Fore!

I know it's no secret that I totally love where I live. I mean, the exact location of where I live - on the pond. It also happens to be in a fairly small town - two stoplights, very sketchy cell phone coverage and no grocery store. The usual things, I suppose. It's not a bad little town but all the new houses going in are McMansionish and change is in the wind...

Anyway.

There's this driving range, seemingly out in the middle of nowhere (suppposedly it's totally close to a main road - but I've never driven that way so I can't be sure). No golf course nearby, surrounded by woods and a few houses...really, it's kind of nice as driving ranges go. I guess - because one thing I don't do is golf. Unless, of course, it involves dinosaurs or fake pirate ships and the only club in use is a worn out putter - then I'm in.

But the boy? Wants to golf. He got an inexpensive set of clubs for Christmas so I taken him to the range a few times. This past time we grabbed one of his friends on the way and we ended up getting there fifteen minutes after it closed. But, and I'm guessing this doesn't happen in all that many places, we walked up to the little ball shed and there were ten buckets of balls and a cash slot in the door. And a can of bug spray.

Now, the cash slot? Big enough to stick your hand in and remove all the other latecomers payments. If there were any other late comers, which there weren't. We paid for three buckets of balls - they wanted more, so I let them collect another bucket themselves (stealing from the honor system - nice, eh?) so they could shoot for another ten minutes until it was too dark to play. They practiced their Happy Gilmore shot, burned some worms (fast moving ball that never really leaves the ground) and made general fools of themselves...definitely not following any golf etiquette that I've ever seen.


This, apparently, is the look on your face after a ball you hit goes whizzing by your mom's head.