Road Warriors Post Apocalypse

Double lane roads, behemoth automobiles, family packed shoulder to shoulder front seat and back on Sunday afternoons, life just too perfect back in the day. Remembering back when can certainly curl up the corners of my mouth. A tradition back in my day, Sunday afternoons after the usual Sunday spread at Granny Bowies and a quick nap by the men folk, Daddy would pile us into his car for that afternoon drive to destination unknown most of the time.

             In the late fifties to mid sixties the luxurious Chevy Impala had been our chariot and the best selling automobile in the United States; then in 1966 we graduated to the Chevy Caprice, it breaking onto the scene in 65 to replace the Impala at the top of the Chevy food chain. These classic vintage rides would have held their own against today’s family vans and SUVs. Make no mistake; we were strutting in high cotton. Calling shotgun when I was usually the only kid on board seldom guaranteed me a window seat. Often I’d settle for climbing over the backseat rest stretching out in the back window; no seatbelts were required to prevent me from becoming a human projectile. Bouncing from front to back seat, I could even sit in daddy’s lap while he drove and help him man the wheel without fear of incarceration by the police.

            To escape boredom on long drives we had to become creative. Counting cows served as one venue. Someone picked the right side of the road and the other inherited the left side; the game was simple, count cows in the pastures on your side of the road.       If they were a lot of cows, you had to count fast; guessing mostly at how many speckled the horizon. If you passed a cemetery on your side of the road you lost your cow count and had to start over. To this day I don’t understand the cemetery-cow correlation.

            Another deviation from cow counting was car counting. Pick a make and identify and count them as you met them on the highway. Makes and models were easy to identify back then. You could tell a Chevy from a Ford, an Oldsmobile from Pontiac or Buick. Today I can’t tell one from the other because everyone makes a knock off of everyone else. Even a Chevy and Ford don’t look like a Chevy or Ford. The Chevy and Ford got first dibs back in my simple world because more of them were on the highways. If you came to a garage on your side of the road, you lost your cars and had to start over. That made much better sense than the cow-cemetery rule. Who ever heard of burying cows in cemetery? On the old Tarzan movies, elephants had a graveyard but not milk cows!

              My grandson does a deviation on this with VW Bugs where you call it when you see a bug and keep a running tally on how many you identify first. Unlike ours, the rules tend to change every time it is played to sway the count in my grandson’s favor. If a dealership shows up on your side, say buy to your count. Plus, he can identify every make and model of any vehicle from ten car lengths away. I still don’t know how he does it. He can’t explain it to me either except he’s a car fanatic.

            The Pop Eye game left a sore spot I must say. This game could only be played at night. The first person to spot an automobile with a missing head light shouted Pop Eye and was granted an opportunity to punch his opponent in the shoulder. A deviation to this was when riding with female companions you could opt for a kiss instead of a punch. I liked that version much better. Sore puffy lips beat an aching shoulder every time.

            Sunday afternoon drives weren’t always preoccupied by fun and games. Often it included a drive out to Culbreth’s Garage to view wrecked vehicles, those often resulting in a fatality. I still don’t understand the fascination and lure to view a crashed up automobile that might have caused someone to die but it was sure a big deal back then. We might even ride to the accident scene if daddy knew the location. Local accidents, especially those that resulted in death, dismemberment, or near death were the talk of the town so first hand observations made for good conversation I suppose. Sirens and ambulance alarms always perked daddy’s interest. I’m certainly glad I didn’t inherent that trait.

            To continue the morbid trend, our afternoon drives might just include a ride to the local cemeteries; Long Cane or one of the others near by. The clan would wander through the grave sites identifying and visiting the dearly departed, some new, and others long gone from this world. Swapping old stories and fond memories ensued followed by tears and nose blowing. This exercise reminds me of another weird attraction; people visiting the funeral home and gazing into the coffin stating how the person doesn’t look like them. Of course they don’t; they’re dead. Dead doesn’t look like the living. My take away from the cemetery besides climbing on the stones and being yelled at was the seeing the gigantic yellow grasshoppers that seemed to reside there. These monsters were three or four inches long, red winged and formidable, and I so dubbed them cemetery grasshoppers because that was the only place I ever saw them. They were huge, winged and hissed when you grabbed them. I was fascinated by these marvelous creations. Maybe they were reincarnated lost souls.

            Sometimes we did actually have a predetermined destination like visiting the kin folks, most of them being brothers or sisters of my grandparents. We might end up in Iva, Anderson, Greenwood, Level Land, Due West or Ninety Six, all good old southern South Carolina small town venues. Running joke when mentioning Due West, an actual college town showcasing Erskine, was due west of what? They even have bumper stickers stating just that.

            Speaking of kin folk, going to see Granny Holmes was almost guaranteed at least once a month. Granny Holmes was actually the mama of my Granny Bowie, my mama’s mama. The stereotype unfortunately of an old southern woman, she was about five feet tall, extremely bell shaped, wore her hair in a little bun behind her head, sported an almost to her ankles dress accented by an apron that appeared to be tied under her arm pits and was toothless except for two upper canines ragged and off to one side of her mouth.  Like a nomad, she moved about living most of the time with one of her children, never ever working anywhere that I can remember. We’d always take her the Sunday newspaper and she’d read it out loud to us even though it had previously been read. Funny thing, she could read but neither of my grandparents could. In return we were usually served up a meal of hot cornbread and fresh buttermilk or biscuits and gravy, sometimes served with greens or butterbeans; good eating makes me want to slap my mouth. Granny Holmes lived into her 90’s.

            My particular favorite thing about those traditional Sunday afternoon rides had to be the pit stops at places like Cream Land, The Orange Spot, The Dixie, The Caravan, Mister Quick, Besto, the Come-Back, Bantam Chef or Pete’s Drive-In, all contingent on what area of the county or surrounding towns we ended up. I had to make choices. Did I want an ice cream, a root beer float, milk shake or boiled peanuts or maybe a comic book or toy if my parents would cough up the doe? And if I so chose an ice cream, would it be a soft swirl in a cone possibly with a hard layer of chocolate, a cream cycle, a banana pop or my favorite, a push-up. Unlike the cemetery, I had landed in heaven on earth. Being a kid was a wonderful thing just for those special perks.

            The afternoon concluded by us returning to granny and papa’s house and eating a supper’s portion of the Sunday meal. Back then almost all the fixings were left in the original cooking containers and stored back inside the oven. Lids were placed back on top of the assorted pots, tin foil protected everything else. Only the potato salad or left over freshly cut tomatoes and cucumbers were placed inside the refrigerator.  No one ever seemed to worry about food poisoning, salmonella or any of those dreaded inflictions that people worry about today. I don’t remember anyone ever becoming sick from eating food left out for half the day and my grand parents’ house was not air conditioned. A fan in the kitchen widow blowing outwards sucked in the outside air through other open windows supplying the ventilation for the entire four room mill house.

            Now on the backside of fifty, I’ve lost touch with those traditional Sunday afternoons. After early church and a sit down bought breakfast on the way home, my Sundays are typically spent dozing and watching sports on television in couch potato mode while my wife reads her book. Occasionally we’ll go out, mostly to shop or I might play around of golf. We never just hop in the car and ride destination unknown exploring roads we’ve never traveled or sites we’ve never seen.

            Living in a tourist town, Myrtle Beach, automobile accidents occur hourly so we’d never keep up with viewing the wrecked cars. Besides, with so many garages, we’d never know where to go to view the carnage. As for cemeteries, that one never caught on with me any way and today’s cemeteries are just flat acreage with no tomb stones and markers flush to the ground. They don’t hold the same charisma and bet they don’t have those gigantic grasshoppers. Quick stops are on every corner now and don’t hold that same appeal as visiting the Orange Spot open market or the old timey ice cream shop with the outside walk up window. Our ice cream comes from the grocery store and never in a cone.

            Man, I didn’t realize how badly I missed those days until writing this. When one gets old one tends to look back on stuff one took for granted. Simple was better. No hustle, no bustle, care free and loving it, too bad I don’t have a time machine. To my deceased mama and daddy, granny and papa, and great grand and all those kin folks alive and kicking or not, I wish you were here and we were there! Back when was a good then.

Can you Say Monty Hall

 

Innovators, always and back in the sixties we didn’t have the zillion television stations or video games to occupy our bored little pre-teenager minds. We had to devise our own little distractions to break up our otherwise mundane existence. We seldom fell short on creativity and most of these distractions from the ordinary wouldn’t necessarily kill us.

            Game shows were the mainstay for daytime television. They rivaled only the numerous soap operas clogging the three stations. I saw very little of either except during the summer months when school gave me the time off and away from the world of education. Shows like To Tell the Truth or Kids Say the Darndest Things and Truth or Consequences were innovation at their broadcasting best. Each of these could have represented chapters from my life.  

Game shows certainly ruled in my day. Now they have a cable network specifically devoted to new game shows as well as replays of the ancient ones. My mama, rest her soul, kept her TV dialed into The Game Show Network. She loved reruns of the Match Game and Newly Wed Game. In real life I flunked both until I found my true love of the past fifteen years.

Can you say WHEEL…OF…FORTUNE; undoubtedly mama’s all time favorite.  She watched it in primetime and savored all the reruns as if seeing them for very first time. I hated that game show. Just the sound of WHEEL…OF…FORTUNE made my skin crawl. I was so over Vanna White and she was an original South Carolinian; go figure.

Who wants to be a Millionaire? Bless her heart; Regis snookered her in too. I guess the fortune thing and having millions coincided. The Game Show Network always playing at mama’s house turned me against game shows in general. In my adolescent days they just seemed to be entertaining; the stars seemed so much larger than life. I guess that was before tabloid television and before we knew everything about every famous celebrity.

I suppose I may as well confess. As I kid I was quite fanatical about many of the game shows of my time. Marketing not to be outdone transformed the more popular ones into play at home game versions. I still have my original Pass Word game; have had it now for probably fifty years. I also have my original Snap Judgment game. I had the Concentration Game, Match Game, Family Feud and the Newly Wed Games for a while but I think they’ve all been trashed. One can only be so much of a packrat. You must remember these were not video games but instead a combination of card and board type versions. I do still possess the home version of Win, Lose or Draw. I loved Bert Convey as host of that games how and it actually aired after I got home from school or was that work; same difference?  

Everyone remembers Bob Barker as the emcee for The Price is Right but do you remember him as the host of Truth or Consequences? I suppose the Bachelor and Bachelorette reality TV series replaced The Dating Game. After the Newly Wed Game and an unsuccessful marriage there was always Divorce Court. Yep, game shows have certainly evolved.

Who could ever forget Monty Hall and Let’s Make a Deal? Halloween attire and gimmicks equate to let’s make a fool out of ourselves. Do you want the two hundred and fifty dollars or what’s behind door number three?  Take the door; no take the money!  I’ll take door number three. What if I give you another twenty instead? How about another fifty; another one hundred? No, I’ll take door number three. Show me what’s behind door number three. There stands a dusty old miner with a jackass and cart full of rocks. You should have taken the money!

Like I proclaimed, innovators we were, so how could we improve the gaming? How could we possibly embellish on a game show already highly acclaimed as a winner? From the minds of babes anything is possible. Cousins Billy and Stevie, come on down. With my kitchen as our backdrop we were about to give it a spin; Truth or Consequences meets Let’s Make a Deal!

Allow me to set the stage. We have two contestants, same age, ten years old; supposedly one just as smart as the other. Having no audience present such as parents improved the games integrity. I am the diabolical host and believe me, host is the best position for our little game. That being said, I had to take my rotation as a contestant too; my turn in the barrel so to speak but for now the host I am.

To play the game we only required a strategically located pantry. Our two contestants were seated so that they could not see the contents of the deadly little vault; a treasure strove of hidden ingredients; the nightmare of Pandora’s Box. Premise of the game, very simple; each contestant would take their turn. The host would place his hand inside the pantry on an item of his selection and would ask the contestant “do you want this or not?” Two choices, answer yes or no. No meant you passed on the item and yes meant you had to taste the item.

We typically played this in the afternoons after school and after we had built up an appetite. Each contestant had been allowed one quick look inside the pantry so they would be assured various candies and cookies and other yummy snacks did indeed reside on the shelves. They also had the opportunity to assess the evil nasty things that lurked there. One rule, the host could not place his hand on potentially deadly items. Of course a ten year old’s perception of deadly is somewhat skewed.

Second rule, the honor system was in place which meant you could not switch items after the item had been selected and either chosen or passed over. Is there really true honor among ten year olds? I suppose that depends if your peers have ticked you off or not, or you have a favorite cousin or are just feeling devious. Remember, I am the devious one so I’ll just leave it at that. I hoped the other hosts were honorable when I sat on the hot seat. Who could really ever know the answer that one unless you were the one always ending up with the nasty selections?

“Stevie, do you want this item or not?” I asked

Taking a deep breath he finally said, “Okay, I’ll take it.”

I extracted a sleeve of saltine crackers. Stevie sighed relief and ate one saltine. Now it was Billy’s turn; truth or dare time. Billy, although the same age and Stevie and me was like that carton duck character, Baby Huey, twice as big as us so one had to handle him with kid gloves. Making someone too angry could be kid suicide and remember we had no adult supervision and intervention from an old fashion butt whipping. 

“Do you want this one or not Billy?” I asked

“Okay,” he answered.

To build up the anticipation and climax to the perfect show stopper I slowly removed my hand to reveal a bag of ruffled Lays potato chips. Billy smiled and elbowed Stevie as he plucked a handful from the open bag. Both contestants were happy so far and I remained alive and kicking; both good signs but how long could this theme last?  All was not tasty inside that pantry. Your gut should tell you that the wise thing to do is always say no, however, what’s the fun in that?

This was about gamesmanship, taking the dare and trying to outdo your opponent and outsmart the pantry host. None of us knew how to spell strategy then much less embrace the concept. We did know that there were cookies, candy bars, chips and other good stuff in that pantry and the other crap wasn’t supposed to kill us. We didn’t fathom getting sick. Besides, this was supposed to be fun; at least to a point. The thrill was agreeing to risk it all and taste what lurked at the end of the host’s extended arm.  The chances of getting something good grew slimmer as the game progressed.

“Stevie, do you want what I have in my hand?” I asked.

Another deep breath as Stevie attempts to read my poker face. They didn’t call me stone face for nothing. Stevie rationalizes that both he and Billy have successfully survived round one but what is in my hand now? Another rule, you pass and your opponent has to taste what you forfeited. Stevie decides to pass. Billy gives him the look then watches as I reveal his fate; marshmallows. Steve exclaims “darn it!”

Billy receives the goody and now has his opportunity to accept my choice or pass it to Stevie. He smiles and passes. I produce a bottle of vanilla extract. It could have been much worse. A teaspoon full and it’s over; Stevie’s turn again.

I now mess with them. “Are you sure you want his one?” I stick my second hand inside. “Or would you rather have what I’m touching with my left hand? Right or left or pass?”

“I pass,” says Stevie.

“Right or left hand,” I question Billy as he playfully punches Stevie in the shoulder.

“Left,” he boasts and I produce a can of shortening.

Billy exclaims “I’m not eating that!”

I remind him. “You know the rules. I had raisins in my right hand but you picked my left.”

“You can’t make me eat that junk.”

“Come on Billy,” says Stevie “Are you just a chicken?”

Now those were verging on fighting words where I came from but Billy cursed under his breath and dug the spoon inside the lard can as we sometimes called it. He took his medicine but not without a hitch. “Now, it’s my turn to man the pantry. It’s you against Stevie.”

I hate this game. This is where that revenge thing comes into play and if I really trust where Billy is placing his hand. I passed this first three times and Stevie received treats every time. Billy just smirked at me daring me. No one dares me and gets away with it so I nodded I would take what he had. He withdrew his hand exposing my fate and I said I quit but a man has to do what a man has to do and I reluctantly took my medicine. Puking is allowed but you don’t receive bonus points. The pantry game, it never killed us but don’t try this at home; the family pantry is not what it used to be.

Next time I think we’ll just play the phone game. Randomly dial a number and say something stupid to the person on the other end and hope you didn’t call someone who recognized you and snitches to your parents. Innovators, yes we were. We had to be, had nothing better to do.

Talking out the Fire 

 

Either you believe or you don’t. I for one believe. History tells us that certain people throughout time have allegedly possessed remarkable healing powers by either touching the inflicted or speaking to them to cure what ails them. I’m not talking evil witches who toss out curses or backyard doctors bleeding you dry with leeches. These are honest to good descent folks that have a God given gift for talking out the fire of a burn, making warts disappear or even ridding kids of their itching and tormenting poison oak.

            In Abbeville, up the hill about a mile and at the end of Hunter Street from my house, we had Cousin Jenny Martin. No, she didn’t hang out a shingle advertising her services. People with the gift rarely do or even brag or boast they have this unique power. Back in the day it was even unheard of for special people like Cousin Jenny to even accept money for using their God given powers and she would be the first to give credit where credit was due. Word of mouth, tales of her ability and testimonials from those cured was better than a televised commercial back then. Mama and Granny Bowie fully believed in Cousin Jenny’s abilities and they easily convinced me after my very first visit.

            Cousin Jenny, a short little modest county woman living a meager life style, would never stand out in a crowd or would she ever want to, but when you met her, you instantly sensed she was special and a simply a wonderful loving person. In my earliest recollection of her at probably around five or six years old I never feared her or her abilities. I knew that neither Mama nor Granny would ever take me to a person or place where I would be harmed and scared out of my wits. I trusted them and I trusted her even before I understood the meaning of trust.

            The majority of my visits to Cousin Jenny were prompted by me being highly allergic to poison oak and poison ivy and having been inflicted with the itching, oozing curse from some excursion in the wilds. Back then, Calamine Lotion only came in this pinkish version and by the time mama or me applied it to all the patches of rashes I looked like a Comanche warrior ready to do battle with an unsuspecting wagon train. They should have sold this in a more concentrated variety then I cold have been dipped in a tub the same way they do dogs and cats for fleas and ticks. Fortunately, it did temporarily relieve the tormenting itching and prevented me from scratching myself bloody. Now they have a clear version and they’ve modernized the brand name.    

            Doctors say that the rash doesn’t really spread but instead it’s just a delayed reaction due to contact with the plant. I’m not so sure I buy in to this because I know the more I scratched the more it spread and it could spread with vengeance. These same professionals say it’s not contagious but my friends often avoided me like the plague. With all the welts and Calamine Lotion I resembled a refugee form a Leper Colony.

            As a kid, I learned quickly to be able to spot the wicked weed recognizing the leaf shape and its most prone places to grow. What was the old saying? “Leaves of three, beware of me.”  Each of the leaves of my attacker has three smaller leaflets. The middle leaflet has this longer stalk than the other two sides and if you’ve been stricken by it, you quickly learn how to spot it. Even so, you could count on me getting tagged with it several times during the summer. I think I just had to be in the general proximity of the plant and it transmitted its evilness to me either airborne or via mind control.

            If mama deemed dousing me in Calamine Lotion ineffective, and it seemed the more I scratched the more it spread, then a Cousin Jenny visit would be on slate. Later I caught on to this and requested a visit at the first signs of a rash. I figured, why paint me up when we could cut to the chase and have her work her magic. I often rode my bike to her house unsupervised by an adult. I knew a good thing when I saw it.

            So the typical visit went something like this. There’d be a brief mention of why we were there then it would transform into a basic social call. The adults would catch up with family matters and social events, who’s who and what’s what in Abbeville. Usually Cousin Jenny would place a hand on me very indiscreetly, not necessarily even touching the rash, and she wouldn’t quote any biblical term or spell breaking incarnation. After anticipating something a little more spectacular, it turned out being very uneventful from a theatrical perspective. Oddly enough the rash would cease to itch and within the next day or two, the rash would miraculously go away. To this day I still don’t understand what exactly she did or how these power worked. It doesn’t really matter I suppose; they worked, enough said.

            Cousin Jenny could also talk the fire out of a burn. I read somewhere that the ability to do this goes back some thousand years or so and the fire talker usually chants bible verses while touching, rubbing or blowing on the burnt areas.  I never witnessed this one but my Daddy burned his hands badly once and paid her a visit. He swore by her just like the rest of us. He didn’t say what she actually did. My cousin and next door neighbor, Billy, afflicted often with warts visited her to get rid of those ugly knots on his hands. I accused him of playing with frogs but we know that warts don’t really come form frogs or do they? It didn’t really matter because she managed to make them vanish. Before then I seem to remember Billy doing something with a potato and burying it in the ground. That sounded too much like witchcraft to me.

            Rumor has it that these gifted folks can pass their powers on to someone else but if they do they might forfeit their own ability to do it. I’ve heard this was limited to non-kin and the opposite sex. I guess I should have asked her to teach me since she really wasn’t a cousin and I was definitely the opposite sex but then again I wonder if a person can treat themselves. Maybe I would have had immunity to poison oak and ivy by possessing the power. I suppose there’s too much water under the bridge for me to ponder what if.

Luckily as an adult I don’t seem to be affected as often by the wicked little weed or maybe I just don’t play those childhood games among the woodland ways where it lurks. And thanks go out to John Franz who invented Roundup in 1970. It works wonders in eradicating the invader. Too bad it hadn’t been invented fifty years ago. It would have worked much better than discoloring me with Calamine Lotion! Then again, we did have Cousin Jenny Martin, didn’t we? Bless our hearts. 

Check out www.mkhorror.com website for my latest book review. I'm a guess reviewer for the sight. Plus, if you're a horror fan like me, there's plenty of good reads posted there about movies.

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author T. Allen Winn: I’m having one of those Monty Hall, ‘Let’s make a ...

author T. Allen Winn: I’m having one of those Monty Hall, ‘Let’s make a ...: I’m having one of those Monty Hall, ‘Let’s make a deal’ moments. So what’s behind door number one? Ah yes, North of the Border, featuring D...

I’m having one of those Monty Hall, ‘Let’s make a deal’ moments. So what’s behind door number one? Ah yes, North of the Border, featuring Detective Trudy Wagner and all your favorite characters in another grand strand thriller. While supplies last, if you purchase a copy directly from me for the suggested retail value on the back cover, I will toss in a copy of the first release (print) of Dark Thirty, my novel on bullying. You can’t get this bargain from Amazon or Barns and Noble. But wait, this is no ordinary copy of Dark Thirty.  It’s a novel, the collector’s edition and it is a game, all wrapped into one neat cover. After originally releasing it, we detected numerous proofing-editing errors, thus prompting the use of a mulligan, a second release after additional proofing and editing. Thus, you receive the collector’s edition free and as mentioned, it doubles as a game. See how many errors you can find while reading it. Share it with family and friends and see how many they note. It makes a great party game, but only if you’re speed readers. Contact me if you’re interested in this one time offer, excluding shipping cost. How can you pass up a two-for deal? Contact me via email or Facebook.

From the archives of Whomping the Golf Ball...

If Papa Would Have Played Golf

Papa, born in 1900, passed away at the ripe old age of ninety. That seems like yesterday to me, his only grandson. Never a golfer, his pastimes were hunting and fishing. During my childhood he always took me both. I have tried to visualize what a round of golf would have been like if I had talked Papa into joining me. The corners of my mouth immediately go north just thinking about it.

            First of all, I’d certainly have to pay because he’d never fork over the price of admission if a day of fishing wasn’t included. Next I’d have to find a course without those dress code restrictions.  He’d most certainly be wearing his Camel brand denim overalls. Picture this, a two hundred forty pound barrel-chested, bald and toothless southern grand old man joining me wearing par 4 knickers aka Payne Stewart style for an afternoon of playing the gentleman’s game. Now wouldn’t we have been a sight in the fairway, or the way I hit the ball, in the woods, which would suit Papa just fine.

            Standing on the first tee box looking over the lush green fairway, I can hear his first comments, “Son, that there would sure make a good garden spot.” He always had these huge vegetable gardens and would figure fairways were just a waste of good farm land. “Might raise a goat or two out there.”

            I’d probably tee up the ball for him and hand him my driver. He’d be wearing a pair of those cotton work gloves on both hands. He’d hand me back my club, reach down and pick up the ball, then pull out that hand crafted sling shot from his overalls, his weapon of choice when hunting rabbits,. He’d load up the ball and fire that puppy. The ball would land out there in the middle of the fairway about a hundred fifty yards off the tee. “Maybe you should get back in the cart and just ride, Papa, and enjoy the scenery.”

            Squirrels scurry left and right, across the fairways and I notice that scary little twinkle in his eyes. I place my hand on his hand still clutching the sling shot giving him the look of disapproval.  On this particular course, huge fox squirrels hop right up to your cart, standing on their hind legs as they look for a quick handout. I can hear him now. “Lookey yonder, Hon, at the meat on them bones. These critters are a lot bigger than the little gray ones I usually nail back home. Heck, I could snatch him up and put him in the game basket behind the seat of this little car we’re riding in.”

            I again reinforce that the golf course would not appreciate it if we began slaughtering the local wild life. He tosses them one of his goobers. That’s boiled peanuts for you that don’t understand the goober term. I notice he still has that stew pot gaze so I speed off to our next shot.

            Papa stays easily entertained as we continue on our little trek through the wild kingdom. On number five, three turkey cross the fairway, all gobblers, and I have now taken possession of the sling shot for good and am warning him not to throw any golf balls. Doves flutter by and he encourages me to try to nail them with my seven wood. “How much do they charge you if you just want to hunt here?”

            I see the course ranger approaching. I convince Papa that he’s a game warden and tell him that we’re on game management land. He tips his hat as Mister Ranger rides past us. He behaves for a while, but I not ready to drop my guard just yet.

            I boomer-rang a hook into the pines to the left of the fairway and we ride over to search for my ball. I avoid saying let’s go hunt for my ball and get him started again. The pines are thin so I find it fairly quickly, turn and see Papa with my driver in his hands. Only bad thoughts come to mind. He’s staring up a small oak, club cocked like a deranged base ball player in a denim uniform. He’s motioning me to join him; not good.

            “Walk around to the other side.” He’s now applying his patented treeing technique on a fox squirrel perched head high on the opposite side of the oak tree. Respecting my elder, I tactfully remove the club from his grasp, lead him back to the cart and ask him again not to try to kill anything, please.

            We somehow make the turn with no fairway trophies. I buy Papa a coke, salted peanuts and a hotdog. He pours the peanuts in his bottle of coke sloshing them around and frequently taking a swig.  Because he left his store bought teeth at home, he pulls out his pocket knife and carves the hotdog into tiny bite sizes that he can gum down. I dread the back nine because several ponds await us and I too often feed the water gods.

We’re over looking an ominous pond on the number ten tee box. New problem raises its ugly head. I didn’t consider his interpretation of a water hazard.

            “Hon, take out the rods; we done found us a fishing hole! Hit another one of your worm burner shots and scare us up some red wrigglers.”

            I slice my drive, where else, in the pond. I drive over to drop and play my third. As we pull away he yells, “If you drive real slow I could troll from these little car.” He has my ball retriever in his hands scooping at the water. Pointing to the beverage cup holders he tells me that we could put the bait worms in them.

            Finally we’re heading down the eighteenth fairway.  I’ve had to talk him out of grappling in the last pond. Grappling is when you wade in the water and reach under the bank trying to find catfish.  Pulling up to the club house, he greets every group asking them what did they get. Interpreted this means did they catch any fish or kill any critters.

            Taking Papa golfing; what was I thinking? And boy, am I lucky that I never did. Would have been a hoot though…corners of mouth go north again