Ho. How can you call it a game when it requires hours daily in practice and playing every day in heat or sleet? And after all of that, you cannot get the stupid ball into the stupid hole (which gets smaller as the ball gets closer) without doubling the so-called “par” score at the very least.
Oh, and do not, please, try to tell me to take a lesson or two! That just makes matters worse, as I attempt to remember what the coach told me to do (which, by the way, considering my age is difficult enough to do) and my arms go akimbo and my legs can’t figure out the appropriate direction, and the stupid ball goes into the water. And my handicap soars.
Ho, ho. A game. Sure.
Got to go, the fairways beckon.
The world is a-broil,
clouds swirling and rain pelting.
Thoughts bring the whirlwinds.
Was out walking the other morning and happened upon a pond. Actually a reservoir, actually two reservoirs, one across the street from the other, but that’s not the story. I shattered the peaceful morning with my hoots of laughter as I happened to look at one reservoir and saw a whole lot of upside-down ducks. Took me a moment or three to figure out what I was seeing. So there I was laughing, and I looked across the street to the other reservoir and there too were a whole lot of upside-down ducks.
Laughed all the way home, and tried to eat breakfast upside-down. Ducks do it better.
At my local: people sitting, talking, smiling, greeting friends, accepting strangers. Hardly ever an altercation–and even then, surprising apologies. Warm, accepting (within bounds that can stretch when necessary), enjoying the hubbub of normality.
At my local the other day, kind of reading but also eavesdropping on activities around me while sipping my cuppa. Two people, a mom and her (probably) teenage son come in and walk to the line waiting to order. From around a group of people come two other folks, a man and his (probably) teenage daughter. The young people smile at one another and politely introduce dad and mom. They all chat for a moment or two, and then, four people grinning broadly go their ways.
It was lovely.
Sometimes, the old sayings seem new again. The one I am thinking of now is “it’s the little things that count”. This little saying never really meant much to me, but a thing happened today that caused me to give it a bit of thought. Which means, of course, that you also can give it a thought.
Little things. Things like finding a whisker that my cat shed (I collect them and have done since Sister Dear mentioned that she kept her cat’s whiskers and I loved the idea). They can be found in places you might expect–the spot where she likes to nap, for instance–but occasionally, I come across one in a spot where I would not have thought she would have been. That’s a little thing that counts.
It’s not just the good little things that count, though. The bad little things also count, because they provide a wake-up or provoke a re-think. You hear someone berating a small child, or see a dog being mishandled, and it makes you re-interpret the person and relationships and noticing the weak and the strong in people. Those are little things that count.
It’s been a harsh winter for me, long periods of snow and cold that are not quite the norm around here, then rain, a bit of sun to bring an optimistic state of mind, but that doesn’t last. Today though, a little thing happened. I was walking up my driveway and I saw crocus buds in the small garden. That counts. As does the smile that sprang to life when I saw them.
Let the little things count.