Bulldog fans don’t
consider the Yellow Jackets their main
rival. According to my not-so-good-
looking, not-as-smart brother – who
can beat me up, but lives too far away
these days to do so – Bulldog fans
consider the Florida Gators to be their
main nemesis. For them, the game
against their cross-state rival is a game
of interest, but secondary to the
World’s Largest Cocktail Party held
annually in Jacksonville. What a bunch
of $#@%. But I digress.
charms of the Blue Willow
Inn where, after being
greeted by a beautiful
Southern Belle in a hoop
skirt, you can feast on
‘healthy’ portions of fried
chicken, roast beef and
gravy, baked ham, pork
barbeque, seafood au gratin,
catfish and hushpuppies, fried
green tomatoes, tomato
Inn where, after being
greeted by a beautiful
Southern Belle in a hoop
skirt, you can feast on
‘healthy’ portions of fried
chicken, roast beef and
gravy, baked ham, pork
barbeque, seafood au gratin,
catfish and hushpuppies, fried
green tomatoes, tomato
chutney, green beans, stewed apples, candied yams, macaroni and cheese, cheese grits,
collard greens, turnip greens, corn on the cob, and on and on and on. Did I forget desert?
Well, there’s pecan pie, peanut butter pie, peach cobbler, lemon meringue pie, chocolate
cake, coconut cake, and on and on and on. To drink there’s iced tea which, due special
atmospheric conditions found only in the Old South, can be made to hold more sugar per
unit weight than the water in which it’s dissolved. And by Old South I mean to say not
Florida below the line stretching between Tampa and Orlando. For, as anyone who’s
been there knows, once one goes below that line, you are instantly transported culturally
to New York and Philly. Then, should one keep heading south, one emerges on the other
side of the Everglades in Miami which is neither fish nor fowl, being as far socially from
the Old South or New York City as Pluto – which may or may not be a planet. But
Miami, I’ve been told by both astronomers and lay persons alike, is most certainly its own
world. But I digress.
So, Thomson, though not as much in the middle-of-nowhere as it once was – boasting
two Waffle Houses for each exit on I-20 – is still pretty far from all the hoopla. That is to
say, if one lives in Thomson and is looking for more than a modicum of real live hoopla,
one must hop in the car and drive some distance. And thus, on the back nine of the Belle
Meade Country Club golf course, when I’ve played it by myself, and at such a slow pace
that the shadows begin to get long on an early autumn eve, it is possible to have a
sensation of being really alone. There, without a partner against whom to check reality,
I’ve encountered a mystery that to this day I cannot rationally explain.
It was one crisp mid-October afternoon when I began my trek sans cart into the woods at
Hole Ten. I’m most distant from the clubhouse at Hole Fourteen. And Fourteen is
challenging enough even without weirdness interfering. At over five hundred yards, with a
dogleg right, making the green in four depends on crushing the tee shot some two-
hundred-and-seventy yards along the left side to catch a downhill run. If you do that,
your ball will role a good distance down and right, leaving you anywhere from a five to
nine-iron out from the green, with a steeply banked creek guarding the front. But, if you
hit straight, the slope of the hill will take your ball too far right, leaving your view of the
green blocked by a stand of tall pines. And if your ball takes off to the right, you’ll end up
in deep rough, or possibly the woods. Hit too short to catch a ride on the downhill run,
and you’ll end up blindly trying to make up the distance with a fairway wood. With the
creek – or moat really – in the way, chances are you’ll end up wet.
collard greens, turnip greens, corn on the cob, and on and on and on. Did I forget desert?
Well, there’s pecan pie, peanut butter pie, peach cobbler, lemon meringue pie, chocolate
cake, coconut cake, and on and on and on. To drink there’s iced tea which, due special
atmospheric conditions found only in the Old South, can be made to hold more sugar per
unit weight than the water in which it’s dissolved. And by Old South I mean to say not
Florida below the line stretching between Tampa and Orlando. For, as anyone who’s
been there knows, once one goes below that line, you are instantly transported culturally
to New York and Philly. Then, should one keep heading south, one emerges on the other
side of the Everglades in Miami which is neither fish nor fowl, being as far socially from
the Old South or New York City as Pluto – which may or may not be a planet. But
Miami, I’ve been told by both astronomers and lay persons alike, is most certainly its own
world. But I digress.
So, Thomson, though not as much in the middle-of-nowhere as it once was – boasting
two Waffle Houses for each exit on I-20 – is still pretty far from all the hoopla. That is to
say, if one lives in Thomson and is looking for more than a modicum of real live hoopla,
one must hop in the car and drive some distance. And thus, on the back nine of the Belle
Meade Country Club golf course, when I’ve played it by myself, and at such a slow pace
that the shadows begin to get long on an early autumn eve, it is possible to have a
sensation of being really alone. There, without a partner against whom to check reality,
I’ve encountered a mystery that to this day I cannot rationally explain.
It was one crisp mid-October afternoon when I began my trek sans cart into the woods at
Hole Ten. I’m most distant from the clubhouse at Hole Fourteen. And Fourteen is
challenging enough even without weirdness interfering. At over five hundred yards, with a
dogleg right, making the green in four depends on crushing the tee shot some two-
hundred-and-seventy yards along the left side to catch a downhill run. If you do that,
your ball will role a good distance down and right, leaving you anywhere from a five to
nine-iron out from the green, with a steeply banked creek guarding the front. But, if you
hit straight, the slope of the hill will take your ball too far right, leaving your view of the
green blocked by a stand of tall pines. And if your ball takes off to the right, you’ll end up
in deep rough, or possibly the woods. Hit too short to catch a ride on the downhill run,
and you’ll end up blindly trying to make up the distance with a fairway wood. With the
creek – or moat really – in the way, chances are you’ll end up wet.
Driving at normal speed – just a hypothetical – Thomson and Belle Meade are two hours
east of Atlanta on I-20. This is Plantation Road where, upon escaping the glass fortresses
and congestion which have replaced the old city Sherman burned to the ground, you can
still see – for a time at least – the Old South in towns like Social Circle and Madison.
And, best of all, you can still taste the Old South. Social Circle is home to the culinary
east of Atlanta on I-20. This is Plantation Road where, upon escaping the glass fortresses
and congestion which have replaced the old city Sherman burned to the ground, you can
still see – for a time at least – the Old South in towns like Social Circle and Madison.
And, best of all, you can still taste the Old South. Social Circle is home to the culinary
Now, the sun has descended
below the pines, and there’s
barely enough time at my rate of
play to make it back to the
clubhouse before dark. That’s
without messing around with
mulligans and practice shots. Still,
I’ll take more than one swing on
several shots. When you play like
I do, being able to see the golf
course isn’t a prerequisite. As I
ready to tee off, a large bird of
below the pines, and there’s
barely enough time at my rate of
play to make it back to the
clubhouse before dark. That’s
without messing around with
mulligans and practice shots. Still,
I’ll take more than one swing on
several shots. When you play like
I do, being able to see the golf
course isn’t a prerequisite. As I
ready to tee off, a large bird of
prey swoops down through the pines, crying out with a forlorn wail that can unsettle even
those without hyperactive imaginations. At the very least, one might find their golf swing
impaired by a sense of unease.
I hit a fair shot off the tee for my first effort. It went maybe two hundred yards and
straight. Not enough to catch the downhill run. Do over. My next attempt goes like a
rocket and draws to the left. Perfect. That one will find the nice flat of the fairway just
before the creek. I take three more tee shots just for practice. But they all follow my first
attempt. None of them are as good as the second. I head off to locate my five tee shots.
As I approach the center of the fairway, right about where my four straight shots should
be, I don’t see a single one of my balls. It’s not dark yet. I still have an hour of daylight. I
walk all around the area where my four straight shots should have been. Nothing. I
backtrack in case I hit shorter than I’d thought. Nothing. I walk down to the end of the
fairway where my second shot should be. Nothing. I walk back up the incline and walk all
around. Not a single shot stayed on the fairway. I look in the first low cut of rough.
Nothing. I head into the second cut. Nothing. I head into the woods. I don’t find a single
ball. Not mine, not anyone else’s.
I’m telling you, this course eats golf balls. They just disappear. It had happened to me on
other holes playing with Mike. He and I each had balls disappear into the thin air on us.
We just joked about it and ignored the fact of the supernatural that was plain as the plaid
on our pants: at Belle Meade, balls hit solidly into the fairway just vanish. A chill ran up
my spine. The golf course gremlin had just eaten five of my balls, and here I was alone
with It on the far Fourteenth Hole. There’s a saying at Belle Meade: “On the back nine,
no one can hear you scream.” So I didn’t.
I gingerly placed yet another, sixth ball in the middle of the fairway, pulled out my three-
wood, and proceeded to pound my next shot into the creek. There were chill bumps all
over my arms. The sense of being watched by something sinister, something which
craved golf balls and could never be satiated, was palpable. Wait! Did I just hear maniacal
laughter in the woods? Or was that just another blasted bird? Crap! I’m losing my little
mind.
I managed to get through the remaining holes losing only three more balls. These weren’t
stolen. I don’t blame all my lost balls on ghosties. I’m not crazy. No, I sliced these shots
squarely into the thick woods around me. Having no desire to trudge into the gloom after
them, I left them wherever they may have fallen. If the Titleist crunching demon got
them, good for It. I hope they gave him the worst indigestion. As for me, I just wanted to
get off the course at this point. I desperately needed the company of other human beings
and was in bad need of a reality check. The clubhouse was locked by the time I got off
the course. Not a soul was in sight. Happy was I when I got into my car and the engine
started. No bad B-movie script being played out here. I zoomed out of the deserted
parking lot and headed back into town.
Thomson’s just like anywhere else in the Old South. It has its eerie places and legends.
My brother-in-law informed me that he and his family had to move out of a house in the
area because of a bad spirit that harassed them. There was even a haunting at a daycare.
The strangest legend told to me – actually taking place in nearby Lincolnton – was the tale
of a black gentleman named Bitter Tom who sold his soul to the Devil. In return, he
gained the ability to disappear into, and reappear from, a Coca-Cola bottle. Now think
about it – this story must be true because it's so crazy. It’s just the stupid kind of thing
someone would do – instead of asking for fame and fortune and feminine company,
asking for the ability to hide in a bottle of Coke! I’ll bet dumb people make some of Old
Scratch’s best customers.
But then again, maybe Bitter Tom was smarter than first appears. After all, someone
who’s been dirt poor all their lives can’t show up in a small church-going town all of the
sudden with a zillion dollars in his pocket. People will know the Devil just grew another
soul richer. Next people will start talking. And other trouble comes with money, like being
constantly harangued for charitable donations. If you’re no good at guitar, and then you
go down to the crossroads like Robert Johnson and let the Devil teach you how to play,
people will notice you became really good all of the sudden.
those without hyperactive imaginations. At the very least, one might find their golf swing
impaired by a sense of unease.
I hit a fair shot off the tee for my first effort. It went maybe two hundred yards and
straight. Not enough to catch the downhill run. Do over. My next attempt goes like a
rocket and draws to the left. Perfect. That one will find the nice flat of the fairway just
before the creek. I take three more tee shots just for practice. But they all follow my first
attempt. None of them are as good as the second. I head off to locate my five tee shots.
As I approach the center of the fairway, right about where my four straight shots should
be, I don’t see a single one of my balls. It’s not dark yet. I still have an hour of daylight. I
walk all around the area where my four straight shots should have been. Nothing. I
backtrack in case I hit shorter than I’d thought. Nothing. I walk down to the end of the
fairway where my second shot should be. Nothing. I walk back up the incline and walk all
around. Not a single shot stayed on the fairway. I look in the first low cut of rough.
Nothing. I head into the second cut. Nothing. I head into the woods. I don’t find a single
ball. Not mine, not anyone else’s.
I’m telling you, this course eats golf balls. They just disappear. It had happened to me on
other holes playing with Mike. He and I each had balls disappear into the thin air on us.
We just joked about it and ignored the fact of the supernatural that was plain as the plaid
on our pants: at Belle Meade, balls hit solidly into the fairway just vanish. A chill ran up
my spine. The golf course gremlin had just eaten five of my balls, and here I was alone
with It on the far Fourteenth Hole. There’s a saying at Belle Meade: “On the back nine,
no one can hear you scream.” So I didn’t.
I gingerly placed yet another, sixth ball in the middle of the fairway, pulled out my three-
wood, and proceeded to pound my next shot into the creek. There were chill bumps all
over my arms. The sense of being watched by something sinister, something which
craved golf balls and could never be satiated, was palpable. Wait! Did I just hear maniacal
laughter in the woods? Or was that just another blasted bird? Crap! I’m losing my little
mind.
I managed to get through the remaining holes losing only three more balls. These weren’t
stolen. I don’t blame all my lost balls on ghosties. I’m not crazy. No, I sliced these shots
squarely into the thick woods around me. Having no desire to trudge into the gloom after
them, I left them wherever they may have fallen. If the Titleist crunching demon got
them, good for It. I hope they gave him the worst indigestion. As for me, I just wanted to
get off the course at this point. I desperately needed the company of other human beings
and was in bad need of a reality check. The clubhouse was locked by the time I got off
the course. Not a soul was in sight. Happy was I when I got into my car and the engine
started. No bad B-movie script being played out here. I zoomed out of the deserted
parking lot and headed back into town.
Thomson’s just like anywhere else in the Old South. It has its eerie places and legends.
My brother-in-law informed me that he and his family had to move out of a house in the
area because of a bad spirit that harassed them. There was even a haunting at a daycare.
The strangest legend told to me – actually taking place in nearby Lincolnton – was the tale
of a black gentleman named Bitter Tom who sold his soul to the Devil. In return, he
gained the ability to disappear into, and reappear from, a Coca-Cola bottle. Now think
about it – this story must be true because it's so crazy. It’s just the stupid kind of thing
someone would do – instead of asking for fame and fortune and feminine company,
asking for the ability to hide in a bottle of Coke! I’ll bet dumb people make some of Old
Scratch’s best customers.
But then again, maybe Bitter Tom was smarter than first appears. After all, someone
who’s been dirt poor all their lives can’t show up in a small church-going town all of the
sudden with a zillion dollars in his pocket. People will know the Devil just grew another
soul richer. Next people will start talking. And other trouble comes with money, like being
constantly harangued for charitable donations. If you’re no good at guitar, and then you
go down to the crossroads like Robert Johnson and let the Devil teach you how to play,
people will notice you became really good all of the sudden.
“Hey, Alan?”
“Yeah, Jim Bob?”
“The other day you were pickin’ that guitar and it
sounded like you were tryin’ to milk a bobcat from the
wrong end. Today, you’re pulling out the sweetest
notes I ever heard! What’s up with that? I’ll bet you up
and sold your immortal soul to the Devil. Looks like in
your case, you came out ahead.”
Yes, the town folk will know what’s up. And if you can
play guitar that good, wealth and women will surely
come, only to be followed by woe. But if you alarm the
occasional vacuum cleaner salesman or Jehovah’s
Witness by stuffing yourself into a bottle, people in
these parts will just write you off as eccentric. Sure, I
“Yeah, Jim Bob?”
“The other day you were pickin’ that guitar and it
sounded like you were tryin’ to milk a bobcat from the
wrong end. Today, you’re pulling out the sweetest
notes I ever heard! What’s up with that? I’ll bet you up
and sold your immortal soul to the Devil. Looks like in
your case, you came out ahead.”
Yes, the town folk will know what’s up. And if you can
play guitar that good, wealth and women will surely
come, only to be followed by woe. But if you alarm the
occasional vacuum cleaner salesman or Jehovah’s
Witness by stuffing yourself into a bottle, people in
these parts will just write you off as eccentric. Sure, I
believe the story about Bitter Tom. That’s just the kind of thing that happens in Thomson
– or Lincolnton, or Madison, or Social Circle. Just ask Faulkner.
And just as I know that my brother-in-law was forced out of his home by a poltergeist,
and Bitter Tom could glare at me from inside a soda pop bottle, I know something at
Belle Meade has stolen my golf balls – several at that. I’ve got the empirical evidence that
I’ve lost more dang balls there than anywhere else. No! No! No! Don’t give me that it’s
because Belle Meade is the course I’ve played the most, compounded by the fact that I’m
a no good duffer, which explains why I’ve lost so many balls. Don’t you think I
considered that? Well, I did. I know the supernatural when I see it. Belle Meade is the
real thing. My missing balls cannot be explained.
– or Lincolnton, or Madison, or Social Circle. Just ask Faulkner.
And just as I know that my brother-in-law was forced out of his home by a poltergeist,
and Bitter Tom could glare at me from inside a soda pop bottle, I know something at
Belle Meade has stolen my golf balls – several at that. I’ve got the empirical evidence that
I’ve lost more dang balls there than anywhere else. No! No! No! Don’t give me that it’s
because Belle Meade is the course I’ve played the most, compounded by the fact that I’m
a no good duffer, which explains why I’ve lost so many balls. Don’t you think I
considered that? Well, I did. I know the supernatural when I see it. Belle Meade is the
real thing. My missing balls cannot be explained.
Copyright Alan J. Levine
UGA receiver
extends for ball
while Wyoming
player hitches
piggy back ride.
extends for ball
while Wyoming
player hitches
piggy back ride.
Georgia Tech
band member
supplies beat as
players take
break from busy
game to tango.
band member
supplies beat as
players take
break from busy
game to tango.
Legendary blues guitarist
Robert Johnson.
Robert Johnson.
Georgia's Haunted Golf Course -
A Tale of Lost Balls
A Tale of Lost Balls
* * *
More tales of the uncanny . . .
More golf nonsense . . .