City doesn’t share, so he’ll eat elsewhere
Do you remember the “The Great Storm of ‘04?” During a recent visit, a couple of grandkids became involved in, and intrigued by, my take on the event.
They listened carefully as I spoke of wind gusts with the power to snap sturdy pine trees like toothpicks. The boys tuned in as I described the drumming sound of hail, slightly smaller than a golf ball, pounding on the roof; and were wowed as I described the 12-inch ice accumulations found beneath our home’s valleyways. And the kids questioned me closely as I drew the picture of neighbors wading knee deep in pools of water while trying to locate, and clear, overwhelmed storm drains
As the three of us strolled toward the back yard I expanded the story line by launching into a description of new fly patterns, with fancy names like Rock Scraper and Mud Pot, which I’d developed in the storm’s wake. Chase and Braden were all over that one, seeking specific data regarding the color, textures and size of my new creations. They were free-floating in the story’s current until I mentioned that I used the flies to catch the “sewer trout,” which inhabited our neighborhood’s newly formed ponds.
Braden’s head swiveled around. Looking me in the eye he said, “Grandpa, there ain’t no sewer trout!” Instead of conceding the point, I gave the story my last, best, shot by proclaiming that I was the “Honest Grandpa!” It didn’t work. Instead, the boys rushed off toward the kitchen to get the real scoop from their grandmother. In this home, she’s the source of truth, honesty, love, and a gracious purveyor of home-made cookies.
I chose to wander around the patio a bit before heading into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. I find that creating plausible, or even implausible lies designed to keep inquisitive grandchildren on their toes is hard work.
Chase approached me as the coffee splashed against the bottom of my cup. Expecting to find myself involved in another “Grandma said” discussion, I was taken aback when he asked, “Were you golfing when the storm hit, Grandpa?” Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.
Then he asked, “Are you still part of that ‘Old Folks Bunch?’ “
Chase’s question led me into a discussion of the Over the Hill Gang, a bunch of fellows who gather every Monday for a morning tour of Liberty Lake Golf Course.
The next question was, “Are you the oldest guy in the club, Grandpa?” I answered by describing a recent tour of the links with Bert Lindgren, a man who tallies his birthdays beyond the 90-year mark. When I finished detailing the shellacking I’d experienced during that adventure, Chase smilingly exclaimed, “Awesome!”
The boys must have figured out that I finish my Monday’s round of golf about noon because they asked, “Where do you eat lunch when you’ve finished golfing, Grandpa?”
When I stated that I seldom stopped to eat in Liberty Lake they asked, “How come?”
I’m sure the kids expected a negative commentary regarding shoddy food or poor service.
They appeared to be surprised when I responded, “Taxes!” Braden asked, “What?”
I launched into a detailed explanation of my concerns, explaining that I’m irritated with a portion of the City of Liberty Lake’s tax code. You see, the town levies a small tax on each round of golf played on either of the county courses found within its boundaries. I have no problem with them doing so. But I do resent the fact that the city doesn’t give any part of the accrued revenue back to the courses; not a penny, pansy, bench or welcoming mat. Since I don’t golf where I cast my ballot, I choose to show my displeasure by voting, whenever possible, with my tennis shoes.
Sensing that the conversation was way over the boys’ heads, I found myself searching for a graceful way to exit the podium.
My bride timed her entrance flawlessly. You should have seen the smiles on those kids’ faces when they spotted grandma walking toward us with that plate of cookies.