The Plaque
It sits in the back corner of a coat closet, almost fully obscured from view. A tribute to a day long passed. Those it honors now residing only in memories.
One of the bonds I formed with my dad was over our mutual love of golf. It was in this clubhouse, adjoining this course, where the plaque with the names of the founding board members, those instrumental in laying the groundwork for what was to come thereafter, had for more than half a century been prominently displayed. Now it was merely sharing conversation with winter jackets.
Almost a decade earlier, this building had undergone extensive renovation. And it was then that the names of my dad and the others were removed from their place of distinction.
When the work was finished, the plaque did not return to its former home. And in the succeeding years it has remained out of sight. And, so the evidence would suggest, out of mind.
I rarely come back to this venue now, maybe on a singular occasion every several years. But whenever I do, my first thought is of that plaque, hoping that somehow it will once more be located where it was intended.
Yesterday, when I inquired as to its whereabouts, I was led to this spot. I brought my granddaughter over to show her the name of her great granddad. We had to crawl on the floor to get a look.
My dad would have been 105 this coming Tuesday. And I could imagine no better present than if this club found reason, even if it be for one day, to remind those who walk through these doors that what has gone before, what has allowed them to embrace this place, is of everlasting value. A time when my father’s name is once more recognized and celebrated.
A time when I can truly introduce my granddaughter to my dad. Not on my hands and knees but standing tall.