Winter Golf “ and I don`t mean down south.

Time on one`s hands can be a wonderful thing..time on the hands of a fidgety 10 year-old can be downright destructive.

I was reminded of this fact this morning when my 6 year-old asked me why no one was playing golf anymore. I responded that the snow was too deep and the players would lose their golf balls. With a wrinkled nose and furrowed brow my pint-sized logistician parried:

Why don`t they just use a glowing ball?

Ah, from the mouths of babes

Drifting into my minds eye I can still see winter afternoon that my brother and I decided to play winter golf in our suburban backyard. The snow was deep and the weather crisp as we donned our 5 layers of clothing, grabbed our 7 irons, and crunched our way out into my father`s amateur arboretum.

I had been going stir-crazy in the house and after several skirmishes with my older sister Juliann; won handily by the aforementioned gladiatrix, I convinced my naïve brother Sheldon that golf was the order of the day. (He was to say the least skeptical until I promised that he could use the yellow ballsharp little bugger) And as we left the warm confines of the McDonell igloo my sister shook her head, called us dorks , and sealed the backdoor against the cold.

It was a beautiful day the sun shone, the snow was fluffy and light, the bare trees grimly silent, our hushed voices echoing around the yard. I was in front, my brother following my footsteps as we reached our back fence. The yard itself was a 25 yard deep and 20 yard wide daycare for young tress and flowering bush. We plotted our layout. The most obvious first hole was a dogleg par 4 skirting a young rose bush in the corner of the yard. I pointed out this path to my little brother, the routing just barely perceptible as he peered through the one inch slit left him by his wool toque and scarf.

I played first, my shot fllying right over the bush and landing silently in the snow. My brother proceeded to slash about, clearing a small drift as he tunneled with mitt, club, and boot towards the bush. Growing impatient with the mini-human snow-blower, I trudged ahead look for my ball only to discover that off-white golf balls blend rather well with snow. Even though I could see its entry point I could not locate the frozen egg. Patience long being my strong suit I soon gave into frustration as I slashed at the snow hoping to dislodge the pellet.

There are times in your life when you are in mid-action and some small voice, a voice perched on the very edge of your consciousness, warns you of impending disaster.

My inner voice was obviously to used to being ignored for no sooner had I glimpsed my lost ball than the final swipe of my snow crusted iron made solid contact.

The ball, like a silent white dart, raced out of its snowy birth and rocketed towards my parent`s two-storey house. I can still see the ball floating in front of me, its path a shockingly straight avenue towards the kitchen window.

The mind can work very quickly in times of crisis, making complex decisions in an instant.my mind was busy devising a brilliant strategy to dig a series of tunnels with a rusty 7 iron in which to live out my future days when the ball struck the wood frame of the window. An almighty crack split the still air as my ball ricocheted into the next yard to await an early Spring recovery.

My brother popped his head out of the snow bank and his head swiveled back and forth between the wounded house and my rigid form. In the smallest voice I had ever heard he whispered:

What was that.!

I couldn`t speakI couldn`t decide if I was lucky having missed the window or I had just delayed in my doom until my future-NARC sister could give my parents a detailed description of my hijinks. I was frozen there staring at the golf-ball sized dent in the window frame when the back door was wrenched open and the door frame filled with my father`s startled presence.

What the..!! he bellowedand my father could sure bellow.

Dad looked out at his sons, one prone to the earth in mid golf ball dig, the other staring at him with eyes like saucers, and he waited. Nothing in the form of a teary confession or snitching testimonial reached his earsno sound at all as the three of us squared off in the most mismatched Mexican Standoff in history

I can`t say for sure what went through his mind as he looked out over his snow covered lawn, his only sons, and their accompanying weaponry.I can`t say for sure but I`d imagine that he was remembering he and his 4 brothers perched on snow banks 30 years before, staring back at Allan Edward McDonell, my grandfather, as he glowered in their collective direction.

There is a bond between fathers and sons, the true cement of that bond being the genetically-driven propensity for idiotic activity and it was surely an exasperated father who coined the phrase no harm, no foul . My father eventually closed the door and left Sheldon and I to our shared secret. (a secret, I might add, my brother kept until the very second he re-entered our house)

We muddled about for an hour or two afterwards, Sheldon tunneling after his golf ball and I too scared to leave my wintry exile. We both stuck our clubs in the garage and wandered into the house, I much wiser for the experience and he much emboldened by his seemingly explosive information. Never again did we play winter golf so close to the family homestead. We had learned our lesson.

* * *

And now I sit here on this beautiful morning and think back on all the silliness of my childhood and I can’t help but wonder…..Glowing golf`s, eh?…might just work.