Oh, you can’t beat fun at the old golf course, especially on a cloudless fall day, with no one but Mike, me, and Jim, Elvis impersonator, the superintendent of this nine-hole course in northeast Iowa.
An empty links meant hundreds of tinkle options for me, hazarded by four cups of coffee.
This glorious day, something miraculous. On two consecutive holes, Mike chipped in from off the green with a seven-iron. Each time, his ball bounced several times before hitting the flagstick and plunging into the cup. For duffers like us, these were images to recall in the depth of winter.
But it also got me thinking about last times. We’re both late-stage septuagenarians with months before our next game.
Will there be golf in heaven?
Will there be a porta-potty on every tee box?
Will we listen to the late Jim or the real Elvis?
