Ghosts

by Betsy Ashton

Betsy Ashton, born in Washington, DC, was raised in Southern California where she ran wild with coyotes in the hills above Malibu. She protested the war in Vietnam, burned her bra for feminism, and is a steadfast Independent. She is a writer, a thinker, the mother of three grown stepchildren, companion and friend. She mentors writers and writes and publishes fiction. Her first mystery, Mad Max Unintended Consequences, was published in February 2013. The second in the series, Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, came out in April 2015. In her spare time, she is the president of the state-wide Virginia Writers Club. She loves riding behind her husband on his motorcycle. You’ll have to decide for yourself if and where she has a tattoo.

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April 21, 2016

While I believe in ghosts and spirits, some that go bump in the night, this is about ghosts of memories.

Last Sunday my husband, Terry, (he’s the man to the left of me) and I stopped at Pinehurst before we continued on to Augusta and The Masters. This is a golf mecca we played many times over the years with our friends, Art Elias and Betty Unruh. We hadn’t made reservations, so when our car turned naturally into the hotel we always stayed in, I knew I’d see ghosts. Art’s been gone for five years, and every time I think about playing golf I remember the lessons I learned from him

Art taught me to keep my head down, to follow through and never to question his score. He had a habit of being on the green in four, down in two, and carding four. Yes, he cheated. We all knew it, and he knew we knew. He did it anyway, and we let him get away with it.

Terry and I walked around the village of Pinehurst, where at every corner I saw Art. I pictured him fussin 20160403_171504 g because his wife, Betty, and I loved to shop. She loved buying as much as she loved shopping; I was a bit more about browsing…

Art would have loved a new shop that’s opened up.
Actually, two shops. Given Book Shop sells recycled reading; The Roast Office is a coffee house. Art loved puns. I think he’d approve.

20160403_172149 One shop had a sign that would appeal to Betty, the queen of the cat ladies. We all know kitties lie. This owner calls it as she sees it.

Over a drink before dinner outside on an unusually mild afternoon, Terry and I talked about how much we miss Art. We miss Betty, too, but somewhere in the five years since Art died we’ve grown apart. Some friends drift away. I wish this foursome had stayed together longer.