Retired folks seem more than capable of entertaining themselves. Sometimes that entertainment shows the differences in each of us.

For example, Maureen is an artist with an amazing capability for color and design. She pursues art. Even her sewing projects are art in the process. In the last year or so, she has also pursued felting. The finished products are truly works of art. And then, she gets these ideas and they just seem to work, like the felt piece hanging in our family room.

And then, she adds a twist by putting her felting art around a tall and slender glass (maybe a vase, hmm?) and inserting a small, micro light string.

That’s what you get when you can do what she does.

Me?

Well, i appreciate art, but i grew up with a father who was a practical man, and then, i spent just over 22 years in the Navy. And i have to tell you, there is not a lot of art in the Navy of old, beautiful things, yes, like the sea and the sky and the dolphins playing alongside in the bow wave. And some of us believe driving an old Navy steam ship without computers was as much art as science. But i don’t think you can call me someone who creates art. i am a practical man.

i’ve spent the bulk of the last several days replanting and refreshing the soil in our garden boxes. Our tomatoes are fewer but we still have them. Even the strawberries are blooming, although having one or two strawberries every day or so is only satisfying if you are the person who is maintaining the garden. And i cured our new Kamado grill. The first steak night was a success, she sits outside awaiting my first smoked turkey for Thanksgiving.

For an example of my practicality, there is a backstory. For years, my father saved the change in his pocket and gave it to Blythe and later Sam. Much later, i followed suit taking my coins and depositing into a savings account we created for Sam.

My Aunt Bettye Kate Hall knew of this practice and for a Christmas or birthday gift, gave me a battery powered coin sorter. i used it until it broke, then doctored it a bit and used it for another half-dozen years or so. It was about ten years ago when it broke for good. i have hand sorted the coins since then until a couple of months ago when i did a search and found some coin sorters but individual sorters for my pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters.

The problem with my purchase is none are very steady. i was frequently knocking them over, picking up the coins on my hands and knees and starting over. So last week, i used my drill to fix my problem. i made a coin sorter holder. As i finished in my garage workshop, i laughed. Maureen had hung her felting piece about two days earlier. The two projects demonstrated, i thought, the difference between the two of us.

i carried my project into the house, an old piece of 2×3 lumber with four drill holds holding colorful coin sorters. i took them into the family room, showed it to Maureen and asked what she thought of “work of art.” After she picked herself off the floor from laughing, i started to leave when i turned and suggested we put it on the mantel, finely decorated by a master named Maureen.

i don’t think she laughed.

My piece of art is in my office closet…but it is useful, and i like it.

it’s a’coming, lawd, lawd
it’s a’coming
don’t know where
don’t know when
don’t know how
but it’s a coming
lawd, lawd
sometimes
i can smell it in the air
like an impending August rain
sometimes
i can hear it swooshing
like it was riding the wind
sometimes
i can hear it whispering
like ghost riders in the sky
yet
it’s a’coming, lawd, lawd
it’s a coming.

In the good ole days, they put a limit at 100 members. There was a waiting list to join. They played in tournaments all over California. The “Year Ender” was at the finest courses in the Palm Springs area. The tournament concluded with a huge dinner for the golfers and their wives in places like the PGA West clubhouse. The tables were full. The prizes were spectacular.

It began, if i remember correctly from what i’ve been told, in the 1950’s. They played a different course in the San Diego area once a month. For years, Art Fristad, managed the affairs and had a great working relationship with the golfing world in the Southwest corner (Today, the name of the tournament is The Art Fristad Desert Classic).

The outfit is named San Diego Telephone Company Golf Association. We called it Telco, and today, it still goes by SDTGA with the Southern California Golf Association. In addition to Art Fristad, many others stepped up to make it all work. The ones i know will likely give me grief for omissions, but i wasn’t into the inner workings. Marty Marion, Phil Greco, and Jim Hileman, my Pittsburgh Pirate and San Diego Padre co-fan, have kept it going.

i don’t know the reason such golfing groups like these are fading. Perhaps younger telephone guys aren’t golfers. Perhaps golfing is no longer the chosen pursuit of the younger generations. i have always considered it a wonderful sport that allows you to play at your level throughout your life. i wish i had urged Bob Padgett to teach me the game when, at 14, he took me out to shag balls at the Lebanon Country Club. i might be a better golfer, but i doubt if i would have had any more fun. Our ranks in TELCO continue to decline.

This past weekend, we gathered again in the desert for the “Year Ender.” It’s a two-day team tournament. There have been numerous formats for the rounds, but they all have been fun and many producing golfing stories that will last in old golfers lore.

Yesterday after the tournament and before the drive back from the desert to the Southwest corner, i sat in the small dining and bar area of the Desert Dunes Golf Course. The thought struck me i and these guys were old boys on this weekend. The rest of the year, we are mostly old men, men who were work men. Telephones and friendships with telephone men was the glue, that and having fun with golf.

i can guarantee none of the banter was politically correct. Like my curmudgeons in our weekly golf game, “asshole” is a compliment. But we laughed and had fun. There is a camaraderie there.

i felt a sadness when Jim Hileman, the main manager of the group announced it was not likely the Year Ender will be in the desert next year. Our group was supposed to be six foursomes. Illnesses, a car wreck, and other complications took our number down to twenty-one, a far cry from the ole days.

Cost of play has become a problem. It is something i don’t understand. When it seems the courses are getting less play as the younger generation has other recreational pursuits, i’m not sure why they keep raising their prices for everything, green fees, cart fees, equipment. Yeh, i know maintenance costs and water have made it difficult, but at least a half dozen courses i used to play have gone under. None of it makes sense to me.

Golf is sport you can play throughout your life. i’ve played with folks who passed away within days of their last game, like my father-in-law Ray Boggs, who played his last round at Singing Hills before he passed fourteen days later. The handicapping system gives everyone a chance to win. With carts, you don’t even have to walk to play. And if you are like me, golf gives you a chance to scream profanity and let off some steam.

* * *

And fun. Remember the old joke about the foursome playing their usual Saturday morning on a round? They were on the 12th green. One guy was getting ready to put when a hearse led a funeral procession to the nearby cemetery. The guy putting stopped, took off his hat, and hung his head as the procession passed. The other golfers were impressed and complimented him on his respect for the person who had died and the procession itself.

“Yes,” the golfer said, “She was a good wife.”

* * *

i’m sure the year-ender will continue for a few more years, just not in the Palm Springs area. We are likely to play a local course.

The raucous stay with Jeff Middlebrook (who is the latest in a long line of great guys who filled out our foursome over the years) at Pete Toennies’s time share has been a boys weekend out. Pete has been a team member for quite a while now, and even i was not an original member — Hey, Mike Kelly, you are legendary and remembered; we still wish you were here and not in Houston.

Yeh, it won’t be quite the same, but we will keep on keeping on. These old boys were made that way.

Thanks, Jim Hileman, Marty Marion, and Phil Greco for keeping it going.

He hangs there suspended in the air, resting in his web. With the offshore sea breeze, i imagine it would be much like being in a swinging hammock. He is about the size of my upper thumb, the thumb that keeps hitting the incorrect key.

His web suspends from a tree on our neighbor’s side of the stucco fence i helped build about thirty years ago to the eaves of our roof by the kitchen patio. He rests about 15 feet in the air. The remains of one of his past repasts hang above him. He looks satisfied. I shall let him be.

The crow darts frantically to avoid the perceived threat of the border patrol helicopter flying low. I never know if the pilot, who lives somewhere near here, is checking out a possible illegal border crosser or letting his family know his shift is over and he will be home soon.

The Southwest corner weather has been strange this summer and autumn. Most folks around here are not thrilled, but i, who loves the feel of a seaport town, have been happy, only concerned with what comes next in these changes. Our summer has been cooler and wetter than usual. The marine layer, normally from mid-May until the end of June has persisted through the two seasons. The annual threat of wildfires is greatly diminished. We only had a couple of days where it reached 90. I can handle that.

The sun is settling beyond the Pacific and is already below our hill. If i chose, i could climb that slope and watch a beautiful sunset, perhaps even catching a green flash. But i am just fine sitting here waiting for the grill to warm enough cook.

It occurred to me the spider and i have a lot going for us. There is no real need to wander from our lairs unless we feel the urge to do so. We are, the two of us, content with what we have.

I just wish i could spin a web and hang there like in a hammock.

He hangs there suspended in the air, resting in his web. With the offshore sea breeze, i imagine it would be much like being in a swinging hammock. He is about the size of my upper thumb, the thumb that keeps hitting the incorrect key.

His web hangs from a tree on our neighbor’s side of the stucco fence i helped build about thirty years ago. The span of his web reaches to the eaves of our roof by the kitchen patio. He rests about 15 feet in the air. The remains of one of his past repasts hang above him. He looks satisfied. I shall let him be.

The crow darts frantically to avoid the perceived threat of the border patrol helicopter flying low. I never know if the pilot is checking out a possible illegal border crosser or letting his family who live somewhere near us know his shift is over, and he will be home soon.

The Southwest corner weather has been strange this summer and autumn. Most folks around here are not thrilled, but i, who loves the feel of a seaport town, have been happy, only concerned with what comes next in these changes. Our summer has been cooler and wetter than usual. The marine layer, normally from mid-May until the end of June has persisted through the two seasons. The annual threat of wildfires is greatly diminished. We only had a couple of days where it reached 90. I can handle that.

The sun is settling beyond the Pacific and is already below our hill. If i chose, i could climb that slope and watch a beautiful sunset, perhaps even catching a green flash. But i am just fine sitting here waiting for the grill to warm enough cook.

It occurred to me the spider and i have a lot going for us. There is no real need to wander from our lairs unless we feel the urge to do so. We are, the two of us, content with what we have.

I just wish i could spin a web and hang there like in a hammock.