City slickers learn a thing or two from a pair of prairie pros.
Our family was having a fine time at the old homestead. A group of us cousins had converged on the farm to scuff up our city souls. Balfour, N.D. (pop. 20), was a prime vacation destination when we were children, world-famous – we assumed – as the Home of Grandma.
Now we were adults, and Grandma was gone, and the hayloft and silage pit no longer held the same appeal. When Uncle Cliff noticed us passing the time by chipping golf balls into a gopher hole, an activity that annoyed the grasshoppers no end, he suggested we drive southeast a few miles for a real game. Uncle Cliff stopped at the cafe to pick up his friend Jake, a wiry old man who was nearly consumed by his own overalls, and off we went.
The clubhouse at the Drake Golf Club was closed so Elmer could get his hay in, but the course was wide, wide open. Uncle Cliff tucked $2 per player into the little envelopes provided and slipped them into the slot like a church offering. He allowed as how we could use some of his clubs. He himself used only one club, homemade, with a massive leaden head and almost no loft at all. It would have appealed to a Neanderthal.
Also, he had a putter.
My husband, Dave, selected a shiny, unmarked nine iron from Uncle Cliff's bag, confident it had 150 yards in it, and teed up, hair streaming behind him. The wind was coming straight out of the north; it had originated somewhere in the Yukon and barreled south without resistance for a thousand prairie miles. This, in short, was a breeze with some pop to it.
Dave gave his ball a good fat whack. We watched it sail into the distance, hover, and return a half minute later, dropping a few meek yards away.