There’s a small, country golf course close to our house. The Grill-Meister affectionately calls it a “goat ranch” because it isn’t super-fancy. There isn’t an upscale restaurant (or any restaurant), valets don’t park cars for people and society weddings don’t happen there because there’s no grand ballroom (or any ballroom). Folks just play golf under the abundant pine and oak trees on pretty days, and sometimes, a card game breaks out in the men’s locker room. Deer, rabbits, squirrels and a variety of birds are at least as numerous as the golfers. No goats, although you can sometimes hear them in the distance.
We walk there on Monday nights occasionally, when it’s closed and no one is there except for the wildlife. It’s a peaceful place.
There was a beautiful sunset during last Monday’s walk that framed and illuminated the whimsical little white gazebo in a very romantic way.
I started wondering about this gazebo, namely, if it was lonely. It probably doesn’t get much mainstream gazebo action.
I doubt if there’s ever been a young man on bended knee asking for his lady’s hand, or a banjo trio playing dixieland jazz.
Ladies who lunch have probably never had cucumber sandwiches and lemonade atop gingham-covered tables in this gazebo, and it might be that no one has ever read a romance novel in the rain under its sturdy roof.
Idealistic college students probably haven’t debated their visions for saving the world here, either.
Does this gazebo have unexpressed feelings of regret that it wasn’t built somewhere else? Does it dream of being a signpost in people’s lives like other gazebos? Or is it content to be an iconic little structure in the midst of a pastoral golf course, and perhaps a place where grateful golfers take shelter from sudden thunderstorms?
I’d like to know.
Reflecting, I wonder what kind of gazebo I am. A mainstream gazebo? A sidelines gazebo? A portable gazebo that isn’t stuck in one mode of operation? Or perhaps a unicorn gazebo, I think I’d like to be that.
What kind of gazebo are you?