Days of Petanque: Peter Wellington

Date: January 20, 2020 at 10:22:55 PM PST



Ever since that evening when Peter made his statement at the club dinner at Westerbeck I've wanted to write something about him.

But I just could not find a way. For as long as I've known him, I've known nothing about him. Well, except that he's friendly and willing to give a tip or two to help my game. So I've decided to write what I would like to be able to write about him.

I would, a la Hannibal Lecter, like to slice off the top of Peter Wellinton's head and read the elusive story I find inside. Because I am convinced there is the magic of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the chivalry of Don Quixote, and the travels of Mark Twain in there. I would read as a man with 20/20 vision tries to see the patterns and meanings in a Bible written in braille; whitewater rivers of adventure, autumn walks through vineyards redolent with the promise of complex wines accompanied by eye-watering garlic laced pasta, and romance, definitely romance, because it lives not only in his brain, but in his strong beating heart. I would trace lifelines that ran wild, ran amuck, ran true. I would read about his struggles, his victories, his losses. The stretches when time passed of its own accord and when he drove it like he cracked a bullwhip of fire. I would read about the times he could not see his future because of a darkness so deep he could not see his hand in front of his face, and the times life opened a window for him to see across prairies to the mountain peaks.

I would see what he sees. Not just the surface of things but the meaning of things; focused, analytical, perceptive. I would understand what it means to be an island broken away from the heartland. And I don't know if I could keep it from breaking my heart.

But he holds it all in, tightly. Grips it without rancor or regret and carries on. Gets up in the morning, takes Auggie for a walk, plays petanque when the pain allows it. And lives his life as best he can. What else can any of us do.

That's what I'd like to write if I had a clue what goes on behind that stoic face.

But I don't. Not a friggin' clue.

Peter, hold very still. Can you do that for me?

Debbie, hand me that saw.

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"Think where man's glory most begins and ends and say my glory was that I had such friends."
― William Butler Yeats