Good friends have a tendency to kick me in the butt every now and then and say stuff like “you’re not a writer, blogger, or twitter-puss; you’re a dumb-ass grandmother. Pack up some clean undies and your toothbrush and come with us.”
And I do. Even if it means golfing.
Now, I’m one of those people who believes the best thing about golf is driving a golf cart. Everyone becomes a child again behind the wheel of a golf cart, everyone except my friend Liz who becomes a speed demon. Of course, Liz is a speed demon on foot as well, but at least on foot she’s only a danger to herself.
Golf courses are, of course, the second best thing about golf. A few years back, Hubby and I lied our way onto a golfing junket to the Yucatan. It was a foolish thing to do – we’d only had four lessons and didn’t even own clubs – but it was an all-you-can eat and drink trip to a place we’d never been so why not?
This particular course was carved out of a poisonous jungle near the ocean thus we rode from link to link through patches of dense foliage as spiny iguanas, toucans, and kinkajous (monkey-like creatures) watched. It was magical, however, foolishly I let Liz drive and almost ended up at the bottom of a cenote with the skeletons of all those sacrificed Mayan virgins. She just laughed.
This last weekend we “golfed” on land claimed from a sequoia grove. There was still snow in the shadows but the sun was out in full force, the air filled with the smell of burning pine needles (a common practice when the mountains are still wet enough to prevent forest fires). Feeling manly (or masochistic, take your choice) we walked the course, our borrowed clubs teetering on things called “rollies” which you either push or pull. I decided, after nine holes, I did not like rollies one bit especially since I only use one club (a seven, technically called an “iron” I believe) so why drag around the whole bag? The next day I refused to use the dreaded rollie and walked the course with the seven in hand, clearly in defiance of club policy but Liz promised to protect me from the groundsmen. She’s tiny but mighty.
Liz has a bazillion best buddies who rushed towards her every day as we arrived at the club, each with a story to tell. The main topic was a golfer who’d died on the course, unfortunately without entering her score. Apparently this is the worst thing you can do. Golf, they will tell you, is not a competitive sport. The only thing that matters is your score and the only person it really matters to is you. Whoever said “you can’t take it with you when you go” wasn’t a golfer. There’s always your score!
Aside from golfers who don’t enter their scores, the other topic of conversation revolved around a break-in in which nothing was stolen but something was left behind. Rat poison. Tucked neatly into a couple’s bed.
Here’s where it got interesting. The wife’s theory was that a local with a grudge (perhaps resentful of the second-home owning “flat landers” who provided his minimum wage lifestyle) wanted to lure rats to the couple’s cabin where they would eat the poison and die, leaving behind an ungodly stench and three billion flies.
The husband offered no opinion. He was quiet. Too quiet for Liz’s hubby, who had his own theory about what actually happened. Any guesses?