Cornfield Safari

A cornfield safari is not for the faint-of-heart. Or the easily addled, the asthmatic, the claustrophobic or one prone to allergies. It is a dark and dangerous place.

Children get lost in cornfields and it is no wonder. After a few minutes among the rows you begin to wonder, "Which way am I going? Why did I come in here? How do I get out?" Before you know it there is a neighborhood brigade performing a search and rescue.

This time of year the corn is 8 foot tall. The stalks are tightly spaced. The leaves are long, slicing tenacles. The pollen forms a cloud when thrashing through the rows. The biting bugs easily hone in on human prey. And depending on the time of day, morning being the worst, the cornfield is a wet jungle.

I set out on a cornfield safari yesterday to retrieve a few of the estimated 50 range balls that are lost there. Finding 4 I declared mission accomplished and headed back out to the yard, grass, free moving air.

I lied about quitting golf. I suck at golf but suck more at keeping resolutions.

Farewell to Golf

Golf is a stupid game. Last night's attempts were as futile as ever. On the rare occasion when I actually advanced the ball I received a round of special-olympics applause. (oh look, the moron made the ball move!)

This morning I took my clubs out of the car, took out my 5 wood and hit the last of the range balls into the corn field before putting my clubs away forever.

The balls flew. Never has a club worked so well for me.

So It Begins

I've been addicted to reading blogs lately. They have been morning soap operas for me. I have to check to see what so-and-so did. I know none of the people whose blogs I read. These people all know each other, though, and write about each other constantly.

I think I check to see if their friends agree on the stories. They do. They are great friends, all extremely intelligent, all immensely talented and of course, incredibly successful.

They are everything I'm not.