When the skunk scurried across the first fairway, perhaps I should have taken it as an omen.
Here’s a great irony: I love to play a game – golf – that I am only marginally competent at playing.
And then there’s this: With each passing year, it seems, I surrender a bit more of my (already congenitally-limited) skills to time’s relentless march.
I developed a deeper appreciation for the expression “low-hanging fruit” when we went on an apple-picking expedition with our grandsons the other day.
Or perhaps I should say, a taller appreciation.
Typically, a trip to the riverfront in Washington, MO, is an altogether pleasant affair – particularly when I’m in the company of my dear 92-year-old Mom.
Something tells me, this particular golf ball does NOT conform to USGA specifications.
Interesting: Grover seems to have invaded a corner of my “home office” space.
We didn’t exactly breach the Gates of the Netherworld yesterday, but at least we delivered a good solid rap on the door. Continue reading