Westwood and sharing the great memories
In a town of country club living, we were simply Par 3. A small golf course on the west side of Shreveport, known by the regulars as Par 3 but listed in the phone book as Westwood Executive.
Each of its 18 holes were built by my family long before I was born. Nothing glamorous, but maybe the most fun round of golf you could find in this town. Mainly because six months out of the year you could play the back nine under lights and into the late hours of the night or until management ran you off.
It was a golf course for the everyday man.
There was no dress code, whether that meant fresh-from-work attire or cutoff jean shorts. It was a place where skill mattered even less than proper attire. Where tee shots seemed to hit the parking lot as frequently as the fairways.
It was meant for fun, and for me, it was just that. I haven’t always loved golf, but I have always loved Westwood. It was the landscape of my childhood, and on the last day of 2013, it closed forever.
Losing a place you love can feel like losing a person. Or losing part of yourself. At least people have funerals. Businesses have assets, and values assigned to things you consider priceless. Saying goodbye to a place you love can leave a hole, and I’m certainly losing an old friend.
My dad took over the golf course in the early ’90s, and unbeknownst to me, it would change my life forever. I was a pre-teen, approaching my awkward coming-of-age years. My parents had recently divorced, and all of it left me struggling to find my place.
We dove in to the golf course head first.
We spent summer nights camped out at the course. Waiting for the lights to go out and the golfers to leave, the work would then begin.
We would spend hours driving a golf cart around in the darkness, moving around sprinklers and watering each of the holes. As a child, it never seemed like work. It was our adventure, and I was up past my bedtime.
Our mornings started early, and sometimes that meant moving pins and changing hole placements. But most of the time that meant playing 18 holes, grabbing a snack at the clubhouse and then playing 18 more. And maybe more after that.
On blazing hot Louisiana afternoons, when the heat would make those extra 18 holes seem unbearable, we would take naps on the old couches lining the front room of the building. The room’s large, old windows didn’t do much to filter out the sun or the heat. We lazed around like stray cats with nothing better to do, and no one seemed to mind.
I was certainly more of a pest than help to anyone, but I did my share of cart washing and sandwich making, and through all of it, I found my place in the strangest place of all. I didn’t have to worry about the things changing in my life, or myself for that matter.
I simply was able to be me – frizzy hair, boyish clothes and all.
In January, after the course had closed for business, I took my daughter, Tilly, to Westwood to meet my dad there. The weather was mild enough to allow us to take a short ride around the course in the golf cart, something Tilly had never done before.
It took me back to those summer nights so many years ago, riding next to my dad and watering the course.
I was glad to have that opportunity, just the three of us, since we likely may never have it again. I felt happiness for all the memories I have made at Westwood and sad for the memories Tilly won’t have time to make there.
For our family, it is a loss. Over the years the golf course has been more than a source of livelihood. For generations, it has defined us. We all have our memories and stories of what the course means to us, and I imagine those stories vary greatly. For me, it will always be a place that gave me room to grow when life was squeezing in.
What we all love most about Westwood will continue to live on because, as a family, we continue on together.
Stephanie Jordan is a local journalist, marketer and blogger. Her blog can be found at www.stephanienetherton.blogspot.com, and she can be contacted at [email protected].
