As if life weren't boring enough spending Saturday with the baseball boys at the Elks lodge, I spent yesterday watching the tail of the Master's golf tournament.
That Fritz Schranck is a dubious influence.
Not all his fault. One of Lyman's best friends was an avid golfer. When he retired as paymaster of the local International Paper plant he was often off to Monroe or other near cities for golf tournaments.
He was about 6'6". When we were working on the great room we kept him in mind, making sure that he wouldn't knock his noggin on light fixtures and such.
He died of a massive heart attack stepping into the shower about four years ago. 65. A congenital weakness. It was his grandson we ordered the skateboard for at Christmas.
Charlie took golfing magazines and ordered books from clubs. I borrowed his books from time to time, so I've read about Lee Trevino lifting his club in a thunderstorm, declaiming "Even God can't hit a one iron!" I've read about Dan Jenkins clinking balls from one end of Fort Worth to another. But I can't remember who writes the Eddie Caminetti novels.