Windmill Monsters and the Gift of Make-Believe

I pulled off the road on a Wednesday afternoon and treated myself to a round of miniature golf. The place had just opened for the season. The sky was overcast, with rain predicted. I paid, chose a ball, selected a club, folded a scorecard into my back pocket, and tucked a pencil behind my ear. I had the place to myself.

One hole led to the next without incident. But as I approached the sixth tee with the windmill and its sail-rigged arms, my imagination woke. A monstrous giant loomed in the distance, its long arms circling, its single-paned eye staring down the narrow-carpeted fairway. Prepared to engage the beast, my club in hand and ball at the ready, I stood over the tee, shifting my weight back and forth, studying the wielding arms. I counted off until I had the timing of their rotation. Ready to enjoy the spoils and etch my good fortune onto the scorecard, I exhaled, let the club drop, and watched my ball race into peril.

“Slay the monster!” I yelled.

My club waved wildly. “Evade the wheeling arms.”

Eying the tiny open door, I called out, “Reach the tunnel. Escape into the darkness.”

The ball slipped between the monster’s grasp, and my arms rose in celebration, “Fill the empty cup!”

I rushed to the windmill, ducking to avoid being struck by the same arms that conspired to steal my ball. Safely beyond the spinning arms, I witnessed the reemergence, the skip over the cup, the knock off the back wall, the roll to where it teetered on the edge, and the drop. A hole-in-one: monster vanquished.

As a kid vacationing in the summer, I remember returning from our annual miniature golf outing to my grandparents’ house and their Cape Cod lawn: pine needles, sand, and tufts of dry grass. There we would build our own miniature golf course. The tees were soda bottle caps turned upside down. The greens were paths of sand swept clean of needles. The windmill was an overturned chair with a beach towel blowing in the wind. The tunnels were discarded gutters found behind the garage. The final hole was a bucket buried and covered with an old green doormat pulled from the trash. We used my grandmother’s gardening shears to cut a hole in the middle. Evidence of our commitment to the cause.

On overcast days when our beach towels hung heavy on the clothesline, we would escape to the backyard with my grandparents’ old putters and imagine ourselves battling the mini-golf holes we had encountered over the years. The straight shot where you had to steady your nerves. The long fairway where speed was essential. The banked turn needing a finer touch. The loop de loop, where you struck the ball without reservation. The steep hill threatening a shameful rollback to the tee. The tunnels where accuracy meant everything. The wishing wells with their ramps demanding the perfect blend of speed and direction. The lighthouses with their blinking lamps. And the final holes where the ball always vanished.

Miniature golf courses have changed like everything else. There are courses with waterfalls, courses with lagoons, and even courses with snow-capped mountains. But behind the façade, the game is still the same. The balls are still brightly colored – you choose your representation. Nobody pays for special coaching – luck and skill determine your game. There is no market for innovative clubs providing an edge – everyone gets the same bootstraps. The score is still recorded with eraser-less pencils – no adjusting the record. When you sink that last ball, it vanishes, no matter who you know.

I recommend a game of miniature golf when it becomes difficult to catch your breath, when you find yourself overwhelmed, or when you just want to step away for a moment. You don’t have to be on vacation. It doesn’t need to be a hot summer day. You could even be alone on a random Wednesday afternoon when the course has just opened for the season.

Stepping back into childhood spaces awakens something. The familiar sounds, the forgotten images, and even the smell of the places we knew as children remind us of a time when make-believe was everything: when our imagination could turn a stick into a wand, a sheet into a ghost, and a bicycle into a horse.

Not everything needs to be planned. Not everything always adds up. Most of what we need to do can wait. Stealing half an hour for yourself is not a crime. And there is nothing like battling a four-armed, one-eyed monster and sinking a hole-in-one to remind you that anything is possible.