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Two under par — in memory of Jeff Couture

“Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” was the first tune I heard Coutch play on the fiddle. At first it was more squawking than playing, but after hearing it a dozen or so times I began to recognize the tune, and after he mastered that little song, he’d learn another.

This was back in the early 1980s, when Jeff and I and a bunch of other people lived in the old schoolhouse in Merrillsville. It was a pretty simple existence; we heated with wood, baked bread and ate lots of rice and beans. We read and discussed nearly every book John Steinbeck wrote and listened to the music of Dave Brubeck, Miles Davis, Mahavishnu John McLaughlin, Pentangle, Django Reinhart and Van Morrison. We hauled water in buckets and jugs up from the spring on the Thatcherville Road that flowed into the North Branch of the Saranac River. As it got colder, we realized we needed an outhouse and got in trouble when we inadvertently stole one from the Merrillsville Town Hall. We thought it wasn’t being used and sort of had permission from a town official. That the permission was granted while drinking at the Pine Grove should have tipped us off. There were two outhouses, and we took the nicer one. It turned out it was the Ladies’ Outhouse and was sorely missed by the women working the polling place during the March primaries. We returned it, and Coutch built a nice, spacious two-seater from salvaged lumber and nails.

After a couple of years, Jeff moved to a place up the road and I moved to a nearby town. I’d see him at music festivals and concerts, his fiddling proficiency now establishing him as one of the best in the North Country. I don’t know if he ever realized how much people admired and respected him as well as appreciating the joy he spread through his music. Occasionally we’d go hiking, skiing or golfing. Time spent with friends meant a lot to Coutch. A few of us were skiing the eastern slope of Marsh Pond Mountain in the woods behind his South Merrillsville home one winter day. I watched as he carved smooth, graceful telemark turns through the powder, finding the spaces between the hardwoods. Near the bottom of the run we gazed at the remaining skiers picking their way through the trees, and Jeff was smiling. “I live for moments like these,” he said, mesmerized by the figures moving through the woods, playing in the snow.

Jeff and I golfed together many years later when I was working at the old Loon Lake Golf Course. He’d sometimes golf with his son Toby, and he preferred to walk the course, enjoying the fresh air and wide-open views. My wife Cheryl and I were looking for some rental clubs for the clubhouse at Play It Again Sports, and we found a left-handed wooden club that was in great shape but no longer popular due to the advent of the oxymoronically named metal woods. It was a lofty club, and when we saw it, we both knew it would be perfect for Coutch. Golf is a grand but silly game, and early clubs were given names like Mashie and Nibblick. The club we bought was based on the name Baffie. It was a Cobra brand club called The Baffler. Coutch laughed when we gave it him, appreciating the irony of a club with a name that summed up the nature of the game.

Coutch was out golfing one evening, and I was ready to head home after working on the course all day. He asked if I’d like to play a few holes. It was nearly dark and I was tired, but I grabbed my clubs and joined him on the 10th tee. We could barely see where our drives landed, and by the time we hit our second and third shots and putted out, it was hard to see the 11th green from the tee. Going strictly by sound, we thought my drive on the par 3 hole was to the left of the green, hopefully not in the trap. Coutch’s shot seemed more on target, close to if not on the green. After locating my drive, I left my clubs with the ball and helped Coutch look for his ball. In the encroaching darkness we could see perhaps 10 feet before things faded to black. We searched all around, and finally I went over to the flag and asked Coutch, “What do you call it when you’re two under on a hole?”

“An eagle. But this is a par 3, so that score would be a hole in …” And then he laughed. One shot, from the tee and into the cup, a rare and satisfying golf accomplishment.

We played the next hole by radar, but managed to find our balls in the darkness and aimed toward the green based on memory. I was playing golf with someone with a perfect ear, so we had no problem locating the golf balls on the green, but it was nearly impossible to putt. We hit our drives going back on the 18th hole, but it was, as John Hartford said, “darker than the inside of a cow,” and all we could see was the light from Loon Lake’s lone streetlight near the parking lot. It was a pleasure to golf with him and see him so happy.

He’s gone now, and I miss him. May he rest in peace, with music accompanying him.

Michael DeDivitis lives in Rainbow Lake.

Sources:

1. My memories

2. The lost, classic golf compendium, “An Illustrated Guide to Golf Clubs, Rules and Etiquette,” by Shanks Mulligan, 1958, Fiddler’s Elbow Press

3. The song, “Julia Belle Swain” by John Hartford, 1976, Flying Fish Music

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