My Day at Cherokee Golf Club and That So-Called Olive Branch
So, Cherokee Golf Club, huh? Olive Branch. Sounds like a place where people smooth things over, right? Like, you mess up, you take someone to the 19th hole, offer a handshake, an “olive branch,” and all is forgiven. Well, that’s the theory, I guess. I’ve seen a few of those attempts in my time, and let me tell you, sometimes that olive branch feels more like a thorny stick they’re trying to poke you with.
I remember this one time, specifically. Wasn’t even my mess, but I got dragged into it. Some folks from an old project I consulted on, ages ago, decided they needed to “clear the air.” And where do they pick? Cherokee, of course. Felt very formal, very… staged. They laid it on thick, you know? “We value your input,” “let bygones be bygones,” all that jazz. But you could just feel it, the insincerity. Like they’d read a manual on “Conflict Resolution, Chapter 3: The Appeasement Lunch.”
The whole thing reminded me of this other situation, completely unrelated to golf, but the same vibe. It was with a neighborhood association I used to be part of. Sounds petty, I know, but stick with me. We had this big disagreement about a community garden project. I’d put a ton of work into the proposal, got local businesses ready to donate supplies, the whole nine yards. Then, a small clique, led by this one guy, let’s call him Bob, just steamrolled it. No discussion, just “we’re going in a different direction.” My direction, apparently, was out the door.
- Months of work, just gone.
- No real explanation, just vague statements.
- Felt pretty crummy, not gonna lie.
So, weeks later, after they’d made a complete hash of their own version of the garden – think wilted petunias and a budget black hole – Bob approaches me. Not at a meeting, mind you, but corners me at the grocery store, by the discount bread. And he says, with this strained smile, “Hey, no hard feelings, right? We should, uh, bury the hatchet. Maybe you could… help us out with the garden now?” That was his olive branch. After publicly trashing my ideas and my effort, he wanted free labor to fix his mess, dressed up as reconciliation. It wasn’t about making things right; it was about what he could still get from me.
I just looked at him, holding my loaf of sourdough. I think I said something like, “Bob, I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed, sunk, and is now an artificial reef.” He didn’t much like that. But what was I supposed to do? Pretend his little grocery store ambush was a genuine act of peace? Nah.
It’s like that day at Cherokee. The fancy lunch, the polite words, it all felt like a performance. They weren’t really interested in mending fences; they were interested in making themselves feel better, or maybe getting something else out of me down the line. You learn to spot it, you know? The difference between a real olive branch and someone just trying to use you again. Sometimes, it’s better to just walk away and let them keep their fancy lunches and their thorny sticks.
That whole Cherokee Golf Club “olive branch” thing, it just solidified what I already knew. You gotta look past the setting, past the words, and see what’s really going on. Most times, people aren’t changing; they’re just changing tactics. And I’ve got better things to do than play along with those games. Life’s too short for fake apologies and insincere peace offerings, whether they’re at a golf club or in the bread aisle.
