Posted on June 8, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

Recently I dusted off the golf clubs which have sat dormant for several years, to take part in a charity fundraiser at our local club.  Just for old time sake I decided to walk to the club.  When I was ten I made this walk every day of the summer, carrying three clubs under my arms … along with two egg salad sandwiches and a bottle of Coke.  Back then, I had high expectations.  Yesterday, heading to the course, I had no expectations and I am happy to report that I met them.

Mark Twain said that “golf is a good walk spoiled”.  I know of what he speaks.  For forty five years I loved golf, endured it, hated it and tolerated it.  Now, I am happy to report, I have no feelings at all about the sport.  Sort of the way I feel about my hockey team.  You grow out of these things.

These days, a trip to the golf course is about time well spent with friends and having the opportunity to encounter the beauty of nature.

As I recall vividly, I played golf on my wedding day.  It was early October and we were the only group on the course.  Hardly surprising as it was the day after a hurricane and it was still very windy and we were pelted by heavy rains.  Nobody was keeping score.  I have come to the conclusion that not keeping score is one of the keys to enjoying the game.  Because, quite frankly, nobody really gives a damn what your score is, unless they are emptying your pockets of money.

This reminds me of the day that a couple of guys I used to golf with each took fifty cents off me.  They could hardly contain their glee.  The next morning, I was driving to an appointment in Cape Breton when my assistant at called to tell me that there were two gentlemen waiting to invest some money.  I almost turned around until she told me that each of them was fondling two quarters.

Blessedly, on the day of the charity fundraiser, we were playing a “scramble” format.  There was no pressure.  If (when) you hit a bad shot, you simply picked up and went to the best shot in your group.  It turned out to be a scorcher of a day: 30 degrees Celsius.

There were a lot of birdies but, unfortunately for our group, they were all singing cheerfully in the trees.  There was one eagle but he was nesting.  We were more or less, “par for the course”.

I did notice the smell of the fresh mown grass and the panoramic view of Pleasant Valley (how aptly named) from the seventh tee.

A funeral cortege was driving by the golf course as a group was putting on the 18th green.  Upon seeing the hearse, one of the players stopped and put his hat over his heart as the procession passed.  “That was really a very nice gesture,” one of his buddies said.  “Hey, it’s the least I could do.  Sunday would have been our 35th wedding anniversary!”

Posted on June 7, 2013 under Storytelling with no comments yet

On the eve of the U.S. Open golf tournament, I thought this would be a good time to put a golf related story on my blog. The U.S. Open is especially meaningful to me and Betty. You golf aficionados will remember that it was 31 years ago that Tom Watson won this event  at Pebble Beach, chipping in on the 17th. hole. This was the very day that Betty and I started dating. We will be celebrating our 31st. anniversary later this year.

I have a long relationship with the sport. I started playing at the age of ten and played for forty-five years. Eight years ago I stopped playing. A few years ago, I gave my clubs to my son , Peter, as they were only gathering dust in the basement. He has embraced the game with a considerable amount of enthusiasm. That’s akin to the pope embracing Catholicism.

I have no urge to resume playing after this hiatus but last fall, I bought a set of used clubs and have played a few times. The story that I will be publishing on the blog tomorrow is , indeed, a golf story but one that is very different had I written it when I was passionate about the sport.

I took my mother to the hospital early yesterday morning for some blood work. We were sitting in the crowded waiting room when an older lady sitting next to me struck up a conversation. She recognized me from the stories in The Casket. She told me that she was enjoying them and mentioned the story about the old Memorial rink. She said that this story brought back many memories including the county league hockey games.

I have to tell you that these kinds of exchanges are what makes the writing particularly gratifying. I get to hear other people’s stories. I am merely the catalyst.

I hope you enjoyed my brother’s story that was posted earlier this week. If you missed it, go back and check it out.

Happy Friday!

Posted on June 5, 2013 under Storytelling with one comment

 By Gerard macDonald

I walked out to the chicken coop, burdened with the duty I finally had to face. For several months, adorable peeping fluffballs had metamorphosed into somewhat less adorable, clucking, fully-matured Meat Kings. At the age of twenty weeks, these feisty squabs had reached their date with destiny.

 

Until now, this pusillanimous poultry man had not been up to the undertaking. Instead, the chickens’ ravenous appetites had continued to be stoked with limitless rations of Poultry Grower, Co-op Scratch and Grit. This led to unforeseen consequences, a perversion of the Darwinian struggle: survival of the fattest. Each morning, their bulging, glaring, lipid-engorged eyes would taunt me, daring me to end their gluttonous lives.

 

This went on for several weeks until finally, I was forced to take the first necessary step, known as “the cull.” One particular chicken, having temporarily enjoyed a growth spurt, developed a dysplastic leg and rapidly fell behind. Becoming scrawnier and weaker, he regressed to a dirty, mangled feather doormat. Although I have always been philosophically opposed to euthanasia, I thought I’d better give him a gentler death than what surely awaited him from the eagle eyeing his weakness from a nearby treetop.

 

Taking advice from the “How to” manuals, I set up the killing field in assembly-line fashion: first, the axe and tree stump; secondly, the scalding tank for plucking; thirdly, the knives for eviscerating and de-fatting. Try as I may, I could not summon the requisite brutishness for the conventional “elimination.” I couldn’t bear to have him watch me. In the true spirit of humanism I decided to sneak up on the unsuspecting bird from behind, rap him on the skull with a hammer, and send the poor fellow into blissful sweet sleep.

 

It didn’t work. The first blow glanced off his tiny head. He turned and glared at me in hatred, turning his neck in sudden saccadic movements, as only a pissed off chicken can. I slunk out of the coop amidst a cacophony of clucking and jeering.

I regrouped and crept back in – this time making the intended contact. There was no sweet sleep. Instead, there was a distraught bird flapping wildly with an arterial spurter arcing across the straw-covered floor. I panicked. Like a madman, I seized the struggling animal, raced outside and, missing the crucial first step, plunged the unfortunate bird into the scalding tank. The nightmare intensified as beating wings turned the water to froth for what seemed an eternity before de-effervescing. As the chicken’s wet body turned limp in my hand, the enormity of my crime hit me. Pale, nauseated and trembling, I stumbled back inside.

As a physician, I had sworn to uphold the Hippocratic oath, and to follow the golden rule of Dr.William Osler “ first, do no harm”.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

I don’t eat eggs much anymore.