There is not much about playing golf that I dislike. Except, of course, for double-bogeys, water hazards and sand. I like sand on the beach, but not in my socks, shorts or as a landing area for my golf ball.
Other than those few curses, I like the game a lot. But for many more reasons than just for the sport itself.
I'll admit it does feel good when I strike the ball so well I can feel it in my swing. It's almost an effortless movement as I contact the ball, and I know exactly where it will be once my motion tilts my head so that I can finally look up. That doesn't happen very often for me, which is probably why I savor the moments so.
But there are also the sounds of the game that richen the sport. Like the swoosh of a well swung club or the soft purr of a ball landing safely on the green. My all time favorite golf sound is the ball as it finally reaches its destination, bouncing on the bottom of the cup.
Smell adds an extra dimension to the sport. As in baseball, there's the remarkably athletic scent of my left hand laced with the aroma of leather from my glove. And a field of aromatic wild sage that grows along the side of the fourteenth hole on my favorite course. Newly mowed grass, algae in the pond, mud along the riverbank and cattle in the adjacent field all contribute layers of olfactory sensations unique to the sport.
I would not consider myself a slow player despite my attraction to nature as well as the game of golf. But I feel sorry for those who only enjoy the sport for the game. The ones who race around the links, pedal to the metal, moving from shot to shot as quickly as the cart will allow. Sometimes faster than it will allow. They, sadly, miss an awful lot of good things.
Not that I never ride or play just to finish the game sometimes, but I prefer to carry my bag and walk the course rather than ride a cart. The exercise is only a side benefit. I get to think through my next shot before I grip the club again, and spend a little quality time enjoying the sounds, the scents, the beauty of the game, the simplicity of nature.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Orange Badge of Honor
A long time ago, when I was in grade school, the greatest honor that could be bestowed upon a fifth grade male was to become a patrol boy. I don't mean to sound sexist. There may have been a patrol girl, too, but this was before glass ceilings were broken and patrol duties were, rather unfortunately, a predominately male occupation at the time.
Patrol boys got to wear a one piece bright orange strap sort of thing that signified their status as a leader among all boys. The strap was worn around the waist like a belt and over one shoulder like a military insignia. And when it came to children crossing at street corners, we were the authority on the matter.
As a mere second or third grader, that belt held an allure that was insatiable, especially with the way it was rolled into a neat little ball when not in use. I lusted for the day when my time would come and I would be allowed late for class and was justified in leaving just a bit early so that I could serve, protect and direct the incessant flow of elementary students as they passed in and out of that school building. Only fifth and sixth graders could hold such a great honor.
At particularly busy intersections, we patrol boys deferred our omnipresent authority to crossing guards. But we still did most of the dirty work, keeping kids corralled within the prescribed lines while the crossing guard held up a stop sign and one hand to keep automobile traffic at bay.
There were two choice assignments that each patrol boy craved. The first was in front of a drug store at a busy interchange in town.
That was a great spot because of Margaret, a retired lady who was the crossing guard and who treated us like gold. On cold, rainy or snowy days, she would insist we go inside the drug store to warm up in between packs of wild kids on their way to or from school. She would also bring us treats on occasion, like candy bars or cookies. Plus, she was just the nicest person anyone would ever want to meet. She talked to us like we were equals, and she was always interested in what we had to say. I sure miss Margaret.
The other choice assignment was due east from Margaret's post, but on a less busy corner. There was no crossing guard there, but two boys were assigned to the location because it was a high traffic area (kid traffic more than car traffic).
What made this location so great was that it was right in front of a bakery. The smell of fresh donuts, hot bread and delicate pastries wafted through the air with enough potency to make our stomachs growl in eager anticipation. The owner of the place liked us boys a lot, too. He would always treat us to whatever we wanted from his showcase of wares. We always chose the cinnamon rolls, warm from the ovens with thick, white frosting covering the entire top of the delicious delight. I can still taste them now.
I don't suppose there are patrol boys anymore. I never see any around schools or at busy interchanges. Not too many crossing guards around, either. My guess is that liability issues hastened the demise of this once wonderful and revered occupation. Or maybe patrol boys just faded into obsolescence like fins on cars, clunky cell phones and 15 inch computer monitors. And that's too bad. A whole generation missing out on the finer things of the elementary life.
Patrol boys got to wear a one piece bright orange strap sort of thing that signified their status as a leader among all boys. The strap was worn around the waist like a belt and over one shoulder like a military insignia. And when it came to children crossing at street corners, we were the authority on the matter.
As a mere second or third grader, that belt held an allure that was insatiable, especially with the way it was rolled into a neat little ball when not in use. I lusted for the day when my time would come and I would be allowed late for class and was justified in leaving just a bit early so that I could serve, protect and direct the incessant flow of elementary students as they passed in and out of that school building. Only fifth and sixth graders could hold such a great honor.
At particularly busy intersections, we patrol boys deferred our omnipresent authority to crossing guards. But we still did most of the dirty work, keeping kids corralled within the prescribed lines while the crossing guard held up a stop sign and one hand to keep automobile traffic at bay.
There were two choice assignments that each patrol boy craved. The first was in front of a drug store at a busy interchange in town.
That was a great spot because of Margaret, a retired lady who was the crossing guard and who treated us like gold. On cold, rainy or snowy days, she would insist we go inside the drug store to warm up in between packs of wild kids on their way to or from school. She would also bring us treats on occasion, like candy bars or cookies. Plus, she was just the nicest person anyone would ever want to meet. She talked to us like we were equals, and she was always interested in what we had to say. I sure miss Margaret.
The other choice assignment was due east from Margaret's post, but on a less busy corner. There was no crossing guard there, but two boys were assigned to the location because it was a high traffic area (kid traffic more than car traffic).
What made this location so great was that it was right in front of a bakery. The smell of fresh donuts, hot bread and delicate pastries wafted through the air with enough potency to make our stomachs growl in eager anticipation. The owner of the place liked us boys a lot, too. He would always treat us to whatever we wanted from his showcase of wares. We always chose the cinnamon rolls, warm from the ovens with thick, white frosting covering the entire top of the delicious delight. I can still taste them now.
I don't suppose there are patrol boys anymore. I never see any around schools or at busy interchanges. Not too many crossing guards around, either. My guess is that liability issues hastened the demise of this once wonderful and revered occupation. Or maybe patrol boys just faded into obsolescence like fins on cars, clunky cell phones and 15 inch computer monitors. And that's too bad. A whole generation missing out on the finer things of the elementary life.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Stale Bread and Other Mysteries
There are some things I will probably never understand no matter how much information I have on the matter. Like which button is supposed to make what special feature work on my overly sophisticated alarm clock. Or why my dog hates to get a bath but loves to play in the sprinkler.
And some things are interesting to think about, but I am no closer to discovering the truth. Like why you never see a pair of shoes on the side of the road, only one. Or why I can’t fly but an airplane that weighs hundreds of times more than I do can.
But there are some things that simply do not make sense any way you look at them. Here’s a few examples of what I mean:
Why does something soft, like bread, get hard and crumbly when it goes stale, but something hard and crumbly, like crackers, gets soft and mushy?
Why do people often mean what they say, but seldom say what they mean?
Why do wasps seem to spend half their lives trying to get into something and the other half trying to get back out again?
Why do we spend good money to buy underwear that doesn’t ride up, then turn around and spend good money for thongs designed to do just that?
Why do we sometimes cry when we’re happy and laugh when we’re sad?
If someone tickles our funny bone, we laugh but if we strike our funny bone, we get the most unusual kind of pain.
If we have a cold, we often have a fever … which makes us hot.
We light the candles, sing happy birthday then let the honoree spray spittle all over the cake we’re about to eat.
A sub-par performance is only acceptable in the game of golf, which is where the concept of par originated in the first place.
Why do we call it “politics” from the root word “poly” meaning many and the word “tick” meaning blood-sucking insect?
Oh, OK, never mind. I think I just answered that last one.
And some things are interesting to think about, but I am no closer to discovering the truth. Like why you never see a pair of shoes on the side of the road, only one. Or why I can’t fly but an airplane that weighs hundreds of times more than I do can.
But there are some things that simply do not make sense any way you look at them. Here’s a few examples of what I mean:
Why does something soft, like bread, get hard and crumbly when it goes stale, but something hard and crumbly, like crackers, gets soft and mushy?
Why do people often mean what they say, but seldom say what they mean?
Why do wasps seem to spend half their lives trying to get into something and the other half trying to get back out again?
Why do we spend good money to buy underwear that doesn’t ride up, then turn around and spend good money for thongs designed to do just that?
Why do we sometimes cry when we’re happy and laugh when we’re sad?
If someone tickles our funny bone, we laugh but if we strike our funny bone, we get the most unusual kind of pain.
If we have a cold, we often have a fever … which makes us hot.
We light the candles, sing happy birthday then let the honoree spray spittle all over the cake we’re about to eat.
A sub-par performance is only acceptable in the game of golf, which is where the concept of par originated in the first place.
Why do we call it “politics” from the root word “poly” meaning many and the word “tick” meaning blood-sucking insect?
Oh, OK, never mind. I think I just answered that last one.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Summer Passings
Just playing with thoughts in today's post. Simply a memory, a recollection returning vividly. A picture in my mind.....
A young boy, maybe ten, twelve at the oldest sitting on his swing in the backyard. The sun feels good on my arms and there's the uniquely personal scent of skin warmed by the sun.
The swing creaks lightly as I slowly sway and I am suddenly aware of the metallic smell of the chains, and of rust. I can hardly detect the orange hue on some of the chain links. It's on my hands, too, just a little but it doesn't bother me.
A slight summer breeze pushes through the yard and makes the leaves on the apple tree turn to greet it. Green apples, sweet fragrance belies the sour taste. Some have fallen to the ground. Many have, actually. Picking them up, a summer's chore. But that's for later, not for now.
Beyond the apple is the lone cherry tree in our yard, it's fruit now more fit for the birds than for the rest of us. A gentle call, not too loud. The tree is several feet away. I don't know how many. I'm young, it's hard to guess. The same tones repeated. A lilt, a fall, a lilt. A cardinal. Claiming his tree, no doubt. Plenty of cherries for all, I'm certain.
A screen door protests being opened. My aunt, who lives next door, spies me and waves. "What you doing, Bobby?"
One of the very few who got away with calling me that. A quick smile, "nothing." I hang my head. Very shy. No, very shy. She goes inside and I am alone with my thoughts once more.
A car passes slowly on the street behind me. It's a short stretch of road between stop signs. The sun has baked the asphalt and the tires seem to stick to it. The sound it makes is just like when you pull apart hands that got sticky from sweat and candy.
"Largo. Largo," I hear from the other direction. Auntie's myna bird calling out his own name. He knows how to wolf whistle, too. It's kind of funny.
Mom's face appears in the window near the back porch. She's washing dishes, I suppose. Not looking my way, she seems to be staring toward the rock garden over by the garage. I look over that way but I don't see what she does, I guess.
Two young girls walk the road where the car with the sticky tires just travelled. They look pretty. And happy. I hope Largo doesn't wolf whistle. He does. They look over, see me. I turn red. They giggle.
I glance at my watch. Two minutes have expired since the swing creaked. A long summer awaits.
A young boy, maybe ten, twelve at the oldest sitting on his swing in the backyard. The sun feels good on my arms and there's the uniquely personal scent of skin warmed by the sun.
The swing creaks lightly as I slowly sway and I am suddenly aware of the metallic smell of the chains, and of rust. I can hardly detect the orange hue on some of the chain links. It's on my hands, too, just a little but it doesn't bother me.
A slight summer breeze pushes through the yard and makes the leaves on the apple tree turn to greet it. Green apples, sweet fragrance belies the sour taste. Some have fallen to the ground. Many have, actually. Picking them up, a summer's chore. But that's for later, not for now.
Beyond the apple is the lone cherry tree in our yard, it's fruit now more fit for the birds than for the rest of us. A gentle call, not too loud. The tree is several feet away. I don't know how many. I'm young, it's hard to guess. The same tones repeated. A lilt, a fall, a lilt. A cardinal. Claiming his tree, no doubt. Plenty of cherries for all, I'm certain.
A screen door protests being opened. My aunt, who lives next door, spies me and waves. "What you doing, Bobby?"
One of the very few who got away with calling me that. A quick smile, "nothing." I hang my head. Very shy. No, very shy. She goes inside and I am alone with my thoughts once more.
A car passes slowly on the street behind me. It's a short stretch of road between stop signs. The sun has baked the asphalt and the tires seem to stick to it. The sound it makes is just like when you pull apart hands that got sticky from sweat and candy.
"Largo. Largo," I hear from the other direction. Auntie's myna bird calling out his own name. He knows how to wolf whistle, too. It's kind of funny.
Mom's face appears in the window near the back porch. She's washing dishes, I suppose. Not looking my way, she seems to be staring toward the rock garden over by the garage. I look over that way but I don't see what she does, I guess.
Two young girls walk the road where the car with the sticky tires just travelled. They look pretty. And happy. I hope Largo doesn't wolf whistle. He does. They look over, see me. I turn red. They giggle.
I glance at my watch. Two minutes have expired since the swing creaked. A long summer awaits.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Claw
This weekend I discovered that spiders really can get caught in their own webs.
Apparently, they produce several different kinds of silk. Some are sticky and others are not. Once they’ve built their intricate fly-catchers, they know where to tread. Each one of their legs has a couple of claws on the end that spiders use to grasp fine web threads and maneuver along their willowy highways.
Should they take a miscalculated misstep, another claw quickly saws through the sticky material and the spider is free to move about the cabin once more.
Some spiders, like the orb spider, like to get out and stretch those legs a bit. Check things out at the neighbors. Despite having eight eyes, they are as blind as bats, and that can lead to problems in spiderdom.
Once in a while, whether they mean to or not, one spider might just wander into another spider’s web. Not knowing the layout of the new domicile, visiting spiders end up in the sticky stuff.
But before the uninvited house guest gets a chance to whip out the old saw claw, the owner of the place is on him. In no time at all, the visitor is wrapped up like a cookie in a two-year old’s fist.
Then the owner of the web has a decision to make. He’ll either eat his guest or pull out his own little saw claw and cut the offender loose, letting the silky package fall to the ground and ignoring it. Either way, its curtains for the wandering araneae.
That special saw spiders carry seems quite handy to me, and something I wish I could get a hold of, somehow. Imagine: any problem that wanders into my little space and I’m on it! Grab it, package it, cut it loose and it falls away without causing any harm or damage. And my world is quickly returned to normal.
Apparently, they produce several different kinds of silk. Some are sticky and others are not. Once they’ve built their intricate fly-catchers, they know where to tread. Each one of their legs has a couple of claws on the end that spiders use to grasp fine web threads and maneuver along their willowy highways.
Should they take a miscalculated misstep, another claw quickly saws through the sticky material and the spider is free to move about the cabin once more.
Some spiders, like the orb spider, like to get out and stretch those legs a bit. Check things out at the neighbors. Despite having eight eyes, they are as blind as bats, and that can lead to problems in spiderdom.
Once in a while, whether they mean to or not, one spider might just wander into another spider’s web. Not knowing the layout of the new domicile, visiting spiders end up in the sticky stuff.
But before the uninvited house guest gets a chance to whip out the old saw claw, the owner of the place is on him. In no time at all, the visitor is wrapped up like a cookie in a two-year old’s fist.
Then the owner of the web has a decision to make. He’ll either eat his guest or pull out his own little saw claw and cut the offender loose, letting the silky package fall to the ground and ignoring it. Either way, its curtains for the wandering araneae.
That special saw spiders carry seems quite handy to me, and something I wish I could get a hold of, somehow. Imagine: any problem that wanders into my little space and I’m on it! Grab it, package it, cut it loose and it falls away without causing any harm or damage. And my world is quickly returned to normal.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Loafing on Father's Day
I usually write an entry to this blog every Sunday. But last Sunday was Father's Day and I decided to take the day off. I played golf instead. Eighteen holes. Had a blast. Then I just got lazy for the rest of the day, especially after a double serving of lasagna and a huge piece of coconut cake.
Anyway, I will get back to my regular schedule this week. Even if the weather's nice and I play golf again. I'll still write.
Sydnee, our editor at freshare, is a photographer, and a good one. She said it just amazes her to be able to see life in action and have the ability to freeze that image for all time.
For me, it's in the words. Always has been. I like being able to take a mass of letters, cajole them into words and combine them into a meaningful piece. And with those humble little letters, arranged just so, a writer can tweak an emotion, draw a tear or caress a smile.
How could I not love to write?
Anyway, I will get back to my regular schedule this week. Even if the weather's nice and I play golf again. I'll still write.
Sydnee, our editor at freshare, is a photographer, and a good one. She said it just amazes her to be able to see life in action and have the ability to freeze that image for all time.
For me, it's in the words. Always has been. I like being able to take a mass of letters, cajole them into words and combine them into a meaningful piece. And with those humble little letters, arranged just so, a writer can tweak an emotion, draw a tear or caress a smile.
How could I not love to write?
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Changing and Choosing
What did you want to be when you grew up? Do you remember? I do. With every fiber of my young boyhood, I wanted to be an astronaut. Sail the stars in a high-tech tin can, watch the sun rise and set every twenty minutes or so, speed around the globe at 17,000 miles an hour! I knew I would probably miss being the first man on the moon, seeing as I would end up being just thirteen when it happened, but I thought I would certainly be the guy NASA tapped to lay the first tracks on the Martian surface.
What a passion I had for the space program in those days. I knew the names of every astronaut, what branch of service they were in and which ones were on which missions. I watched every launch and each splashdown that didn't interfere with my school attendance. And I wrote the NASA information center in Cleveland about every month or so and they would send me reams of interesting materials that I would absorb every chance I got. Astronaut bios, flight medical records, detailed spacecraft data and tons of photos - I had it all and read it all.
I was going to be one of those magnificent men in their flying machines.
Then came the carnival in town. Hot dogs, cotton candy, sweet soft drinks. And rides. A visit to the Tilt-A-Whirl changed everything for me that day. One spin on that contraption and I experienced a rerun of all the stuff I had just eaten. If I couldn't take the spinning of a mere Tilt-A-Whirl, how could I expect to survive the rigors of space flight? The realization almost made me experience a re-rerun, but I managed to hold it back.
Life was not the same for after that little encounter. But that's not the point of this essay. Dreams sometimes crumble and fiery passions turn to embers. That's just the way things are. I'm not sorry I didn't become an astronaut in those heady days of fly boys in space, and I'll take my ride sometime after space flights become commercialized. The only thing we can count on is that things are going to change. Ambitions falter, doors close, opportunities pass us by. And we have to choose. Hang on to something we may never have had or follow a new path.
Sometimes it takes a Tilt-A-Whirl to get you to see the next opportunity.
What a passion I had for the space program in those days. I knew the names of every astronaut, what branch of service they were in and which ones were on which missions. I watched every launch and each splashdown that didn't interfere with my school attendance. And I wrote the NASA information center in Cleveland about every month or so and they would send me reams of interesting materials that I would absorb every chance I got. Astronaut bios, flight medical records, detailed spacecraft data and tons of photos - I had it all and read it all.
I was going to be one of those magnificent men in their flying machines.
Then came the carnival in town. Hot dogs, cotton candy, sweet soft drinks. And rides. A visit to the Tilt-A-Whirl changed everything for me that day. One spin on that contraption and I experienced a rerun of all the stuff I had just eaten. If I couldn't take the spinning of a mere Tilt-A-Whirl, how could I expect to survive the rigors of space flight? The realization almost made me experience a re-rerun, but I managed to hold it back.
Life was not the same for after that little encounter. But that's not the point of this essay. Dreams sometimes crumble and fiery passions turn to embers. That's just the way things are. I'm not sorry I didn't become an astronaut in those heady days of fly boys in space, and I'll take my ride sometime after space flights become commercialized. The only thing we can count on is that things are going to change. Ambitions falter, doors close, opportunities pass us by. And we have to choose. Hang on to something we may never have had or follow a new path.
Sometimes it takes a Tilt-A-Whirl to get you to see the next opportunity.
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