Dear Boo and Bubble,
It's the second week of April...which means the Masters (the most premier annual major golf tournament, in my opinion) is about to start in Georgia at the storied Augusta National Golf Club. Within its holy confines are challenging holes designed by Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts on property once called Fruitland Nursery. Every fairway is lined with majestic pines that shed their needles to make beds of treacherous footing should anyone hit an errant golf shot that finds its way underneath their branches. This time of year, the dogwoods and Formosa azaleas signal the arrival of spring with a blazing underbrush of white, pink and fuchsia. Those who attend the tournament can easily come away with a sense of complete satisfaction...even without seeing a single swing of the club...just from the sheer beauty of the place.
For anybody not a member of Augusta National, it's difficult to get tickets to the Masters, and quite expensive. When we lived in Columbia, SC...only an hour away from Augusta...we were lucky enough to be given tickets on a few occasions. I don't remember exactly what year it was when we went for the first time, but I will never forget the conversation we overheard while sitting next to the #15 green, watching the golfers try to hit their second shots from the fairway of the par-5 hole in hopes of making it over the pond guarding the green and giving themselves a possible eagle attempt.
There were two women in folding chairs right next to us. so engrossed in such serious, concerned chatter with each other that the tournament seemed superfluous. Their consternation revolved around an imperative question--what were they going to do when their mother died? For years, these sisters had enjoyed the opportunity to come to Augusta every spring...for free...because their parents were members of Augusta National. When their father passed away, the membership continued with their mother but the rules of the club prohibited it from being passed on to the next generation. Instead, it would revert back to the club. Although the mother was in good health at that point, she was in her eighties and the prospects of this familial perk coming to an end loomed large in the future.
From what we could gather through our eavesdropping, they had settled on two possible solutions to the problem. Their first was relatively simple...when their mother died, they would not tell anybody. They would have her taxidermied and pay someone to drive her around town every now and then so people would think she was still alive. The yearly membership check to the club would be written out of her bank account...surely one of them could fake the signature.
The second, more imaginative option required some outside help and cooperation. Their mother had an octogenarian bachelor friend who was a member of Augusta National. One of the sisters had a two-year-old granddaughter. Why not have the two of them get married? That way, when he died, the membership would transfer to the granddaughter and they would be set for life.
This would all seem ludicrous had the two women not been dead serious. Of course, we have no idea what happened. I'm sure the mother is long gone by now. Every year, as I watch the tournament on television and they show play on #15, I scour the faces of the people sitting next to the green to find them. If I ever do, I surely hope they came up with some other solution than sacrificing that poor little granddaughter for the sake of Master's tickets!
(On April 12, 2015, in a blog entitled "Best Masters Ever," I wrote to you about taking your great granddaddy Cottrell to Augusta National to see a practice round before the tournament started. It is truly my very fondest memory of anything associated with the Masters.)
It's the second week of April...which means the Masters (the most premier annual major golf tournament, in my opinion) is about to start in Georgia at the storied Augusta National Golf Club. Within its holy confines are challenging holes designed by Bobby Jones and Clifford Roberts on property once called Fruitland Nursery. Every fairway is lined with majestic pines that shed their needles to make beds of treacherous footing should anyone hit an errant golf shot that finds its way underneath their branches. This time of year, the dogwoods and Formosa azaleas signal the arrival of spring with a blazing underbrush of white, pink and fuchsia. Those who attend the tournament can easily come away with a sense of complete satisfaction...even without seeing a single swing of the club...just from the sheer beauty of the place.
For anybody not a member of Augusta National, it's difficult to get tickets to the Masters, and quite expensive. When we lived in Columbia, SC...only an hour away from Augusta...we were lucky enough to be given tickets on a few occasions. I don't remember exactly what year it was when we went for the first time, but I will never forget the conversation we overheard while sitting next to the #15 green, watching the golfers try to hit their second shots from the fairway of the par-5 hole in hopes of making it over the pond guarding the green and giving themselves a possible eagle attempt.
There were two women in folding chairs right next to us. so engrossed in such serious, concerned chatter with each other that the tournament seemed superfluous. Their consternation revolved around an imperative question--what were they going to do when their mother died? For years, these sisters had enjoyed the opportunity to come to Augusta every spring...for free...because their parents were members of Augusta National. When their father passed away, the membership continued with their mother but the rules of the club prohibited it from being passed on to the next generation. Instead, it would revert back to the club. Although the mother was in good health at that point, she was in her eighties and the prospects of this familial perk coming to an end loomed large in the future.
From what we could gather through our eavesdropping, they had settled on two possible solutions to the problem. Their first was relatively simple...when their mother died, they would not tell anybody. They would have her taxidermied and pay someone to drive her around town every now and then so people would think she was still alive. The yearly membership check to the club would be written out of her bank account...surely one of them could fake the signature.
The second, more imaginative option required some outside help and cooperation. Their mother had an octogenarian bachelor friend who was a member of Augusta National. One of the sisters had a two-year-old granddaughter. Why not have the two of them get married? That way, when he died, the membership would transfer to the granddaughter and they would be set for life.
This would all seem ludicrous had the two women not been dead serious. Of course, we have no idea what happened. I'm sure the mother is long gone by now. Every year, as I watch the tournament on television and they show play on #15, I scour the faces of the people sitting next to the green to find them. If I ever do, I surely hope they came up with some other solution than sacrificing that poor little granddaughter for the sake of Master's tickets!
(On April 12, 2015, in a blog entitled "Best Masters Ever," I wrote to you about taking your great granddaddy Cottrell to Augusta National to see a practice round before the tournament started. It is truly my very fondest memory of anything associated with the Masters.)
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