It’s windy a lot in the desert, something that we’re pretty used to by now.
Probably because hot air rises, and the desert dirt, rock and sand can get warmer than a pancake griddle, the rising air must be replaced with something…which is the not-as-hot air rushing in to fill the vacuum. Even on a clear, sunny day we have a mild breeze out here…and thank goodness for that.
My buddies Lloyd, Galen and Scott joined me last Thursday for a game of golf at the Oasis-Canyons course here in Mesquite. It was a brutal exercise, and I’m not talking about our golf skills: the wind was a’howlin’ out there. We teed off at 9:40 a.m. into a modest breeze, perhaps 15 mph. Nothing we couldn’t handle with our hacked slices, pulls, and topped shots. A piece of cake!
However, a couple of hours into the ordeal, the wind picked up to maybe 25 mph. Now, we were challenged. Perfectly struck shots (yes, there were a couple of them from the foursome!) dropped from the sky like wounded pheasants. Putts that were on-line and headed for paydirt veered sickeningly away from the cup and guaranteed a three- or four-putt outcome. It was torture.
By the middle of the back nine, we were spent. The blow was now gusting to 45 mph and had now incorporated fine sand into the punishment. Adding to the misery was the backup of other foursomes that were trying valiantly to finish their round. At the 17th tee box, perched up on a ridge and looking down the green, some 150 yards away and 100 feet below us, we could hardly stand up, let alone attempt to strike a 7-iron.
Like the pansies and cowards that we’ve become, we gave up and took our sandblasted asses back to the clubhouse: this was no fun. (However, with two fewer holes played, we were all able to record decent scores…I think I broke 90!)
(Interestingly, on that Thursday and Friday, the world’s best professional golfers were playing one of the sport’s “major” tournaments at Kiweah Island in South Carolina…in very similar windy weather. Those pros got their asses handed to them…I think the average score on Thursday and Friday was 75 or so…just like we had in Mesquite. On the last two days of that PGA Championship, the wind calmed down a bit to around 15-20 mph, allowing the guys a chance for a few birdies. Still, the winning score after four days was only 6 under par…by Phil Mickelson, the oldest player, at 50 years old, to ever win a “major” golf title. He is a very skilled shotmaker and he needed all of that experience to better the efforts of his “flatbelly” opponents, many of whom were half his age. Take that, you whippersnappers!)
On Friday, good guy Craig helped a neighborhood widow.
Heidi, whose husband Gary died a couple of years ago, and whose Doberman Pinscher died during the pandemic, finally bit the bullet and bought a Dachshund puppy named “Oliver”. That little dog is a cutie; however, it is also a little weasel who can scoot under fences in the blink of an eye. Heidi, who is no small gal, can’t keep up Ollie and is terrified that the dog will get loose on her.
We had that problem with Bon Bon when she was a puppy, so I installed 20” high chicken wire at the base of my 5’ wrought iron fence around the 250’ perimeter of my back yard. It did the job: Bon Bon has now grown just enough that climbing through the wrought iron grates would be a chore if not impossible for her. So, at this time, the chicken wire is not needed at my house.
Good Samaritan that I am, I volunteered to take it down and install it on Heidi’s backyard fence.
What a mistake that was.
Heidi has, probably, the largest lot in our subdivision, a huge pie-shaped monstrosity with probably 350 linear feet of wrought iron fencing in her backyard. My recycled chicken wire would only do about two-thirds of the job, so I had to buy more material and cut it into panels for application with galvanized wire.
Heidi was able to recruit two other Old Fart volunteers to help me with installation. Thank goodness for that, because it took us 3 hours to do it… in 20- to 40-mph winds! Man, that sucked! It was hard enough to crouch down and twist wire for 3 hours, but the ferocious wind really took the starch out of us…we could hardly stand at times. What an ordeal. My thin-skinned hands are now all pocked with scabs from scratches and punctures.
All in a day’s work for Mr. Scabby…
Afterwards, Heidi said, “Craig, what can I do for you to thank you for all you’ve done? How about a gift certificate or a fancy dinner for you and Charlie?” I said, “You can thank me by not telling any other widows that I did this!”
For the past three days, I’ve been relegated to sitting on the couch, watching TV…while my aching hamstrings regain their composure.
It sucks being old.
