Amster scored tickets to the Tucson Conquistadores Classsic.
It's a stop on the Champions Tour.
The 13th tee is at the end of my street,
Amster left her car in my driveway and we walked the half mile downhill to the golf course.
There was no one taking tickets; it's a quiet cul de sac whose proximity to the festivities is a well kept secret. Not wanting to be scofflaws, we affixed our tickets to our wrists and stepped onto the paved pathway.
We walked toward the tents, found snacks
and made ourselves comfortable.
We were there at 10am, well before the crowds.
The kids were able to stand at the rope and see the rings on the golfers' fingers.
We watched a few putts, saw a few drives sailing up up up and landing with a satisfying thunk,
and then they had had enough.
I had, too, and Amster had found a friend
so I thought of you and the post I'd write.
I tried to take a picture of the poster with the golfers' names, but a course official warned me off.
"No pictures today," is the reason I can't tell you the names of the men in these photos.
But, if you're looking at snow outside your window,
feel free to imagine the sun and a balmy breeze
and being up close and personal with strangers.
We were on the other side of that berm, above the sand trap
with all these other older, white, well dressed people.
It was a lovely excuse to be outside, and Amster cuts me very little slack when it comes to ambulation. With Brenda Starr unavailable for our weekend constitutional tomorrow, I was glad for the chance to be pushed to move further and faster than I'd do on my own. And I can't imagine a prettier setting.... within walking distance.... and free.
I was home by noon.
It was a lovely morning, but I'm still convinced that Mark Twain was right.
It was a good walk, spoiled.