An Evening at the Club

Words and photographs by Markus Van Meter

Annette and our neighbors, Debbie and Shawna, were in the garage decorating our golf cart for a Christmas parade that, until very recently, none of us had been planning to attend. Our four-seater had acquired red-and-white garlands, tinsel, and a “Candy Cane Lane” sign, while the decorating crew had assembled its own assortment of festive headwear. Watching their efforts on such short notice, I knew I needed to document the evening. I was photographing for the club, but this was beginning to look like something worth following from the preparations through to whatever happened afterward.

The idea came from an older member who remembered that Cobble Creek used to have a golf cart parade “back in the day.” I find that expression amusing as someone still relatively new to Cobble. What felt like a first to me was, to someone else, something we ought to do again. There is a whole life to a place before you arrive, and occasionally another member lets you in on a little of it. His recollection came with a suggestion and a group email, and the idea spread quickly. We have a substantial retired population here. A promising social occasion does not remain confidential for long.

What surprised me was the effort people were willing to make. Short notice might reasonably have produced a handful of carts with a string of lights and a few Santa hats. Instead, people recruited help and got to work. Those of us with extra seats could bring along neighbors who didn’t own a cart or perhaps didn’t golf at all. They just wanted in on the fun. Our own preparations involved three women, one cart, and considerably more decoration than it wears during the golf season. By the time we headed to the clubhouse, I was curious to see what everyone else had done.

At the breezeway, the main entrance to the club, it became clear that we weren’t the only household to have embraced the assignment. Carts and people were dressed for the occasion, ugly sweaters were well represented, and family recipes for homemade holiday cocktails were already making their contribution. The energy was electric. Judging by the enthusiasm of the greetings, you would have thought it was a forty-year high school reunion.

It had been about sixty days.

That was roughly how long it had been since the good golf weather had passed for the season. Two months doesn’t sound like much, but it changes the rhythm of a community where people see one another daily or weekly throughout the summer. You get accustomed to that company. There is another round, another familiar group, another opportunity to catch up without having to make much of a plan. I don’t think I fully appreciated how much those ordinary gatherings added to my days until they became less frequent. Arriving at the clubhouse that Friday, I was reminded how good it felt to be among people I had grown used to seeing.

The carts gave me plenty to photograph. One wore an enormous Santa hat above the roof and a white beard across the front. Others carried wreaths, oversized candy canes, Christmas characters, and lights worked around windshields and roof supports. But I was just as interested in what was happening between them: people greeting one another, stopping to talk, and gathering in little groups before we set off. Beside the Santa cart, I caught an embrace. Elsewhere, conversations occupied the space between two rows of decorated vehicles. The parade was still assembling, and already there was a great deal worth keeping.

Once underway, the procession made its way through the neighborhood, a line of little Christmas productions traveling past homes with patches of snow still lying beside the lawns. There was something thoroughly enjoyable about seeing equipment we used so routinely given this much attention for an entirely different purpose. The effort was visible in every cart. Whatever the original parade had been like back in the day, those of us experiencing it for the first time had been given a good introduction.

The social side of Cobble Creek is a huge part of what makes the community work, and it extends well beyond the golf course. Annette and I had already experienced that through our neighbors, including people whose participation in an evening like this had nothing to do with playing the game. Golf brings many of us into regular contact, but an available seat in a cart can widen the company considerably. I liked that about the parade. There was room for people to join in simply because they lived nearby, knew someone, or wanted to spend a Friday evening doing something a little ridiculous together.

When we returned to the clubhouse, everyone headed straight to the bar.

The good cause was the parade itself, and apparently it had been a very good cause. There were ugly sweaters, candy canes, and enough alcohol to end Prohibition in any decade. The Tavern grew louder as the celebration moved indoors. Around one table, I photographed raised glasses, a wave, Santa hats, and a headband sporting an impressive collection of oversized Christmas bulbs. People were enjoying themselves, and they weren’t particularly shy about letting the camera know it.

I wasn’t drinking that evening, and I remember looking around at how happy everyone seemed. It was almost as though they were celebrating one more year on planet Earth, or a holiday they remembered from childhood. That was my impression, at least. I didn’t know what the occasion brought to mind for each person, but there was an unmistakable willingness to enjoy it. People had made the effort to come, had found one another again after a quieter stretch of the year, and were making a proper evening of it. I was happy to be there with them.

As the drinks continued to flow and the noise inside the Tavern grew, I wandered outside with my camera to photograph the clubhouse at night. The windows glowed warmly against the dark. Red lights followed the branches of a bare tree, and the large evergreen beside the building was covered in cooler white light. Through the upstairs windows, people were still visible inside. After photographing the preparations, the greetings, and the parade, I had a little time to stand back and take in the place where we had all ended up.

I found myself reflecting on what a huge year it had been for Annette and me. Three hundred and sixty-five days earlier, we had been living in Ouray with no idea that we would move. I certainly hadn’t pictured us here, with a decorated golf cart and a clubhouse full of people who had become part of our everyday lives. Yet a year later, we were established members of a golf club, celebrating Christmas with neighbors and friends, and already familiar enough with the summer routine to miss it when winter arrived.

Standing outside that night gave me a moment to appreciate how much had happened. I thought about Annette, Debbie, and Shawna decorating the cart in our garage, the reception at the breezeway, and the happiness I had just been photographing inside. None of it was something I could have anticipated from our home in Ouray a year before. The clubhouse was lit for Christmas, the celebration was still going on, and I was grateful that Annette and I had come to be part of it. I felt truly blessed.