by cheri block
We’re staying in Squaw Valley, home of the 1960 Winter Olympics. For those of you who are interested in Olympic trivia, tiny Squaw Valley beat out Innsbruck, Austria in their bids to host the games.
I was ten years old when the Olympics came here and a new skier. We were glued to the TV and especially excited that the sports world was in our backyard, as we watched the coverage from our little cabin at Tahoe.
Yesterday, Judge Blah asked me to play golf with him, so I packed my book, my camera, my water, and oh yes, my golf clubs, hopped into the golf cart, and off we went.
Those geese are referring to my drive which propelled the blue balls I use (so I can find them in the rough) into a ridge of grasses, never to be seen again.
We played on, deep into the afternoon. The waning summer sun was chased by the familiar nip in the afternoon breezes of fall. And then I hit my blue ball into a water hazard. When I looked up, the hazard was really a gorgeous picture, waiting to be taken.
We headed around to the back nine, my score in the high 80’s. I’d lost at least 20 blue balls. While trying to find one of them, this opportunity for a vertical shot presented itself to me.
I lost interest in golf. Suddenly, we were surrounded by gold dragonflies, so many that one fell in Judge Blah’s vodka tonic. “Shame on you, Edmund, for drinking while flying,” I thought.
I took one last picture and totaled my score, over 100. Time to go into the lodge and think about Edmund and Alonzo’s next moves and my look into my own mirror.