Eddie tees off a Hole #1, Catfish Acres Golf Club
My friend Dave Salveson, affectionately known to me and a few other old friends, as “Eddie” (in honor of his deceased father, Edwin, though we called Dave “Eddie” long before the real Ed went to be with his Norse ancestors), is the person I have known longer than anyone else on this planet except my mom and dad. Eddie and I have been running mates, best friends (if such label can be accurately applied) since 1958, the year we met as neighbors in Piedmont Heights, a suburban tract that sits at the top of Piedmont Avenue in Duluth, Minnesota. My life (and Eddie’s part in that strange ride) will someday be chronicled in a memoir. For now, dear readers, be satisfied that, with all we’ve been through, Eddie’s as close as a brother. We’d do anything for each other. Including bouncing along side by side on dueling riding mowers. Which is exactly what we did this past Saturday.
Eddie’s a passionate and vastly superior golfer to my infrequent forays onto the links. Hell, he’s retired, has been retired from the Duluth Fire Department for nearly a decade. He golfs 4-5 times a week with a bunch of other retired guys, hits the ball a ton and has a pretty good short game as well. An impatient man prone to expletives and wild club swinging when things aren’t going his way, Eddie’s even got that less flattering character trait under control. I know this because the day of our 40th year high school reunion I golfed with Eddie and fellow classmates Dave Michelson and Bruce Musolf. Michelson remains a close friend, someone I frequently hang out with. Bruce? I only see him at reunions but he’s another Piedmont boy, someone I’ve known, albeit not as closely as Eddie, for nearly my entire life. Anyway, I witnessed Eddie’s newly developed powers of self-control when, on the 17th hole at Nemadji during the reunion outing, he put not one but two shots into the water on a short par 3 after shooting a round in the mid-70s. Had he even bogeyed the 17th, he would have come in at an even 80. A pretty fair score for 18 for a guy whose handicap used to be higher than mine. On the 17th, instead of tossing the offending nine iron into the drink (which is what I had come to expect in rounds past when my friend’s temper got the better of him) Eddie simply cursed, waved the club over his head, and took the six he’d earned. Age brings wisdom, they say. In Eddie’s case, it’s also brought imperfect patience.
The point of the above digression is to explain that, as a result of the reunion golf outing, I asked Eddie to lend a hand mowing fairways and greens into the field surrounding our home. Every four or five years my wife Rene’ and I turn our freshly hayed field into “Catfish Acres Golf Club” complete with 9 holes (don’t ask how they’re configured; the geometry looks like Joan Rivers’s face!), tee boxes, and benches upon which to sit and to consider the world while awaiting to tee off. Then we invite friends and family up to hit little white balls into the woods (it’s a very tight course), share some laughs and a few beers or wine coolers, and picnic. Last time out, we even managed a bonfire down by the river with singer/songwriter (and sometimes St. Louis County Attorney) Mark Rubin serenading us with his guitar and voice. But the thing is, with my little John Deere rider, mowing the fairways and pseudo-greens (you can’t putt on the stubble we cut; you have to take out a five iron and mash the ball towards the hole), takes a good eight hours. So I thought:
Dave’s got a rider. He’s retired. All he does is do chores around the house and golf. Why not ask him to lend a hand?
I asked. He said “yes”.
Saturday morning. I was up bright and early, hitched a utility trailer to my Pacifica, got my fifteen year old son Jack and his buddy Nathan out of bed and into the car, and headed towards town. After dropping Jack and Nate at my eldest son Matt’s home (they were recruited for the day as porch painters) I made my way back up the hill to Dave and Sue’s where Eddie was waiting with his own John Deere riding lawn mower. To be accurate, Eddie owns a “real” John Deere. Mine is a cheaper model, a “Sabre made for John Deere” whatever the hell that means. We loaded Eddie’s tractor without incident, stopped at Menard’s for some red shop cloths (they make great flags when attached to 3/4″ PCV by screws), and headed home.
It was a nice day to mow. Warm, in the mid-70s, sunny, with a steady breeze to keep away the hordes of mosquitoes that’ve been plaguing our place. I pulled out my “Catfish Acres” file with the detailed (not so much) hand-drawn map of the course’s layout (why change a sure thing?) and we fired up our tractors. In four hours, we had the grass cut, the holes in place (we use buckets to give the golfers a bigger target), and four of the six flags planted. (I know I said it’s a nine hole course. We use holes more than once, with different tee boxes. Use your imagination, people!) Our wives were in town at a wedding shower and destined to return for a picnic of steak and ribs. But you know what? We were so efficient, and Eddie’s “real” John Deere was so damn fast, that we finished early in time for me to drive Eddie back to town to take a shower and wait for Sue to come home. Back in Duluth we unloaded Eddie’s rider (again without incident or injury). I stopped by Menard’s for more PVC. We were short two flag staffs and before Eddie and I could play, the flags needed to be in place and fluttering over all the holes.
Catfish Acres fairway, Holes 1 and 7
Eddie hitting from Tee# 2, 6, and 8
Rene’ made it home just about the time Dave and Sue rolled in. While the girls made dinner, Eddie and I pulled out our clubs, swatted newly aroused mosquitoes, and played the first 9-hole round on Catfish Acres for 2013. I lost five balls to the trees. Eddie lost one. But I had three magnificent chip-ins to offset my off-target tee shots. Neither of us lost our tempers and, as we wandered back to the house for dinner, without saying a word, two old friends agreed that our labors were successful, that Catfish Acres was ready for tournament play.
Game on. Here’s hoping you hit ’em straight!
Peace.
Mark
6th Hole, Catfish Acres
