It’s a favorite spot for the golf ingenue.
Did I mention that the missus went along, too?
We thought it time for the boys to learn
about golf, so to an expert we turned.
Clint Wright, owner-operator of Woodhaven’s greens,
is who would sculpt our sons’ golfing dreams.

They were twelve or thirteen, mere adolescents,
when we decided to take them there for lessons.
At that age, they’re too young and not very focused.
Let ‘em play the game some, Mr. Wright told us.

Then, if they like it and want more of the same,
we’ll tutor them in the finer points of the game.
I’ll teach them basic techniques; you’ll add the fun,
and together their pursuit of golf will have begun.

“But while we’re here,” I said, “Let’s enjoy the day.”
So, the four of us agreed to stay and play.
We paid, grabbed a cart and got in line.
The place was packed, the weather, simply divine.

Clemson students were just about everwhere,
laughing and talking with nary a care.
We waited our turn, mom and golfers three,
until we were the next group on the first tee.

It was then we noticed a class being conducted.
About 18 or 20 were being instructed
immediately to the right of the first fairway.
Within our range, we were tempted to say!

Matt was first on the tee and into his waggle,
surveying his target, as well as the gaggle
of interested students, now standing and gawking.
His downswing was fluid and then he started walking.

But wait!  Something had gone terribly wrong!
That tiny white ball was still on its throne!
The club, however, had left the vicinity.
It circled overhead, almost hitting a tree.

With a clang, it landed on a nearby wooden deck.
A gentleman got up, retrieved the club, and said, “Heck,
nice shot, son, but it is time that you now learn,
you get to swing this club again…it’s still your turn!”

Running back to his ball, and with all eyes on him,
Matt proceeded to go through all those motions again.
With everyone focused on this particular swing,
He did the most amazing thing…

His ball, not the club, was sent in lofty flight,
right down the middle of the fairway, all right.
Despite all the stares, snickers and jeers,
Matt had somehow turned their derision to cheers.

He could have succumbed to the pressures that built,
but he steeled himself, focused, and did not wilt.
Blocking the harsh scrutiny, Matt wouldn’t give in;
that ball was a-movin’ this time, my friend!

As Andy approached the tee, there was great apprehension.
After what had just happened, there was still a lot of tension.
He teed his ball, did his waggle and then,
as if to ease everyone’s nerves…he grinned.

Andy’s swing was simple, powerful and straight.
Everyone turned to the fairway, to watch the ball’s fate.
But where’s the ball?…Oh, where?  Does anyone see?
Nope.  That dang ball is still sitting on the tee!

But Andy’s weapon…the club… has ceased to be seen,
unless you looked up into the sky so blue and serene.
It was spinning, flipping and flopping its way
down the bisected middle of that first fairway!

Everyone erupted in surprised shouts and laughter.
Andy took off running: It was his club he was after.
Retrieving the club, he ran all the way back,
and prepared to unleash his second whack.

But this time, by George, you could hear a pin drop!
The class, the course, the whole world had stopped.
Everyone was holding their breath on this swing,
when Andy also did an amazing thing…

With the crowd mesmerized in one collective stare,
he proceeded to bring his club through the air.
Amazingly enough, the ball left the tee!
And split that fairway, so perfectly.

A drive straight and true, after so much commotion,
was a credit to Andy’s intense devotion.
Again, a son had seen calamity arrive,
but recovered his dignity with a very nice drive.

Finally our round was underway,
but what could have caused such confounded play?
We pondered and wondered, while Mom just sat there.
Alone with her thoughts, some she didn’t want to share.

It had come to her remembrance, she later said,
that in trying to do good, had she done bad instead?
Knowing this outing meant so much to these two,
realizing how much the boys had to do,
and wanting their used clubs to shine like new,
Nancy had scrubbed their grips until she was blue.

Scrub-a-dub-dub, ’til the tacky was gone.
She felt particularly proud as we pulled away from home.
But now, could it be that I’ve messed up those grips?
And, in addition to cleaning, I gave them the slips!?

Sad, but true, it seems.  Mom was right on the money.
So slippery, I couldn’t have held those clubs, honey!
Clean they were, sanitized to the hilt,
but grips are tacky, ’cause that’s the way they are built.

You have to be able to hold onto the sticks,
or those extra swings will leave your game in a fix.
As these boys witnessed before us all,
a club isn’t supposed to outdistance the ball!

But before you think we wasted our time,
let me tell you what happened while on the back nine.
As the boys played their way through this first golfing trip,
trying to find their strokes, but with a vice-like grip,
given all that had happened on that very first hole,
when Tiger himself would have slung a pole,

drama still awaited, mid the gathering gloom,
for golf’s a strange game, the boys would learn soon.
On their final hole, in the failing light,
Andy hit it left; then, he hit it right.

Fearing he couldn’t find either ball,
he teed and hit a provisional.
(That’s a do-over, for you uninitiated;
when you don’t hit the shot you anticipated.)
Back into the carts we settled our butts,
and rode to the green for what we thought would be three putts.

Andy was right; the first two balls went awry.
The third wasn’t in sight either, and do you know why?
For all the lessons this day would bring,
the boys would witness one more amazing thing…

That third shot had settled neatly into the hole.
An ace!  Hole in one!…for one and all to behold!
(Now, golfers, we know that an ace that can’t be.
So, on his scorecard, we had to put down a three.)

An afternoon that began with comic relief
had ended with a most miraculous feat.
Such is golf, for those of us who play.
It’s a three-ring circus, just about every day.

So you who are about to try this fine game,
be forewarned: It is hard, but fun just the same.
It’s highs and lows will oft make you grumble,
but this gentleman’s game definitely keeps one humble.

The people you meet and the joys you’ll share,
rival any other sport, but before you get there,
learn the game, it’s equipment and manners, too.
And, please get a grip…or I’ll be writing about you!

Steve Alexander
April 11, 2008

The door barely opens and he’s in on the run,
before the first greetings have even begun.
He’s wearing a big grin as he quickly zips by,
barely slowing, he turns to catch his Poppy’s eye.

The game is on and they both are aware
that, for the next few moments, the prize is…a chair.
Not just any chair mind you, it has to be Poppy’s.
Later he’ll be intrigued with sports and jalopies.

But today, at this time, make no mistake.
Lucas is competing, my seat to take.
He races to gain the first advantage.
With another chair, Poppy will have to manage.

For a few moments, these two simply have no cares,
as the game evolves into musical chairs.
Lucas scores first, diving into my recliner,
Now, it’s time to switch places…to swap our behinders.

Laughing and giggling, all the way through
(that’s me, but I see he’s enjoying this, too!)
Perhaps he’ll eventually wind up in my lap,
Where not too many years ago, I held his Pap.

But today, it’s just us two running around,
him taking what’s mine; me, pretending to frown.
One day this game will give way to other pursuits,
like bicycles, skateboards or books by Dr. Seuss.

But the “Poppy’s Chair” game will always remain,
Indelibly, lovingly imprinted on my brain.
Played often, it’s fun and quite a cardio workout.
It pays “divigrins” and helps keep me stout.

It strengthens the bond of grandfather-grandson.
To see that boy smile has become my “Job One”.
When “I’ve got Poppy’s chair!” resounds in my ear,
it means something much more than a game around here.

Lucas may never know that from the very start,
he could have had my chair…’cause he already had my heart.

Steve “Poppy” Alexander
October 23, 2008

 You can catch Yard Sale Mama, if you really wanna, on any given Saturday morn.
If the weather is right, she’ll be out before light.  To miss this would leave her forlorn.
If Arnold’s the Terminator, then Nancy’s the Accumulator, bringing home carloads of stuff.
She loves the wheeling and she loves the dealing.  She just can’t get enough.

Friday nights are plotting sessions, with newspaper ads and maps.
Neighborhoods determine the order of the hunt and where the good stuff’s at.
Fibromyalgia won’t let this Mama climb hills or steps anymore,
But that doesn’t keep this “Make-A-Deal Diva” from going door to door.

She’d yard sale several times a week, if she could have her druthers.
She rarely buys for herself anymore: it’s for grandchildren, me or others.
Things left over might just discover they’re under a Christmas tree,
or else she’ll list them on eBay, and turn them into green. 

 Nancy has a very discerning eye, spotting treasures among the trash.
One look at a sale can tell this female if she should stay or dash.
Hitting her groove, she stays on the move, outracing, outbidding the boys.
Time is money to this honey, but you sense it’s a labor of joys.

“Love” was the word I planned to use above, but Nancy came to my aid.
She spied “joys” in a backyard sale, so a deal was struck and made.
The asking price was a little high, but Yard Sale Mama pointed this out:
“joys” was used a lot during Christmas, so its lifespan is surely in doubt.

She got her wish, as she often does, being the master bargainer, she.
They were asking $5 dollars, but Nancy was firm and wound up paying three.
Words I can handle when she gets home; they are small and easily stored.
It’s the tables, recliners, bookcases and such that hardly fit through the door.
If my back can take it and I don’t break it and through the door it goes,
we’ve created another obstacle:  Where then does it repose?

Storage.  It’s a problem.  Stuff gets stuck wherever we can stick it.
I’ve suggested that she “Just Say No!” but the habit, she just can’t kick it.
We had a one-car garage one day, or at least that’s what I thought.
Now, one person can barely fit among all the treasures that she’s bought!
Our attic is full to overflowing and we’re about to suffocate.
When down it falls, we’ll probably ball, and then start to redecorate!

Yard sales are not for the faint of heart, nor for the late night owl.
You have to rise at the crack of dawn to find the deals that wow.
Strangers you meet on those dark morns, don’t remain strangers long.
It’s a camaraderie of bidders, you see, each trying to get stuff for a song.

If this is as bad as it gets, okay…my wife and her yard sales.
Compared with the ills of our society, this addiction really pales.
Go with my blessing, Yard Sale Mama.  Be safe.  Good luck to you.
But please…leave quietly in the morning, for my sleep is not through!

“Stay at Home” Steve Alexander
December 27, 2008

The door just mentioned leads to the bathroom.  Just another skill to learn.
Besides, have you priced diapers these days?  We don’t have money to burn.
The lessons there now focus on numbers one and two.
Indelicate, but stay with me…you use the loo, too, Sue!

I hope this ditty’s rating doesn’t garner x’s three.
No obscentities, mind you, just seeking H-E-L-P.
Gimme a break; it’s a first for this Baby Boomer,
to resort to something like toddler bathroom humor!

For the girls out there, we’ve come to know, you do it sitting down.
Us guys prefer to do number one a little higher off the ground.
But if Lucas doesn’t learn to aim, he’ll contract a malady,
typically incurred by older men: it’s fluid on the knee!

It’s true we all pick up this skill before age twenty.
If not, you’re likely ostracized and having problems plenty.
It’s been that way since time began.  I learned it as a pup,
that, doggone it, I’d better hit the mark when I’m standing up!

Lucas, dear, is so sincere and trying very hard,
to master number one inside, as opposed to out in the yard.
He’ll succeed, I’m sure.  It’s coming along.  Just a little more practice time.
But number two is a bug-a-boo.  I’ll have to watch my rhyme.

I’ll choose my words carefully here and try not to stoop,
to gross descriptions (that you’re thinking already); I’ll just call it poop.
Lucas has been reluctant thus far to take this sitting down,
but Mom and Dad are seeing signs that he will come around.

Let’s end this bathroom discussion right here, before I make you sick.
But if the chance should come your way to teach a tyke these tricks,
you’ll appreciate this discussion we had and thank me after a while.
Then, afterwards, when you visit that room, you’ll sit…remember…and smile.

Steve “Poppy” Alexander
December 25, 2008