Medium Well

I’m a terrible golfer, despite decades of practice and the encouragement of my father, before he died many years ago. Of course, only some of his comments on my technique were instructional, more often they were motivational, like if I left a shot short he’d say “Hit it again, Alice” or “Does your husband play golf?” The other day, with a damaging storm forecast, I went golfing figuring no one else would be there. And when the starter said “the course is yours” I knew I could play at my own speed: slow. On the second fairway I hit a nice drive, and, alone on the course, I twirled around like Mary Richards in the opening credits of Mar Tyler Moore, and I looked to the heavens and I thanked my wonderful father for giving me the gift of golf. And on the next Par 3 tee he took my first shot and held it in his heavenly hand and dropped in on the green about 10 yards from the hole and he rolled it up the slope, and closer and closer until bang!, it hit the flag stick and bounced a few feet away. And when I left both the birdie and par putts short I thought I heard in the strengthening wind a far away laugh and one word “Alice!”