October 21, 2018 – Spotlight on Jasmine, my cat

         Many of you have noticed I mention my cat, Jasmine, often.  She is such a delight in my life.  In fact, I have decided to re-start my “Joy Journaling” where I write down at least one thing a day that is delightful or I give thanks.  Others may consider it a ‘gratitude’ journal.  If you need inspiration to start a joy or gratitude journal, a simple search on the internet for either will net you many articles.  Often they have questions that will prompt you to think about what you are thankful for or what brings you joy.

         This is a great time of year to process your joy or gratitude and be thankful for where you are in life. 

         We have Thanksgiving coming towards us fast and we need to be prepared for when a friend or guest asks that proverbial question at the Thanksgiving feast table, “What are you thankful for?”

         I am thankful for my cat, Jasmine.  She is a daily delight.  She sleeps down at the foot of my bed.  I don’t need an alarm clock, she wakes me every morning in one delightful way or another.

         I can’t tell you how many times she jumps into my lap for her loving pats.  She trots through the house with me from kitchen to bedroom and back again.  And, I feel that she understands everything I say to her.  If she has slipped off to one of her hiding places to sleep – does she ever get enough – I guess not; we wonder where she is and my husband will ask “Where is the cat?”  She magically shows up.  She knows we are looking for her.

         Her hearing is so keen that she can be sitting looking out the front window through the lace curtains and then suddenly will turn and pounce on a ‘stink bug’ that is walking across the hardwood floor. Amazes me every time.

         For those who haven’t been properly introduced to her – here are a few photos.  

Box kitty - when I am organizing or sorting  - she is right in the middle of it.

  

Her kitten portrait: 

More recent snap.  And, yes, her fur is as soft as flour. 

“A home without a cat – and a well-fed, well-petted and properly revered cat – may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?”  - Mark Twain

        

October 20, 2018 – Kudzu eradication – update

         The weather has turned cool, I harvested my first broccoli head for supper last night and I have about 6 more to harvest in the next few weeks.  I planted winter lettuces the other day now that the nights and days are cool.

         And, I took some pictures of the Kudzu patch that has been brought under control – not 100% complete – but “it is looking good!”

         Before picture:

         After picture:

         I’ve a bit more to do at the property line and then I have to go back over the area that I got cleaned up and be vigilant when the missed ‘knobs’ start to re-grow. I missed the below knob and you can see a 2-foot raised stem coming up to latch onto something and lower, splayed out growth.  I have to go back with a pickax to dig down to get the "Knob" in order for this to stop growing.

         Then, I will turn my attention to the opposite end of the property line – the furthest section away from the house and work back to the middle where I have it  under control.

         It will be a long process, but it is fulfilling to re-gain my acreage and I like the look of a clean property line view from my various patios.

         Remember: What we do in the fall months in the garden helps out tremendously next spring.

        

         A reminder – now is the time to take up your caladium bulbs to let them air dry in the shade, then cut off the stems and roots and box them up and keep them in a warm place over the winter.

         It is pansy planting time here in North Carolina and now is the time to purchase your daffodil and tulip bulbs.  When it comes to bulbs – the bigger,  the better.   Then, get them in the ground before November 15^th for the best spring display.

        

         Now that the cool weather has arrived, good gardening to everyone 

October 19, 2018 – The first anniversary of my Mom’s death.

         Half of the year I have been in denial – is she actually gone?  Denial was easy to fall into as I live here in North Carolina and she lived in Massachusetts.  But, I was jolted back to reality when some important thing in my life happened and I’d reached for the telephone and would suddenly pause – realizing she’s gone. I can no longer phone her – I can no longer share ‘whatever’ with my Mom. Then as I set the receiver back on its cradle, I experience the most overwhelming feeling of sadness.

         Or, I’d go to the mailbox, barefoot crossing the cool green lawn, then a few steps on the too-hot pavement with the sun warming my back as I open the latch and pull out a stack of mail.  Flipping through it I’d occasionally come upon the back of a number 10 envelope. As I turn it over a flicker of anticipation flashes through me expecting to see her handwriting - then the realization – I’ll never find another letter addressed to me in my Mom’s handwriting in the mailbox, ever.

         I am still coming to grips with her death.  I try my best to “check” the grief – but then – why should I?  Her presence is everywhere – in my home among the photos and dishes and trinkets.  In my closet among the scarfs or matching “mother\daughter” clothes, I bought for “us” over the years. Her books that line my bookshelves beg me to re-read them. Or, how I often pause when I make Mom’s recipes that I know from heart.

         And, part of my denial process was dragging my feet on getting the date of death on the family headstone.  It took me almost nine months before I telephoned the stonemason to do the work.   

         What prompted me?  I would wake up with dreams.  I’d see Mom shaking her head with a soundless soft smile of disapproval.  I’d be silently shrugging my shoulders back at her and mentally making excuses, ‘been so busy’, ‘it’s winter – needs to be done in the summer’, or ‘I forgot – yes it is on my to-do list’, ‘I’ll get right on it’.

         Finally, I got off my duff and dug through the notes I took at the law office when we opened my Mom’s estate.  I found the name and telephone number of the stonemason and made the call.

         After the initial contact, it took me dragging my feet a few weeks to sign the contract and send it on.  It took longer than I expected from the first contact to the contract coming in for the work to be done.  Then we had a little hurdle with the shrubs that had overgrown the headstone again.  The stonemason suggested they be removed as they would interfere with his work and at some point shrubs get big enough to topple head stones. We wouldn’t want that.

         So, my brother Ken, rectified that situation. One day he chopped the shrubs down and then he went back, got the roots out, and put in some spring flowering bulbs.

         Then in September, my dreams went into “panic mode”.  I admitted to my brother I was having dreams that if the stonework wasn’t done by the anniversary of her death I expected to be rudely woken with a ghostly visit from Mom with her saying:

         “What’s up with my headstone?”

         A few days later the stonework done, my brother snapped a picture to send it to me showing the work had been done.

         Now I don’t fear her coming to me in a dream as I am certain she would say,

         “Well done kids – Dad and I are happy up here.  Even Dad thought the shrubs needed to go.  And, we like you putting in spring bulbs for us. . .”

        

October 18, 2018 – “I did a Barbara!”

         Yes, Barbara is the name of my deceased Mom.  The first anniversary of her death is tomorrow.  And, when it comes to being her only daughter – I didn’t “fall far from the tree” as some may say.

         When I had problems of any nature that I couldn’t solve because I needed an address or something back in New England and I was elsewhere in the country [this was before the internet] – I’d call my Mom.  She was my own personal secretary.  Nowadays they would call her my own “Personal Assistant.”

         Once I needed a fresh copy of my birth certificate to travel to Nassau. The one I had, the seal wasn’t raised enough. Mom took care of it and called announcing:

         “I did a Barbara!”  It was her way of saying, she took care of it or fixed the problem.  It arrived in the mail a few days later.

         Over the years, she would announce “I did a Barbara!” on the phone or in her letters to me when she jumped a difficult hurdle – doctors – complaint letters – those pesky life instances that require some tenacity or diligence to get to the bottom of it or get to the top-dog of the entity in order to get the problem fixed.

         Over the years when she wrote complaint letters, she’d send me a copy so that I could have a smile at her diplomacy.  Then, when I started to write complaint letters, I’d send her a copy and she’d admire how well I had learned from her.  It was a thing between us – we brought the complaint letter to a high art.

         We brought the compliment letter or letter of appreciation to a high art, as well.  One day during these retirement years I shall cull all my papers and pull out the copies of complaint letters I have sent and their responses – the best one was from Horticulture Magazine.  The Editor told me he would take up all the issues I had listed with his staff at the next staff meeting. That gave me a big head for a few hours. Of course I kept that letter – it was personally signed – not a stamped form letter.

         Also, I will cull out the responses to appreciation letters.  One of my most memorable ones is when I sent a letter to Cathy Guisewite, author of the Cathy comic strip and she sent back the nicest letter.

         When Cathy Guisewite’s letter arrived, I called my Mom and said, “I’ve done a Barbara!”

         Today, I worked on an issue with my husband’s pacemaker. I turned over one rock, then another, trying to find a solution and eventually I got to the right person in the right department to solve our dilemma.

         And – when I had persevered and accomplished the goal I went to call my Mom to say, “I’ve done a Barbara!” and I was reduced to tears.

         I remember not long after my Mom’s Mum died – Madeline – that she admitted to me both in person and again by letter,  “I just want to call Mum and tell her and I can’t.”

         I did the next best thing – I called my brother and gave him the situation and the outcome.

         He knew exactly why I called and was familiar with her phrase.

         Barbara may be gone, but her exclamatory phrase will live on as long as I still have a breath and a voice.

         “I’ve done a Barbara!”  Can you hear me up there Mom?

October 17, 2018 – Bait and switch?

         Years ago in business class in high school, we were taught that merchandisers often advertise something [not available] to get customers into the stores.  When the customers found that the item or items were not available – they were ‘switched’ to a higher priced item.  That was the classic illegal “bait and switch” tactic.  [I wonder if anyone even teaches these principals anymore.]

         I am a catalog shopper and today I am CALLING OUT one entity whose catalog arrived yesterday.  I am sick of something on the front cover and inside not being available to the customer.

         A perfect example is the Fall/Winter 2018 catalog from Création L my boutique.  There is a stylish model on the cover and on page 62 wearing a boucle cardigan and a cream or white scarf that has a leaf trim.

         I searched the catalog for the scarf – no find.  I then went on line and searched their website.  Next, I jumped on the Chat contact and asked about it.

         First, the representative advised me to search on a link of all the scarves they currently have.  I did so and again – no find.

         Then I asked the most impertinent question:  How can you show something on a model twice in your catalog without offering it for sale?

         The answer from Création L my boutique was: We used it as a prop.

         Prop? Those are puppies, or backdrop locations, or a fresh flower in a model's hand – which their catalog has none of these.  They do have scarves that they sell that could have been used.  But, to use an item of clothing that is not available to the public – “BIG, BIG, MISTAKE.”  [I take that  line out of the movie Pretty Women- you movie buffs will recognize it.]

         One nice thing about their chat on line – it is printable – so I have proof of their mediocrity, ineptitude, and their bait and switch tactic.

         OHHHHH – you are wondering why I am so “hot” about this. 

         I see this just about every day.  Our local paper has reams of wasted paper filled with advertisements for chain stores – yet the chain stores in this area are so small and so – out in no-where’s-ville – that they seldom stock what is on sale.  It is a joke – I see something – I take the advertising flyer with me and I am told either: 1) Our store is so small, we don’t get all the sale items in, or 2) We only had a few and they are already gone.

         This reminds me of my personal Coup d’état against a women’s clothing store in Myrtle Beach, North Carolina – several years ago.

         I window shop and when I see something I like in the window, it lures me in.  I saw a fall sweater tunic of muted browns and cinnamon.  It reminded me of the color of the fallen pine needles on the ground beneath a forest of tall pines. 

        

         Always when I am on vacation, I have a “Benny” tucked back for some exquisite item to celebrate I am on vacation. [A Benny is a $100 Benjamin Franklin bill – just in case you don’t know what I am alluding to.  Very powerful in your wallet for those surprise items that you simply MUST HAVE.]

         I was with other wives of the golf vacation group and they prowled through the store with me.  I did not find any sweaters that matched the one in the window.  I assumed they had all been sold except the sweater in the window. 

         I then proceeded to the front window display and climbed into it – OH yes, I am that type of brazen hussy, on occasion. I fished for the tag and noted the price – within my means – and was even more delighted that the size was the correct size for me – win-win, good luck for me.

         Of course, my climbing into the window display was noticed by the store personnel. A sales person came to chastise me or was it “rescue” me from the fate of being in a sales window without permission.

         I stated flatly, “I want that sweater.”

         “AHHHH,” was her answer.

         After a hesitant moment she said, “It is our display.”

         “I didn’t find a sweater like it in the store – it must be the last one – so I wish to buy it,”  was my straight forward request.

         The two other women with me paused in their shopping and watched the situation unfold. Their interest was piqued because they’d never seen anyone climb into a display window to see the price and size of a garment.

         “It is our display . . .”

         “So, just undress the mannequin and put something else on it to sell. It has a sales tag and it is my size and I want it.  What is the problem?”

         “AHHHH,”  the sales person was almost in a state of apoplexy.

         “Where is your manager?”  I was heels-dug-in determined to get that sweater.  I was sick of things in the windows that were not for sale.  I was making my own personal stand.  Besides, I adored that sweater.  It was gorgeous – perfect for my coloring and my wardrobe.  I wasn’t going to be easily put off.

         The sales person scuttled away in haste to find the manager. The manager arrived, a more polished professional than her subordinate and asked, “May I help?”

         “I wish to buy the sweater on this mannequin.  It is tagged for sale, it is my size and I believe it is the only one left of its kind in the store.”

         “We don’t undress mannequins during the day . . .”

         “I am here on vacation and this is the only time I will be at your store.  This is a vacation capital of the world.  You do realize that?”

         I stared her down.  The manager was waffling.  It was early in the day, we were the first customers, few people were out in the mall.

         After a lengthy silence, I offered an olive branch in the form of,

         “If it is an issue of modesty or propriety and you don’t want the public to see a naked mannequin, I can assist you in carrying it to the back, out of view, so you can disrobe it.”

         That comment clinched it.  The manager turned to the sales person and sent her into to the display window to undress the mannequin – funny right there in front of the public for all to see.

         VICTORY!

         Side note:  When we came back by the store a few hours later, we noticed the mannequin was still naked.

         I still own that sweater.  It is scrumptious and gorgeous and I always, always get a compliment when I wear it.

         The morale of that story? 

         Any time I went back to Myrtle Beach, NC on my husband's annual golf outing, I specifically shopped at that ladies’ store. I became famous among the golf outing ladies on my shopping prowess – “She even forces store personnel to take items off the mannequins . . .” [I heard them whispering a few times.]

         The weather forecast calls for cool weather this weekend.  Good – I’ll pull that sweater out and wear it to the Writer’s workshop on Saturday.

October 15, 2018 – Writing class assignment for October.

Objective:  We passed around two slips of paper at last month’s class in answer to the following two prompts:

1.      Name a character and two traits.

2.      Describe an inciting incidence.

Prompts I received were:  Janet Miller, retired, passionate organic farmer and incident: She gets taken home by Mr. Pons who loves her a lot and makes pancakes for her. She ends up living with him and causing him to be happier than he has been in years.

This is total fiction

Drawing only on writing what I know – I know about old trucks,

and old charming men.

Titled:

The Matchmaking old pickup truck

         After most of the mourners left, his daughter looped her arm around my waist.

         “You made him so happy these last dozen years.  You made all the difference in the world. How did he happen to marry you anyway?”

         “Organic raspberries,” I sniffed and wiped away the last of my tears.

         “I thought it was pancakes.”

         “Those too.”

        

         During the ride back to the after-funeral gathering, his daughter asked,

         “Tell me - tell me how you two really meet.”

         I smiled softly as I paused a moment to pull the memory back into focus and began.

         One morning I was taking my produce to market in my old pickup truck.

         The red dust that had kicked up from the farm road slowly started to settle as the old pickup truck hesitated at the crest of the hill. The truck paused its forward motion and started to roll backward down the steep hill.

         “Now what?” I yelled.  The engine fell silent, and feeling the increasing momentum of the truck rolling back, I yanked the hand brake at the same time I opened the door and stepped down out of the truck.

         “Take that you fix-or-repair-it-daily damn truck,” I remember I foolishly took it out on the truck by kicking at the front rusted hubcap. Bonk was the answer.

         I looked to the east to assess the brightening dawn. The heat would come fast and my fresh picked organic raspberries would be ruined if I didn’t get them to the market within two hours.  I yanked out my cellphone and confirmed, – no cell phone connection – that was no surprise.

         I climbed into the bed of the truck and hoisted myself onto the roof of the cab.  Carefully I stood and reached to the sky with my cell phone and slowly turned in increments rotating like a radar station – no tower within range, either

         I heard, “Hey, pretty lady. Worshipping the morning sun or broke down?” It was your Dad jogging near the downhill side of the farm road that meets the state highway.

         At that time, I knew your Dad only as Old Man Pons.  I’d moved into the area about five years earlier when I retired and bought the organic farm. He was in his early 80s then and I watched him puff his way up the dirt road and stand there with a big grin on his face.

         “Miss Janet Miller, I see the beast is dead again.”  He walked around the truck, his hands on his hips in a resting walk and he lifted the tarp to see what I was taking to market.

         “Raspberries,” he said. I remember his blue eyes twinkling in the early morning dawn. I didn’t know until that day they were his favorite. 

         There I was, sitting on the roof of the cab looking down at him and I realized, this is my knight in shining armor.  As usual, he was charming.  He was a charmer until the very end. 

         He said, “I’ll tell you what – come to my house, we’ll call Travis and have him come out and tow you.  By the time he brings his roll-back out and gets you under tow – I’ll have my famous pancakes already stacked up on your plate.”

         He gallantly took my hand assisting me out of the truck bed onto the bumper and I jumped down.

         “A handful of fresh raspberries in the pancake batter would be mighty fine,” he suggested with a wink.

         I pulled an eight-pint flat of raspberries out from under the tarp and we walked to his house.  He made me his famous pancakes and a few weeks later, he asked me to marry him. 

         I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to marry me, and I asked him.

         He said, “Steady supply of organic raspberries.”

October 14, 2018 – “How do you know how to do that?”

         My actions or my self-boasting of a recent or in-process project often receives that question. From the wide spectrum of things I do or accomplish for instance - from elegant food and dining to making home-made raspberry jam - the above phrase falls on my ears often.

         Recently, The Family Circle, magazine arrived.  Magazines are not what they used to be – more commercials for prescriptions and this issue has almost half of it devoted to children’s toys advertisements. Touting itself as the Holiday Issue the cover has a collection of pies on the front [which some looked like the crust edges were overcooked and probably bitter tasting.]

         Now they have thinner paper that you have to wet your fingers to pry apart and so-called articles that are closer in length to a Twitter message than an essay, but they pass themselves off as a monthly magazine. 

         In the old days, not that long ago, you could entertain yourself for an entire rainy afternoon just reading all the articles. Often the articles ran from page to page to page. These days hardly any run over to a second page.  Short and concise – they leave me wanting for more meat and potatoes, not just the first-course salad depth they have these days.

         More often than not, they suggest you go on line to a “.com” for further information.  Which makes me wonder why do I subscribe to a magazine that refers me to the internet.  If I am connected to the internet – I don’t need “printed matter”.  Maybe the magazine publishers miss the point – there are still some of us out here in the world that want to hold a magazine in their hands and read something. Or, perhaps the magazine publishers think we only subscribe so that once a month we can roll the magazine up to start a cozy fire in our fireplace.

         Oops – I went off point!

         What caught my attention was the helpful article [I believe directed] to new homemakers - How to prepare for Thanksgiving dinners.  They shouted out – get out your crystal and china – which is just the opposite of what we have heard for the last 20 years . . . solo cups, Dixie plates and quality Vanity Fair napkins have been touted as the norm.

         Do young homemakers even have good stuff?  Do they own linen napkins and chafing dishes . . . I honestly doubt it . . . unless their Mom gifted items to them or instilled in them to own such things.

         The article that really caught my attention was the proper way to wash your crystal, china, and silver after a big shindig.

         Hand wash, hot water: How to wash the crystal first, then the silver ware, then what next, etc.,   And, for you to drain the dirty water and refill with fresh when you need to.  GOSH – all common sense – I thought everyone knew what order “dishes” were supposed to be hand washed.  Part of me smiled and thought, what not use the dishwasher?  EEE-GADS – how old fashioned. What they are graduating from disposables?

         But, maybe I am wrong.  I didn’t happen to notice any caution about putting dishes with gold rims in the dishwasher as the “reason” for all this hand washing.  I would have thought losing the gold off your expensive china would be the number one reason to hand wash dishes. 

         But, I guess the magazine takes for granted that every bride discovers that the hard way – by ruining her best china the first time it is used. [Unless of course, she had a woman in her life that told her the dynamics of gold trim dishes and not using a dishwasher.]

         When I have fancy – upscale – gatherings and actually use my dishes with the gold edges, I always get more offerings of “I’ll help you wash up.”  I politely, and instantly say, “No thank you.  I wash my dishes a special way.”

         Sometimes that remark solicits a wonderful smile that implies, “Great, I am off the hook – I hate dish washing” with the opposite end of the spectrum, a counter-offer of:  “I’ll help you load the dishwasher.” 

         The latter remark usually gets a toss of my hair [my friends and foes know what I mean by that] and I reply, “These dishes are hand-washed – the dishwasher would ruin the gold trim.”

         That remark makes half of them look down at the plate they have just eaten from for the first time during my elegant dinner party to see if there actually is a gold trim.  Those downward glances are marked in my mental notebook for future reference under the column “Don’t waste your time being elegant – they want their bellies filled, not their souls filled with beauty.”

         No, I am not being harsh. No, I wasn’t raised a Blue Blood in Manhattan, and no, I am not a rich-bitch snob. I come from a simple country background. We wore our best to church, and when we had company, the best of whatever we had was used.

         When I was a teenager, I immediately bought into the House Beautiful and Architectural Design glossy magazines that show cased elegant homes and elegant living and dining. I admit half my life I’ve aspired to have and do as portrayed in those magazines of old.

         So, when I read The Family Circle articles and noticed a sudden paradigm shift from paper plates to fine china – I paid attention.  Is it because our economy is suddenly busting its seams with more jobs, a higher stock market, and lower unemployment?  It is it that or it is cyclical – like fashion comes back around every 20 years? Or is it simply a matter that food tastes better on a china plate at a sit down affair than from a foam plate standing up or leaning against a wall?

         I read the magazine from cover to cover in record time, as I don’t read the prescription medicine advertisements that are sometimes two to three pages now.  I tore out a recipe I doubt I will use, but I can’t seem to break that built in save-a-good recipe mentality, and tossed the magazine in the recycle bin. 

Half of me smiled to myself with the knowledge that “bring out the good china” is now in fashion. The other half of me smiled smugly to myself that I already knew how to wash the good stuff as I am “a wisdom keeper”. [Wisdom keeper is a term that my Mom discovered about 20 years ago and shared with me upon the return from a Senior Citizens luncheon].

This wisdom keeper just pulled a gold-rimmed china mug out of the china cabinet for her morning coffee.  I am now at the age I no longer save the good stuff – I use it daily.

October 9, 2018 – Failure – or the Mulligan concept

         I am in the process of re-reading a book by John C. Maxwell entitled “Failing Forward – Turning Mistakes into Stepping Stones for Success” – published in 2000.

         I read it 18 years ago – and I needed a refresher course in success and failure, as I have felt “bruised” lately.

         Who hasn’t had set backs? Who has started a new diet and failed?  Who often thinks – why are am I doing this again  - only to set myself up for failure?  Why am I attempting this new project? Will it be a success or a failure?

         I felt I needed a new attitude – or a mental adjustment – or a re-charge in order to get out of bed in the morning, plod on, stay the course, and continue to persevere.  Lately persevering has been tediously difficult.

         Others might not see me as a failure – ‘you do so much’, they say.  But, I have my days just like anyone else.

         The book has great quotes: 

Realize there is one major difference between average people and achieving people.

Learn a new definition of failure.

It's all about how you look at it. 

        

         “Chuck Braun of Idea Connection Systems encourages trainees to think differently through the use of a mistake quota.” [page 22]

         I’d forgotten about this concept until I read it again.  Each student is given a mistake quota for each training session.  If that student uses up his quota, he gets another - he learns to relax.  Try and try again until you succeed is built into that system.

         This re-reading made me pause, sit back, and deeply think about what I had learned in the past that was difficult, yet I had wanted to succeed and discovered I had learned to “relax” in order to succeed.

         Please drift back in time with me to when I was first dating my husband.  He drank scotch, I learned to drink scotch.  He was an avid golfer . . . Oh My!  His mistress was going to be either a bag of golf clubs or me.  That was an easy decision – me.

         I had to understand the game of golf and I had to learn it – quickly.  Not too far from my place of work was a par three golf course and once a week he would take me out to “teach me the game.”  He didn’t mind at all – as it gave him a wonderful excuse to put his arms around me and show me how to swing a club and sweet talk me.

         But, he knew about failure and success and how to promote the art of trying hard in order to succeed.  He also knew I’d never be as powerful a golfer as he was. He wanted me to understand the game, his passion for it, and he wanted it to be fun – not torture.

He’d been playing golf a long time and had a wonderful short game that helped him win against the long hitters in his golf group.

         On our first round, he gave me a lady Mulligan – which is a free shot or a do-over when you screw up or whiff a ball.  My husband was a stickler for keeping score even as I was learning.  When I got to the count of 10 strokes on a hole he simply put a big X on my card for that hole and let me continue to finish playing out the hole without counting 11, 12, etc. so that I got the practice without degrading me.  It was all a learning curve and having a pleasant time and not about discouragement. 

If I didn’t use my Mulligan, the point came off my final score.  Eventually, on a good outing, I got down to a double bogey golfer – which is an average of two more strokes a hole and then slowly got down to a bogey golfer which is one more stroke a hole with the occasional par on a really good day. [Par is the score the golf course sets as what you should make per hole.]

Often on a par three – I’d match his score for the hole which was a little thrill for me. [And for those of you out there that are not aware of what an birdie is – it means one under par – excellent golfing – and I had very few of those in the years I played, yet watched beaucoup of his birdies.]

         I never became a long hitter, but I did develop a good short game, only because he had an excellent short game. As long as I drove straight off the tee, I could get on the green [dance floor – is the term we used.] Then carefully putt to keep my score down. For years, he took me golfing in this casual way, occasionally. 

Then one corporate move, I suddenly became his only golf buddy. I stepped up to the challenge.

         At the time, we lived in Plymouth, Minnesota, and every Saturday and Sunday we did 18, 27, or occasionally 36 holes at Elm Creek golf course.  It was a challenging course for me. We walked and spent all day at the golf course.

         On the first outing, I asked for and got two Mulligans because it was not a par 3 and when I got to a water hazard, I asked for a third. [I am a whiffer when it comes to water hazards – I peek or try to swing too hard.]

After a few weekends, I noticed I didn’t need to use any of my three Mulligans and I was reduced to just one.  And, my husband sweetly deducted that one Mulligan stroke from my final score if I didn’t use it.

The morale of this story . . .as you approach your next big project – give yourself a reasonable amount of Mulligans . . . and you will achieve success with less angst.

          

For the history of mulligan:

https://www.pga.com/news/golf-buzz/how-mulligan-got-its-name