Perhaps I’d better clear something up. Last week I mentioned I was thinking of taking some time off from writing this weekly column to do a book. That’s true, but I’m not completely abandoning “From the Valley.” I will still be doing it, most of the time, with just an occasional absence.
I thought it was necessary to clear that up because last week I got an unbelievable amount of emails from readers who thought I was quitting, done with the column, a don’t-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass-on-the-way-out sort of deal. Too often, not getting my message across is how I roll, and apparently I did it again. Nothing new there.
Anyhow, I want to reassure all the people who wrote — both of them — that, God willing, I’ll still be around often enough to make you wonder “what the hell is he talking about now?”
Writing this weekly column is a good excuse from putting in the the effort that it takes — at least, for me — to sit down and work on a book. As the King of Procrastination, I’m always looking for an out. So, yeah, whatever.
With that said …
Summer, this year, at the Labor Camp has had its usual pop-up problems, some of which I’ve documented here in slightly embellished, woe-is-me stories. But I wouldn’t trade my time on the St. Lawrence River for anything. The customary obstacles, bumps in the road, pale in comparison to the pluses. Pluses like ..
I’ve been fortunate to get out and fish. I ran into my buddy Phil and his wife, Sue Johnson, the other day on the river. They were on their pontoon boat fishing and entertaining a couple of friends who are neighbors at their winter home in Florida.
Phil’s a great guy, a Vietnam vet who drove a Navy patrol boat while serving our country during that troubling time. He loves to bust chops. I love the guy. Over the years, he’s been very generous to me regarding tackle and whatever I might happen to need on the water.
So the other day, when Sue piped up that they’d recently lost two boat anchors (it happens), I thought it was the perfect opportunity to return a favor plus get in a little shot at the verbal-jab master. I had an extra anchor aboard, so I said “Here, Phil, take this.” I wrapped the rope around the top of the anchor and handed it to him over the pontoon boat’s rail.
Phil stared at it, mostly because it looked exactly like the ones he’d just lost (FYI: they all look the same). “Hey, is that mine? Did you find it somewhere?” he asked.
I couldn’t resist the chance to kid him and say, “It probably is. I found it floating in the channel, and knowing the cheap crap you buy ....” He stared at me for a moment to let it sink in. No pun intended. (Of note: He doesn’t really buy cheap stuff.)
Let’s move on, I got a feeling it hasn’t “sunk” in with you either.
Another thing I like to do in the summer is golf with my brothers, Tim and Mike. There’s a nine-hole course about 25 miles away. And honestly, the laughs are more valuable than the pars and birdies.
One of Tim’s favorite sayings after playing — to put our play in perspective — is “All the scorecards go in a hole in a hollow tree.” It has become a running joke and part of our regular banter.
Mike can putt lights out. He’s amazing, especially considering he gets his ball to roll around crap grass, goose droppings and the goose that dropped ‘em. And Tim can “drive the ball to Winthrop.” Winthrop is a local community several miles away.
Incidentally, there’s a Winthrop University in South Carolina, and so a couple of years ago I bought Tim a Winthrop hat. When Mike asked me what I got him, I said. “Here’s a towel, wipe the goose st off your balls.”
I kid. I’m not that cruel. I didn’t get him anything.
This past Friday, the three of us — unbeknownst to one another — brought along a friend to round out our group and make a foursome. I brought my longtime friend, Bob, Mike brought Mac and Tim brought along Mark. So there we were, six of us. That’s a lot especially since the temperature was about 130 degrees in the shade. That made for a good news / bad news day.
The good news was that because it was so hot no one else was stupid enough to golf. Thus, the six of us got to play together using three carts with no one behind us slowing them up.
The bad news was that because there were so many of us playing together in such heat, by the time you got to hit, you felt like a piece of steak that had been left on a super-hot grill for five hours. It was the first time that if someone asked me to describe my play, I could say “Well done.” and that’s rare.
Hey, look, maybe I’ll see you here next week … maybe not. Are we clear on that?
And that’s the way it looks from the Valley.
P.S. Happy birthday, Dad. Miss you.
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