I am most fortunate to have two large, beautiful, eight-year-old malamutes. Red and Wolf by name, littermates, and my companions since they were six weeks old. Every once in a while, Red will be bothered by a flea and go after it, biting with great gusto. It appeared that was the situation recently.
As we grow older, time, for the most part, seems to pass faster and faster. The days, the weeks, the years, all seem to disappear in a blur of time. Two notable exceptions are the two months named after those ancient tyrants, Julius and Augustus Caesar.
From the snowy hardwoods of the North to the piney forests of the South, hunters make their pilgrimage each autumn to remote farms and forests to celebrate the most special day in the deer woods – the whitetail opener. Here are two views.
The third-oldest national title is now a big-time draw
When the first Canadian Open was played at Royal Montreal in 1904, it was only the third national golf championship in the world–played at the first established club in North America. The spectators, as L. V. Kavanagh wrote in the 1973 History of Golf in Canada, arrived by horse and buggy, and crowd control was not an issue because “golf in those days was a sport for gentlemen.”
In professional golf’s galaxy of stars, the name of Pat McGowan does not burn brightly. The 35-year-old Californian, whose home club is in Southern Pines, N.C., has been philosophically plodding around the PGA Tour for 13 years, playing up to 30 tournaments annually. Read more
Augusta, Ga. I WOULD be embarrassed to admit how big a part the Masters has played in my life: in my mental life, and, to a degree, my writing life. I’m talking, of course, about the tournament held every April at the Augusta National Golf Club.