At The Links

There is a little nine hole golf course in the little town where my dad lives. Ever since I was a little girl, I have accompanied my dad out on that golf course. I can remember riding along in the cart with my dad while my grandparents, aunts and uncles played golf in the summer when everyone was back visiting on vacation.

My dad would let my sister and I drive. We would take turns pushing the accelerator to the floor to see how fast we could get the carts to go.

My sister was a terrible driver.

I fell off the back of the golf cart more than once. She swore it was an accident - I think otherwise.

As an adult, I now enjoy golfing with my dad. Swinging the clubs and hitting balls. I hit a lot of balls. I always strategicaly squeeze two or more rounds of golf into nine holes. I get my moneys worth that way. It really is a more efficient way to play.

It has been a while since I was back in Iowa during the summer months. I couldn't wait to get to play golf with my dad. I packed my clubs and warned my dad that we needed to squeeze in a couple games in this week. I really didn't have to twist his arm too much. My dad plays golf every day. He is usually the first one on the course every morning. He has been given special permission to bring JC out every morning and they walk the course together. I can't think of a single course in Denver that would let a patron walk his dog on the course each day.

After fishing, we headed out to the course and decided to bring my Brown Eyed Girl with us for her first golfing experience - this has been a week of many firsts for us.

At firs,t I think my Brown Eyed Girl was a little confused as to what "golf" was exactly.

We took her into the clubhouse and bought her a special drink, some Cheetos and covered her in a blanket - it was getting a little chilly out as a spring storm was rolling in.

The Cheetos were a hit. The perfect ice breaker as we tee'd off.

It took her a couple holes to clean off the orange residue and venture from her blanket.

We finally were able to convince her to attempt to putt. 

Putting was for the birds. Not very impressive.

Grandpop had a better idea.

Once our Brown Eyed Girl figured out how to work the flag, it was her new job.

She watched attentively as we putted. Cheered us on when we hit well.

Such a ham.

Always the pretty princess.

On the last hole, there is this old bridge that crosses the creek. As kids, we were always so nervous to drive the carts across the bridge. I can't really remember being interested in walking on the bridge. It always seemed to high, so scarry.

Not our little thrill seeker. She lived watching the water pass below. Tossing sticks in and watching them float down the stream.

 

I golfed like crap but enjoyed crusing around the links with my Brwon Eyed Girl and spending time with my dad.