I remember Mother loading my brother and me in the car on sunny Sunday afternoons after church, to go to the local Mini-Golf park located past a few of the cornfields that dominated the Ohio scenery.
The prominent icon at this mini-golf park was a giant brontosaurus that guarded over the 18 miniature holes. The course would turn us us into veritable Indiana Jones-esque crusaders battling through windmills, waterfalls, church steeples bridges and...oh..yea, that dinosaur that always ate our red and blue golf balls at the 18th hole.
We always finished at the "19th hole" with an ice cream sundae...
...it was sweet revenge.
Now instead cornfields...it's beaches. Instead of dinosaurs...it's pirate ships.
But it's mini-golf...and every course we play transforms my son into a 5-year old scout guide that uses a putter as his machete and his ball as a canary in a coal mine. I can truly say it is a proud moment for a father when I take my son on these putting adventures and see him get so wound-up with excitement.
Sure the courses mostly seem corny to me now, and my enthusiasm wanes when my son wants to play 36, but I check myself and remember that back then...my Mom was doing it for us, and as sure as I remember her...she was in it for the family time.
So when the balls disappear into the 18th hole, we give each other a high five and a big hug.
Then we find the closest place to get an ice cream sundae...
...and those still taste as good as I remember.
Thanks for reading. Keep it in the short-grass,