Wednesday I headed north to Celina to have lunch with my youngest granddaughter, Dani. It was her eleventh birthday, so I stopped off at two of her favorite places, Sonic and J's Donuts and treated her to a Coney and donut holes. I asked her school counselor to join us, thought that might be a good idea since the counselor also doubles as Dani's mother and my daughter.
As I left the school, a question came into my mind, "What was I doing when I was eleven years old?" Let's see, that would have been 1956 -- FIFTY YEARS AGO!!!! I was in the sixth grade, solidifying my place in history as one of the original Lancaster Road Scholars at Lisbon Elementary School.
A typical day for me usually went this way. Morning classes where I tried valiantly to expand my mind while fending off the amorous intentions of Patricia Louise Edmondson, Wanda Lee Scroggins, Sheryl Ann Clark, Margaret Lynell Garrett, and a host of other hot chicks. At noon it was down the stairs, past the bookroom, into the cafeteria for lunch, then outside for a little kickball game.
During P.E., I spent most days tutoring Gary Wayne Leverett on the finer points of playing football. I would send him deep on Harlon Hill specials and then critique his rather klutzy running style. What? You thought G.W. just showed up at SOC one day and became an instant star? Anyway, then it was back to class as I tried to take advantage of the academic opportunities in reading, writing, and arithmetic. My report cards during this time were all alike -- 1's in all subjects (this was the apex of my academic career) and X's in two categories: Self Control and Makes Good Use of Time and Materials.
After school, I headed to the gym where, under the watchful eye of Mr. Johns it was time to separate the men from the boys - dead man. I made Gary Wayne look like a sissy girl until Mr. Johns blew the whistle that signified that you could cross midcourt and throw the ball from the free throw line. That's when I was always thankful that I had gone to the restroom before the game started. Then I started the journey home, walking by the Lisbon Theater, down Fordham, past Sheryl's house on Sonora, onto Biglow where Pat lived, by Jackie Daniel's house with his big chow dog, and into the safe confines of 2110 Volga.
There I would work the black and orange knobs on our TV, try to convince my parents that my sister (a junior a't SOC) was the Antichrist, then go outside with my baseball glove and bounce a tennis ball off the garage door for hours (this activity proved invaluable later in life when I would regularly humiliate Jack Barry Cowley and Tommy Allen Daniel in wiffle ball). Those were good days.
Now, let me ask you a question. Let's say you are having a bad day. All you hear is Iraq, North Korea, AIDS, Amber alerts, pornography, terrorism, stool softeners, Alzheimers, internet sexual predators, political mudslinging, etc. You stop by Chili's and the only thing you can hear above the loud music is the kids at the next table seeing who can yell the loudest. Seeking a break, you head to the movies and pay $8 to hear 900 F-bombs in a two-hour movie. Finally you stagger into your house and are shocked to find Mr. Peabody and Sherman standing in your den. Mr. Peabody turns to his pet boy and says, "Sherman, set the WABAC (wayback) machine for______?" Then he turns to you for the answer and what do you say?
Steady Shirts …
By John Southworth
Can any of you remember back to the late 1950’s when it was customary for a guy and girl “going steady” to wear exactly matching shirts? A sort of badge of ownership … an unspoken statement to let the world know that this person belongs to ME, so hands off!
Usually, the shirts were matching plaids with button down collars. You’d go to Sears and buy two shirts (usually different sizes). Then you’d show up at school and parade around the halls together – and your classmates would at last have confirmation of your deep feelings and never-ending loyalty for each other.
All of which brings me back to the eighth grade at Sarah Zumwalt Jr. High. I shared a class with a wonderful girl who was always smiling and wore glasses. I was a shameless, but inexperienced flirt. Over time, she and I developed a “connection”; nothing explicit – just an obvious attraction.
One day she asked me “Do you have a solid black shirt?” I replied that I did. She then suggested that I made sure to wear it to school on Wednesday. Sure enough, on Wednesday I entered the classroom wearing my black shirt and sat down next to her. Guess what she was wearing? You got it … a black shirt very similar to my own.
Her message to me was now crystal clear. We sat through class in our matching shirts. We made our statement. We were “steadies” in the earliest of the stage.
Sadly our love never made any further progress. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Within days a guy named Don Blakely caught her attention. He was a new kid to the school; the son of a preacher as I recall. We had a school talent show that spring and Don was to be one of the participants. He was a good looking kid but showed the effects of an earlier bout with polio. Secretly, I hoped he’d be a tremendous flop in the upcoming show.
Don chose to sing a corny little song - “Would You Like To Swing On A Star?” Maybe you remember it:
“Would you like to swing on a star
Carry moonbeams home in a jar
And be better off than you are
Or would you rather be a MULE?”
To the surprise of everyone in the audience, Don had a REMARKABLE voice. He nailed the song. His performance was fantastic. Beyond fantastic. And at that same moment I knew I’d lost my girl forever. I looked around the auditorium for a broom to sweep up the dusty ashes of my little romance.
What brought back all these memories was a one-line Guestbook greeting from Peaches last Friday, wishing my old flame a Happy Birthday. In the end, neither Don nor I could hold her heart. Thirty years later when nobody was looking, that birddog Jack Morrison swooped in and claimed her. And it was Jack who celebrated with Darla Williams last week.
I wonder if they wore matching black shirts?
Dr. Proctor: Lord of the Bedpan
By Ken Haas
As custodian of Doctor Proctor's medical records, I am privy to many of the medicinal treatments and intense therapy sessions that many a SOCite experienced while being treated at Chester Clinic. While bound by my strong ethical and moral standards not to reveal medical details, I can however relate to you the particular incidents that lead these poor souls to seek help at the Lancaster Road facility. In the following narration, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
A big city lawyer -- let's call him Jack -- went duck hunting in rural East Texas. He shot and dropped a bird with his first shot, but it fell into a farmer's field on the other side of the fence. As the lawyer climbed over the fence, an elderly farmer -- let's call him Mike White -- drove up on his tractor and asked the lawyer what he was doing.
The attorney responded, "I shot a duck and it fell in this field, and now I am going to retrieve it."
The old farmer replied, "This is my property and you are not coming over here."
The indignant attorney said, "Listen to me, I am one of the best trial lawyers in the United States and if you don't let me get that duck I'll sue you and take everything you own."
The old farmer smiled and said, "Apparently, you don't know how we settle disputes here in East Texas. We settle small disagreements like this with the Three Kick Rule."
The lawyer looked puzzled and asked, "What is the Three Kick Rule?"{
The farmer explained, "Well, because the dispute occurs on my land, first I kick you three times and then you kick me three times and so on and so forth until someone gives up."
The lawyer quickly thought about the proposed contest and decided he could easily take the old codger. He agreed to abide by the local custom.
The old farmer slowly climbed down from the tractor and walked up to the attorney. His first kick planted the toe of his heavy, steel-toed work boot into the lawyer's groin and dropped him to his knees. His second kick to the stomach sent the lawyer's last meal gushing from his mouth. The lawyer was on all fours when the farmer's third kick to his rear end sent him face-first into a fresh cow pie.
Summoning every bit of his will, the lawyer managed to stagger to his feet. Wiping his face on the arm of his jacket, he looked at the farmer and said, "Okay, now it’s my turn."
The old farmer smiled and said, "Naw, I give up. You can have the duck."
Dr. Proctor, Man or Myth?
By Ken Haas
For quite a while now, ugly rumors and innuendo have been circulating that seem focused on destroying the reputation of one of our great Americans, Dr. Proctor. These malicious lies cast this wonderful physician as an uncaring, unprofessional sort who has no sense of humor. Well, allow me to dispel this crapola by regaling you with just one of the many heartwarming examples of Dr. Proctor's compassion, loving bedside manner, and good naturedness.
A man was at the country club for his weekly round of golf. He began his day with an eagle on the first hole and a birdie on the second. On the third hole he had just scored his first ever hole-in-one when his cell phone rang.
The call was from Dr. Proctor notifying him that his wife had just been in a terrible accident, and after emergency surgery she was in critical condition in the ICU.
The man told Dr. Proctor to inform his wife where he was and that would be there as soon as possible. As he hung up, the man realized he was about to leave what was shaping up to be his best ever round of golf. He decided to get in a couple more holes before heading to the hospital. The great shots just kept coming and before he knew it the man ended up playing all eighteen holes. He finished the round shooting a personal best 61, shattering the club record by five strokes and beating his previous best game by an incredible ten shots.
The man was jubilant, and then he remembered his wife. Feeling horrible and overcome with guilt he rushed to the hospital as fast as possible. As he entered the ICU, he saw Dr. Proctor and immediately asked about his wife's condition.
Dr. Proctor glared at him and shouted, "You went ahead and finished your round of golf, didn't you! I hope you're proud of yourself! While you out for the past four hours enjoying yourself at the country club, your poor wife has been languishing in intensive care! It's just as well that you went ahead and finished because that will more than likely be the last round of golf you ever play. For the rest of her life she will require round the clock care, and you will be her care giver!"
The man was so consumed with guilt that he fell to the floor and began sobbing.
At that point, Dr. Proctor started to snicker and said, "Just kidding! She died about two hours ago. What'd you shoot?"
I rest my case.
The Joy of Being Retired
Plagiarized And Edited By Jack Barry Cowley
Working people frequently ask retired people what they do to make their days interesting. Well, for example, the other day I went downtown and ventured into a cool shop. I was only in there for about 5 minutes and when I came out there was a cop writing out a parking ticket.
I went up to him and said, "Come on, man, how about giving a retired person a break?" He ignored me and continued writing the ticket. I called him a "worthless Republican." He glared at me and started writing another ticket for having worn tires. So I called him a "doughnut eating Bush lover." 44 He finished the second ticket and put it on the windshield with the first. Then he started writing a third ticket. This went on for about 20 minutes. The more I abused him, the more tickets he wrote. Personally, I didn't care. I had ridden downtown on the bus and the car that he was putting the tickets on had a bumper sticker that said "W in 04."
I try to have a little fun each day now that I'm retired. It's important to my health and my freedom of expression.
Not Plagiarized By Jack Barry Cowley --
Peace, Love and Light to all...from my heart to yours every day.
When I grow up…
By Wanda Scroggins Liford
I had to chuckle when I read my first boyfriend’s column about what we thought our future would be and seeing Charlotte’s reply. What did we dream of?
I, for one, used to think I would grow up to be Donna Reed. You know, Mary (Shelly Fabares) and Jeff’s (Paul Petersen) mom. I was going to wear designer shirtwaist dresses, pearls and high heels to vacuum the house and do the dishes. My husband was going to be a handsome devil and highly successful. My children were going to be perfect and the worst problem we were ever going to have was a lost boyfriend or baseball game, or a dry meatloaf.
I’m sure that those of us who had her for a teacher remember Mrs. Elinor Criswell. She was the drill sergeant who taught typing on the east side of the second floor of our alma mater. She believed in telling it like it was and frequently did just that. She used to tell us…no, actually, she used to lecture us about the “real” world. She informed us that not many companies hired full time drill team performers, cheerleaders, football, basketball or baseball players and they certainly did not hire poor performers. She insisted that we learn things like speed and accuracy, how to figure tabular columns and headings, proper business procedure, etc. etc. All that stuff that Donna Reed never even thought about. I was sure that it was a waste of my time.
Well, while my husband was a handsome devil, my children were not even close to being perfect (remind me to tell you the story of my youngest and the dog poop.) My grandchildren are almost perfect. I never wore a designer shirtwaist dress with pearls and high heels to vacuum or do the dishes. In fact, I don’t recall ever having worn a shirtwaist dress and pearls at the same time for any reason, but I do remember, quite clearly, calling Mrs. Criswell one night when I was working late trying to get out a proposal and asking her to explain to me, once again, how to figure those darned tabular columns and headings!
Sports Report
The Tarnished Gold & White
By Ken Haas
On Saturday the 26th, McKinney North High School hosted a Junior Varsity volleyball tournament. Most of the forty-eight teams participating were from large 4A and 5A districts whose teams are made up of mostly juniors and sophomores. Some of the competing teams were Plano West, Plano East, Bishop Lynch, Lakeview Centennial, Denton Ryan, South Grand Prairie, Mesquite, South Garland, and oh yes, your South Oak Cliff Golden Bears.
It was a long day for SOC, and the climax came at 1:00 PM when they were pitted against tiny Celina, a school with about 450 students that is moving from 2A to 3A this year. With two sophomores and ten freshmen on their team, the Lady Cats from Celina appeared to be badly overmatched. However, led by a 5'7" redheaded freshman, the upstarts from Celina completely dominated the SOC team and sent the Golden Bears back to Oak Cliff soundly defeated.
After the game, my daughter called to tell me that my oldest granddaughter, a 5'7", redheaded freshman at Celina, thought that it was quite humorous that her school had defeated the alma mater of her grandfather.
Of all the many daydreams I had in Miss Paschall's trig class, trust me, this was not one of them.
My Favorite Joke to the Honorable Tim Wright
By Danny Green
We all played jokes on people while at SOC. I looked at it as if it were a Bear tradition. I told this once before, but maybe you forgot. I placed a trick whistling device in the tailpipe of Tim Wright's Ford one day after school. It had a loud whistling sound that sounded like the engine was fixing to let go.
Tim slowly nursed his Ford straight home and told his dad. They took it to their mechanic. No one could figure out what could be causing the loud noise that came from the exhaust tailpipe. As the mechanic revved the engine up real hard for the last time, the Trick Whistling Device blew out the tail pipe and across the parking lot. It clattered and clanked as it bounced along. The loud noise had stopped, and the mechanic knew exactly what it was. I never said anything about doing that to Tim or to anyone, although he surely deserved it. He may deserve it again. About three weeks later it ended up in my tailpipe, and from the looks of it, it had been in use a lot.
A good clean joke is fun, especially when Tim Wright was on the receiving end. We all had fun back then. I thought of all this again, when Tim and his lovely wife, in their Brand New Car, pulled out of the parking lot at Terry McIntire's funeral.
My best trick was filling Connie Fleming's locker up with Helium Filled Balloons early one morning at SOC. We all are still friends, and that is what is Important.
Blue Funk
By Wanda Scroggins-Liford
I consider myself to be an optimist with a good attitude and blessed with the ability to make people smile and, sometimes, even laugh. Not this week.
For any number of reasons, I have been in a real blue funk all week and it's only Wednesday. I don't like it. I don't like it one little bit. You'd think that if I was going to be in a blue funk, it would have been a couple of weeks ago when my car was broken into, but not so. I took on a very positive attitude and go through that experience with flying colors. Or maybe two weeks ago when I learned that the company I work for was not going to hire my co-worker. Scott is a great kid (he's 22 and looks 12). He has been working temp for several months and when the facilities manager from Hades quit, he applied for the job. My boss put him to work right away and promised they would process his paperwork and get him on board right away. Then came the RIF (Reduction In Force). Steve (my boss) did everything he could to convince Corporate to hire Scott, but to no avail. He was told that either I would have to take on the facilities responsibilities or they would work up a severance package for me and give the receptionist/facilities manager position to Scott. When Scott learned this he told them all to go to a much hotter climate than Tucson because he didn't need any job badly enough to take it away from someone else. He's moving back to Michigan and returning to the U of M. I took all of this in stride.
Nothing has happened this week to cause me to be in a blue funk. Nothing that is except that this is the last week I will be able to work with one of the finest young men I've met in a long time. He is respectful, clean cut (not an earring or tattoo anywhere), has a great work ethic and a great attitude. I have become his "Arizona Mother" and we are good friends as well as co-workers. I'm going to miss him very much. I'm angry and it took me a day or so to figure out what I am angry about. I am angry at the unfairness of the world today. Not that it was ever completely fair, but it seems so much worse today. I agree with what John Southworth calls "our crumbling society".
I know that "this, too, shall pass" and it has occurred to me that when my car was broken into, when we had the RIF, when I learned that Scott was not going to be hired, I turned it over to God and asked Him to guide me through, just like I do when I get homesick for my home state, my church family, my SOC family, my kids and grandchildren back home, when I'm not feeling well or any other "blue funk" experience in my life. I think I understand now why I'm in a blue funk.
Excuse me, I'm quite tired of licking my wounds. I've just remembered what my knees are for and I have a very important appointment.
E-mails
By Bill Akins
It's probably not too far from the truth to state that we (baby-boomers from the 60s) were the last to actually write notes and letters to family and friends. We really took pen and paper and put our thoughts into words, then mailed them to someone we cared about. I remember how great it was to get a letter from my family and/or friends when I was at UT. This was a real connection.
And now we have these incredible tools called the internet and e-mail. What a fantastic way to communicate! But all we seem to be able to do is forward "stuff" that was probably started by someone none of us knows. There's nothing personal at all in my email box, only jokes and cartoons, many of which I have seen on numerous occasions.
Well, I'm going to make a break! Send me those forwards if you will, and I will still look at them. But I will no longer be forwarding them to anyone. I'm going to be on a mission to actually communicate again. When you see my name attached to an incoming email, it will be a personal note from me to you. It may not say much, but it will be from me to you.
Going Away
By Buzz Barron
I've always wondered what happened to everybody else after the last bell rung. Where did you go, what did you do, did you keep up?
That summer after graduation I found myself not throwing the paper route, but working at a new place Six Flags. Mom always said if you didn't do well in High School you'd be a trash man and here I was, picking up trash. Great yellow and orange uniform too. While trash is bad, the perks were pretty good as we got to ride all the rides all we wanted after work, and me and some other guys were the first to test the log flume, without the logs, when it was almost finished, and drive the steam locomotive. Then there was this cute little Hurst Majorette, but too much time visiting her got me fired.
From there directly to join the service, and gone that day, seventeen years old. I figured I had only to go up from here, but basic training at Lackland wasn't particularly the John Wayne thing I'd imagined. Gone four years, half way around the world twice, as far as I could get away from Dallas, but that was when I began to appreciate home, Mom, and the friends I'd left.
Coming home wasn't good. All of you had left too. Then college, and work, and another whole life. Thirty years with the Boy Scouts, moving every four years or so, you lose a lot more friends.
It's good to be back home and with people I grew up with that share the same value system, ethics and character. We're a special people
Great Inventions of the 1960’s
By John Southworth
It seems every decade produces some outstanding invention. Sometimes it is the work of one individual, but most likely it is the result of a collaboration of great minds. Sunday morning brought this point home as I set up the hose and sprinkler in my front yard.
Something next door caught my attention … a brief wisp of billowing white flickered in the corner of my eye. Had my neighbor put in some new landscaping? No. What I was seeing was about 20 rolls of toilet paper draped over the trees, the bushes, the flower bed, and scattered over the lawn.
The neighbors (Andrew and Gia) have a 14 yr. old son (Jason) who apparently possesses this biological/chemical property that actually attracts toilet paper – several times a year. Saturday night, the stars must have been aligned just right to trigger the phenomenon once again.
For a good ten minutes I stood in my yard and just admired the lazy streams of white drifting in the gentle morning breeze. Realizing that soon poor Jason would be cleaning up the yard again, I dashed inside, got my Sony Cyber-shot digital camera (with the 2.5” LCD Monitor) and returned to the front yard to record the event (see actual pic).
After I got the sprinklers going, I settled down with a cuppa java and my thoughts drifted back to the summer of 1962. I’m not sure if Gary Vineyard and John Wilkerson were the original inventors of “toilet papering” houses, but they were active practitioners and the ones who introduced me to the sport.
That particular evening began innocently enough. Gary, John, Charles Howarth and myself were out cruising Oak Cliff in Gary’s beat-up Mercury. His car was so banged up that folks would actually yield the right-of-way to us at four-way stop signs. Gary explained that his car’s dilapidated looks intimidated other drivers and they frequently would wave him on through the intersection rather than risk placing their own autos in harm’s way by crossing in front of him. Made sense to me.
So many years have passed that I don’t recall Wilkerson’s motive behind choosing Jim Wiler’s house as the target for the evening’s toilet paper raid. Probably just another example of that “star alignment” thing. First of all, we needed to acquire some “ammunition” for the attack. After stopping at several gas station restrooms we managed to lift a decent number of rolls to do a proper job [note that we were too cheap or too broke to actually “pay” for toilet paper].
Under cover of darkness, the four of us quietly rolled up to Jim’s house. Gary stayed behind the wheel as John W., Charlie and I got busy tossing the t-p rolls over branches. For me, the adrenalin was pumping. This was my first (and only) raid and I was convinced that someone would charge out of the house with a shotgun blazing. How would I explain a gunshot wound to my parents? For sure, they’d ground me for a week.
We’d finished about half of the job when a car came down the street and screeched to a halt in front of the house. It was Jim’s father and mother – and apparently they weren’t happy with the new lawn decoration theme. Charlie, John, and I all piled into Gary’s car and he laid rubber to get us out of there. Mr. Wiler was hot and took off right behind us.
We drove for blocks, twisted and turned, ran stop signs and finally put some distance between the heap Mercury and the Wiler-mobile. Man, my heart was about to burst out of my chest.
Looking back, I don’t think toilet papering was an invention of the fifties. The concept was a child of the early 1960’s and continues to rank in importance and significance right up there next to “sliced bread”.
Our generation can hold up its head with pride. I mean, what did the 1950’s come up with? … okay, the polio vaccine was a big deal, but can it really hold a candle to the innovative use of toilet paper?
How Golf Really Began
by Humorist Gary Loftis
After 5 frustrating hours trying to find the necessary paperwork to complete my tax return, I was ready to punch the wall, the dog, or the door, so I went to the driving range and beat the h*$&*^##&& out of a bucket of golf balls. On returning home -- much relaxed -- I envisioned where golf really began.
A few hundred years ago, a fellow named Angus McDuffee lived in the Scottish Highlands. Angus had a rather short temper, a state aggravated by his wife's brother, Andrew, a ne'er-do-well who did little more than eat, sleep, and argue. He had come to stay the night three years ago and had never left. For a time, Angus took Andrew out into the moors and beat the h*$&*^##&& out of him with his mashie (Celtic for "a really gnarled walking stick with a bent end") when the aggravation became too intense. After a while, Angus' wife figured out that even drunken, stupid, lazy Andrew couldn't accidentally fall down the mountain THAT often, so she warned Angus that beating up her brother would lead to a fortnight of cold, lonely nights.
The next time Angus got mad, he remembered his wife's warning, grabbed his mashie, and set out for a long walk to cool off. After a while, he realized walking was not providing the same relief as the sound of the mashie bouncing off Andrew's head. About then, a walnut fell from the tree above, smacking him soundly atop his own head. That was the last straw! Angus raised his mashie and sent the walnut deep into the woods.
As it happened, Andrew was hiding in those woods lest he receive another beating. He watched as Angus hit the walnut, then watched the spheroid as it rolled into a gopher hole. Amazed that such random events as the hit walnut and the entry into the gopher hole could coincide, Andrew decided to try to make it happen again.
The next morning, Andrew went out of his way to tick off Angus. Sure enough, Angus turned beet red, grabbed his mashie, and set off down the mountain. Andrew ran ahead with a handful of walnuts. Situating himself behind a tree about 15 minutes' walk down the trail, he waited for Angus. Around the bend came Angus, still cursing and fuming. Andrew let go a nut, catching Angus squarely on the back of the head. Spinning around and spying the nut, Angus again smacked the small orb into the woods, barely missing a gopher hole.
Since he had several remaining nuts, Andrew tried again; and again Angus hit the nut but missed the hole. On Andrew's third nut, the hit orb found a hole.
The probability of Angus hitting a walnut into a gopher hole and the opportunity to further irritate his brother-in-law became a daily game to Andrew, and he began to classify parts of the trail by how many walnuts he'd have to throw at Angus before one was hit into a gopher hole. He called these classifications "pars" (short for a Celtic phrase loosely translated as "how far can you push a homicidal brother-in-law before he hits your head with his mashie"). Achieving amazing accuracy in his predictions, Andrew began bragging about his little ploy to some of the other village parasites, who began turning out to watch the sport and wagering among themselves.
One day, Angus became so enraged that he had an aneurism and died between the fourth and fifth holes. Andrew's sport ended, but the betters wanted more sport, so he became a consultant, advising them on ways to aggravate their responsible relatives and neighbors, pick just the right locations on their trails from which to throw walnuts, and rate the various holes. Soon, hardworking men all over Scotland were toppling over dead from aggravation, and a new "leisure class" was enjoying prosperity as the property of their now dead relatives passed into their hands. Andrew became a national celebrity and was dubbed "St. Andrew" for the miraculous way he made his clients rich.
All was not well, however, because the nouveau riche realized that they were now the targets, so again they turned to Andrew for guidance and, avoiding work whenever possible, he decided to see if he could go public with the sport with a few modifications. Rather than betting how many walnuts it would take to get a madman to hit a gopher hole, they bet on how many each would have to hit in order to get a nut in a hole. Andrew set up a toll gate at the trail head, charging one farthing admission. He decided to call the game "golf" (Old Celtic for "there's a sucker born every minute").
Soon, the woods were crowded, and men were lined up for hours to get on the trail, so Andrew had another brainstorm. He turned a gaggle of gophers loose on the bogs and suddenly golf was out of the woods and in the moors. Of course, now many participants lost their walnuts in water holes and sucking muck, and others managed to hit into the brush (bystanders said, "That's rough!"). But Andrew charged by the hole and, since there were no walnut trees in the moors, he cleaned up selling replacement nuts. He also sold replacement mashies made for him by Irish leprechauns for pennies on the farthing, which carried mysterious spells (none of which was ever reported to actually work). Additionally, he enlisted village wenches to sell mead at every other hole to separate the “duffers” (so named for his unwitting benefactor) from more of their farthings.
A strange phenomenon began to occur, the new golfers became enraged as they took part, even though nobody was hitting them in the head. The aggravation was no longer an annoying, lazy relative, but the "game" given us by one!
Next time someone asks about your golf game, tell the truth: "I beat the livin' h*$&*^##&& out of that ball!"
