“Golpher, I want you to take lessons.” Linky Swink inhaled.
“Why? You said I need none.” I scratched my temple.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Golpher. Your swing is sand-raked smooth.”
Golpher squinted. “Then…”
“I want you to see James, the funnyman. I want to see James Gregory, my cousin, the salesman. I’m concerned about our country, about our membership, too. In a healthy way, we’d like to grow.”
“Gosh.” My furry ears tipped. “I see you puzzled as I look at your sun-scorched face, Linky. Like fertilizer, a good salesman can make things grow; and country membership, Mr. Gregory?”
“Yes,” said Linky. “James is as country, down-home as one gets. He’s a pro at life’s lessons. We’re an upscale public course. Croaky and I want to grow membership. We want to put country back in the club. We want everyone to feel welcome. If anyone can make someone feel welcome, it’s country-James and you. So, I’m sending our finest ambassador to Georgia. You’re to take lessons from a pro. Before you knew the club Golpher you knew country, too.”
“I did. Yes, sir, Linky. Mama was born in Alamance County.”
“Right you are. Now, I’m sending you on a seminar—paid leave. Bring country back to Dog-bone Forest, buddy. Backbone, humor, and friendly is what we need. Take lessons from a pro.”
“Backbone, humor, and friendly.” I nodded. “Okay.”
(Image Golpher, Linky at the club, in pro shop)