Monday

Wringing my hands, as the university hangs us all out to dry



Maybe I’m a concerned parent sometimes. But this time, I’m just finding the situation a little funny and weird at the same time.

Last weekend, during Parents’ Weekend at the university, I stepped out of my kid’s dorm room to use the facilities (so to speak).

That’s where the trouble began – if you can even call it that.

I’m a habitual hand washer. (Shouldn’t everyone be a hand washer?) As I scrubbed my soapy palms together, I looked up and saw this sign.



Naturally, I began looking around for the paper towel dispenser. But this was all I found.


What!?!

Looks like a little false advertising to me …

I’m not even complaining that the college couldn’t spring for real paper towels – now that they hold most of my money.

Just thinkin’ something’s a little amiss here.
 
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Wednesday

These two guys hit the golf ball jackpot every week



What’s in the water at the golf course?

That little rivulet is a veritable treasure trove. At dusk, just as the mosquito population emerges, unknown hobbyists don their rubber waders and venture into the water.

Are they angling for trout? Panning for gold? Collecting decorative rocks? Not at all! These surreptitious scavengers are hunting for errant golf balls.

When I used to play golf (or at least, try to play golf), my delinquent tee shots alone probably gave these folks reason to plunge into the water each evening.

Of course, that’s exactly why I carried an esoteric assortment of logo-imprinted golf balls, mostly left over from my days in corporate advertising. These golf balls bore such names as Abbott Laboratories, Allen-Bradley, Briggs & Stratton, Caterpillar, Engineering Daily, Industry Week, Johnson Controls, Navistar, and Wells Fargo. Others sported emblems for everything from apple cider to zoo fund-raisers.

Friends and family members used to present me with pristine packages of fresh white golf balls bearing perfect dimples and unmarred printing. But where’s the sport in that?

Here’s a game that’s even more fun than golf.

Meet Myron and Ralph. These two men retired several years ago from prominent corporate executive positions and moved with their wives to an exclusive gated Florida golf community, where they met one another.

On weekdays, you can find these two comrades, pulling a little red wagon along the outside of the fence that lines the 13th and 16th fairways and picking up stray golf balls. On Saturdays, Myron and Ralph set up shop in a rented booth at the local flea market and sell their findings. They advertise their spherical surprises as No-Water Balls, claiming they have stayed out of the drink.

I guess old entrepreneurs never die. Perhaps they just begin selling stray golf balls.

Myron and Ralph think they’re pretty smart fellows.

But I know something Myron and Ralph do not know. Two other retirees, Tom and Carl, visit the used golf ball stand at the flea market each week and purchase a big bag of balls from Myron and Ralph. While the flea market is still open, before Myron and Ralph return home, Tom and Carl work their magic with the golf balls.

Tom and Carl take the used balls and drop them in the grass, all the way down the outside fence-line by the 13th and 16th fairway.

See those two guys sitting on the patio, just this side of the 16th tee and chuckling at the two guys picking up lost balls? You guessed it! That’s Tom and Carl.

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Thursday

This farmer's ready early for Halloween




Recreational runners spot the strangest things, plodding along a country lane.

Look what I just saw – right around the bend at mile three.

Sure, it’s a silo. But what is that thing?


Does anyone else think it looks a little haggy?  

Gotta wonder if she’s hiding any poison apples.

Hey, it was enough for me to pause for a double-take. And a quick snapshot. And it sure set Little Big Dog a-barking.

We just might have to name this old bag, if she actually is a bag. Maybe she’s just a towel or a little tarp.


Either way, she’s a tricky little treat – and a bit spooky. And it’s only August. Wonder what she’ll look like in autumn lighting.



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Sunday

Kid's dragline sounds more like promo tagline



It’s amazing what a person hears, just pausing on a private patio.

I stepped away for a few moments, grabbing a quick sandwich and settling into a shady spot outdoors to enjoy a quiet summer break.

Just then, a couple of boys rode by at full tilt on their bicycles. Glancing through the hedgerow, I guessed they must have been six or seven years old.

“Race ya!” the first one shouted.

“Ha!” the other answered.

“I win!”

“No-o-o!”

“You’re a fat rat!”

“Well, be sure to check us out at Fat Rat Dot Com.”

I almost fell out of my chair. And I’m pretty sure the real winner of that exchange wasn’t the faster biker.

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Boy on Bicycle by Werner100359
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