Midnight came early last evening. Or so it seemed.
Not a moment too soon, this confounding year comes to a conclusion this week.
Autumns come, and autumns go. Year on year, decade after decade. Even so, I can never seem to get the ratio correct: “leaf bag” to “actual leaf drop”.
From our grandkids’ perspective, the transformation now appears to be complete. And it is wonderful in their eyes.
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.