Golf Magazine

I get Golf magzine delivered to the house.  I don't know why or how.  Well, how because the postman delievers it.  But why I have no idea as I never subscribed.  I like golf, but I play two or three times a year.  My interest doens't merit a glossy periodical.  It's probably because of some promotion I didn't read.  Or some promotion I only half-read.  Hopefully it's free.  I should check.

But that's not what this is about.  We have this magazine on the coffee table.  It ended up as part of the pile that contains other magazines and brochures that haven't yet made it to the recycling pile.  This morning you and I were reading from the the pile of your library books which contains 'What's Up, Duck' and 'Manners' - also on the coffee table.  As we exhausted the library pile, you pointed to the magazine pile - of which Golf was on top.

"Golf," you said.

"What?"

"Golf," now starting to get irritated.  

I looked up at your mom who was wiping things down in the kitchen.

"Did you tell her this is Golf?" I asked holding up the cover of Nick Faldo in a smart sweater.

"No."

"How does she know it's Golf.  I never said anything.  Shauna?"

"I don't know."

I asked Shauna tonight if she ever mentioned to you about Golf magazine.  She wasn't sure.  

"Maybe?"

Perhaps Tata said something.  We'll have to ask when she's over.  

Golf, while ultimately a complicated sport with many nuances and sublties, is a simple word.  One syllable. One sound; like when you swallow something too big.  

I'm going to brush this off as something random, like when your Grandma Simmie offhandedly mentioned 'Welcome to the twos', and it became your mantra.  

"Welcome to the twos," you said.  "Welcome to the twos.  Welcome to the twos."

I'll alert the media when you start asking for the Consumer Reports.