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Goose 2

 The 6th hole is a par 3. It has an elevated tee and a gently pitched fairway that rolls almost 200 yards downward to a wide, but shallow green. The pin is up front and set off in the lefthand corner.  To the right of the green is a pond in high grass. To the left is a sprawling sand trap. Further out to the left is a high grassy knoll with a towering fir tree on top and a flock of Canada geese resting in the shade at its base.  The geese are everywhere on the course. They fly inland off the ocean and this place must look to them a perfect spot. They generally stay clear of the landing zones on the fairways. Close calls have no doubt shaped their behaviour. Everywhere else they treat as their own.  As the other guys begin the ritual of club selection I do the same. We have all played this course, this hole countless times over the years yet we follow the same script. The comments deviate very little from time to time. Frank approaches with a 3 wood in hand. “Think I’...
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KAREN

My father started to tell us stories about Aunt Karen years after she was gone. I guess he was trying to make some sense of things, but those stories wouldn't stay put. They rose up in him like well water until he couldn't do anything but  pour them out.  The first story he ever told us was waiting for the milkman. She was six years old at the time. Father was seven and already in school. It was early morning and Karen was finishing her breakfast. Eleven chews for each mouthful. No more, no less. Her Momma taught her that. Read it in some Women's magazine, but that's all it took with Karen. It made sense to her and from then on that's what she did.  Dad would stand, flex his fingers and stretch to show us how our Aunt moved through the world 25 years before we were born. When her breakfast was done she'd unfold her napkin and dab the milk droplets off her face and her paisley dress then refold the napkin into a perfect square. She would then flip up the table of...
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THE MERCEDES

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  The Mercedes by Phil Jones At ten years old I could sniff out a mystery. I was forever creeping around, listening in, sifting conversations from hiding spots. Couldn't help myself. The good stuff only leaked out when you weren't around. Or when they thought you weren't around.     This is what I was doing  the day my father bought the Mercedes. He kept circling the thing, running his hand up the wheel wells and peering in at the engine. The owner was an old guy. He stood back smoking a pipe  grinning around the stem as my father did his inspection. Neither of them noticed me behind our garden shed.   My father slept late as a rule on Saturdays. He'd roll out of bed around ten and vanish into the throne room with the Globe & Mail. By that time mum was shopping downtown and us kids had scattered like bomb fragments to all corners of the neighbourhood.   This morning was differe...
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