Not sure if you noticed, but Christmas is nearly here. I look out the window and I see gravel. No snow (yet), but that’s Georgia.
Obviously a variety of stories come to mind:
– Playing king of the hill and breaking off a 4' icicle (literally) and carrying it home with my dad
– Going to Aunt Sue’s for fried fish that I still haven’t acquired a taste for
– Riding sleds with the sole intent of colliding into my brother
– Drinking alcoholic eggnog and realizing that I like the taste of “kids” eggnog better
One fond memory, though, is when my brother and I went in on a gift together for my Papa Bear. We probably began scouring the local golf store in early November. By foot, the store was about a 9-minute walk. But on our sweet two-wheeled bicicletas (repetitive, I know), it was no more than 3 minutes. Maybe 6:17 if we stopped at Burger King on the way. 
We were of the pre-iPod age in which buying more than two packs of sports cards a week was frivolous spending. We were also of the age in which our definition of “frivolous” would have been something like: Frivolous—when one is really frivolry.
In our eyes my dad was a very good golfer because he was able to use a wood elsewhere on the course other than when it was teed up and his score was only two digits. Having recently taken up golf myself in the backyard, I knew that my dad’s long irons were more useful in the garden. He needed a substitute.
Substitute found: a 7 wood. Many of them actually. All different price ranges. Because my brother and I were going in on the gift together that allowed us to get him a top-notch club. If my memory serves me correctly, I believe we walked out of the store after our eighth visit with a $29 women’s club.
It’s the thought that counts, right?
Merry Christmas Dad. Sorry ‘bout the gift. My thriftiness comes from mom.
