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Golfing with my dad

I have no idea why this came to me last night, but I was thinking about golfing with my dad.

My dad passed away about 5 years ago now, and of course, I still miss him. When I was about 9, he taught me to golf, and we spent a lot of time walking around a near-by course together. I have to admit, I never really had the love of the game that he had, but I enjoyed the time spent with him, just the two of us, doing something no one else in the family did.

Dad golfed regularly, and loved it. When he retired, he golfed nearly every day in the summer. He wasn't a great golfer, but a "duffer" - never kept him from enjoying it. Now me: I'm too much of a perfectionist to enjoy golf. It frustrated me and made me tense. I came to wholeheartedly agree with Mark Twain, in that golf is a good walk spoiled.

I was thinking last night, though, about how patient my dad was with me as I learned the game, how he managed to shrug off a badly hit shot, a ball in the drink. He went about the course pointing out a particular species of tree, a bird he noticed, the ducks in the pond rather than the ball I'd just put in there. He showed me how to get a shot out of the sand and read a green.

I gave up golf a long time ago, but I sure wouldn't mind a game with dad again. I'd enjoy the walk, laugh about the poorly placed shot, enjoy the fresh air and the green grass and love being with Dad.

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