My friend has a membership at Maggie and set up the foursome for a tee-time as a kind gesture to my folks, seeing as they were passing through Western North Carolina back to my native Upstate New York after a month spent in the Florida sunshine at their beach bungalow rental.

Even though we had a noon tee-time, the temperature was in the 40s and rather chilly, especially for early April in Southern Appalachia, especially for older parents who were in 80-degree weather just 24-hours prior in St. Augustine. No matter, throw on a couple extra layers and hop in the golf cart.

To preface, I’ve played golf pretty much my entire life, and did so regularly all through my teenage years. Since then (age 41 now), I hit the links a time or two a year, mostly for charity tournaments thrown by some beloved local nonprofit. I do love the game itself. And yet, I find that I rarely play these days. Thus, why it felt really great to play nine holes with the old man recently.

So, at 11:30 a.m., my folks rolled up to my humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville and we headed to the course, the conversation on the short drive hovering around how much work I had left to do for the newspaper that week and what stories I was currently working on, as well as queries as to when I might finally cross over the Mason-Dixon Line and come home to visit them, perhaps this summer, maybe even for the fall foliage.

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Seeing as it’s a Monday, I’m one of the only faces on the course under 55. The rest of the people my age are most likely at work or doing something non-leisurely. And yet, there I was, a ramblin’ journalist taking full opportunity of being able to disappear on a normal work day and tee-off to my heart’s content. It ain’t lost on me that I’m lucky enough to make my own schedule, and will address my writing deadlines on those rainy days.

I shared a golf cart with my buddy, my parents riding in the other. The usual banter of what each needs to do to work on their swing, how many times they’ve been able to play this spring, and what’s in the news that irks all of us, the tone of said banter one of camaraderie and of a jovial nature, albeit always conscious of the current troubles of what lies beyond these mountains and across the oceans.

Throughout the nine holes, the earth slowly warmed up, as did our golf game. A handful of pars throughout this rowdy bunch. For me, who plays the game sporadically nowadays, I surprised myself with a consistent and good round, as noted by the mere fact I only lost one ball the entire time. Heck, my dad even sunk a 30-foot putt from the fringe on one of the final holes, our cheers echoing loudly across the perfectly mowed fairways.

Putting the golf bags back in the trunk of the car, it was decided to get a late lunch nearby at Frankie’s Italian restaurant. A table for four and some vino for the group, and much gratitude. Delicious artisan pizza and pasta dishes soon filled up the table. Big smiles, hearty conversation and laughter ricocheting between us.

And it was at this exact moment when my father began to hold court and wax poetic about his long, strange trip of an existence when asked by my buddy about his journey and where it all began, where it went, and where it currently stands.

Although I’ve heard my father’s stories a million times, and as far back as I can remember, I sit and immerse myself in the moment, happily, as he regales the three of us with tales of growing up in a rowhouse in a company mining town in the 1940s. My grandfather was an iron ore miner in the small, remote community of Lyon Mountain, New York. Imagery of snowdrifts taller than buildings and temperatures dropping to -20 degrees or lower come January in the North Country.

Tales of when my father graduated high school in 1960 in Peru, New York, and what his life looked like as a young adult. He held multiple jobs back then. Repo man. Construction worker. Bank teller. He also had a stint in the U.S. Army in the early 1960s, which conjured memories of being on a troop ship as a young man and motoring across the cold North Atlantic en route to his post in Germany.

Tales of when he became a New York State Corrections Officer, a time in the early 1970s, where, while in training, he ended up being backup and cleanup for the Attica Prison Riot in September 1971. Imagery of blood all over the floors, the burning sensation in one’s eyes from the lingering tear gas, the sights of utter destruction.

Tales of how he met my mother and when they got married in 1972, all their trips and wanderings since then, and how they’ll be celebrating 54 years together this November. Imagery of when I appeared on the scene in 1985, what it was like raising kids on the Canadian Border, again that surreal sense of time and place, especially in the depths of another unforgiving winter.

And throughout this entire meal, the smile never left my face. I was proud of my father, and all the avenues he’s ducked down in the numerous decades he’s been able to traverse this whirlwind planet, and to also be able to share him and his zest, his gregariousness and big heart with others, more specifically my ole buddy.

At the culmination of the meal, we said our goodbyes and bid farewell to one another. Until next time, and safe travels, with plans already in the works for another rendezvous “sooner than later.” The next day, my folks hit the road for their farmhouse in the North Country. I waved goodbye when they sped off. Until next time.

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.