It was 47 degrees in Harbor Springs today. The sun was shining. I couldn’t resist the temptation to play golf.
The electric carts have all been stowed away for the winter, but hand pulled trolleys are available. I loaded my clubs on one of them and headed out to the Farms Course for a nine hole adventure.
Most of the trees have given up their leaves by now, but there are still a few that remind us of the autumn tableau that makes Michigan such a special place.
The big toe on my right foot sends me a shooting pain every third or fourth step. I am tempted to take the shoe off, but I don’t.
There’s not much to think about alone on the golf course. I move at a slow but steady pace, and I get to thinking about how I am walking.
My gate is somewhere between John Wayne’s bold and threatening full shouldered swagger and Tim Conway’s hilarious octogenarian shuffle.
It’s not a stroll. Stroll suggests pointless wandering. I know where I am going. It’s not a walk. You take a walk. You go for a walk. A walk is a complete endeavor, an undertaking, a mission. You walk the dog. You walk to church.
And I was not ambling. That is too aimless. Nor was I hiking. That suggests
boots and a back pack. I ruled out marching. That would require music and some kind of rhythm.
Was I strolling? Or sauntering? No, those are too carefree for traversing a fairway. I ruled out waddling. I am not fat enough to waddle. Nor am I young enough to toddle. My gate was too steady to be a stagger, or a stumble.
I wasn’t dawdling, or loitering; that would be too slow. Nor was I creeping or crawling. That suggests getting down on your knees. I ruled out schlepping, I think you have to have your shirt tails out to schlep.
I eliminated trudge and plod. Those things require mud and boots. Saunter, dawdle and traipse sounded too uncommitted. I was playing golf.
So what was I doing out there? It finally came to me at about the seventh hole. I was moseying.
I hit the ball and moseyed down the fairway to hit it again. Then I moseyed up onto the green and putted it onto the hole.
When you are eighty-seven years old, you mosey a lot. After supper, I mosey down to the basement and get on my computer. Maybe I’ll fight the spider solitaire game for a while. Maybe I’ll pour over my email. Maybe I’ll Google the news and see what is happening in the world.
Maybe I’ll end up writing another blog. The blogesphere is rampant with Trumpetry. His cabinet. Who’s in and who’s out. Who the President Elect has talked with, who hasn’t been able to see him.
And big news, like it’s not easy to get through to Mr.Trump on the telephone. The Prime Minister of Australia couldn’t find a phone number for the President Elect. He finally had to call Greg Norman. The Shark knew how to get hold of the Donald.
Mitt Romney is going to the Trump National Golf Course in New Jersey to meet the owner on Saturday. That has generated a lot of speculation. Will he be considered for Secretary of State? A stunning possibility given Romney’s full throated opposition to Trump’s candidacy.
I recall noting some time back that Mr. Trump has spoken admiringly about Doris Kearns Goodwin’s famous book “A Team of Rivals” in which she celebrated the political genius of Abraham Lincoln whose cabinet consisted of the men who had opposed his nomination.
No one ever accused Abraham Lincoln of egotism. Indeed, his modest humility is considered one of his greatest virtues.
I do not see Donald Trump as a particularly humble man, but I can envision him acting the part of a gracious winner. I recall that when asked to say something nice about Hillary Clinton, Trump was quick to acknowledge that she is a fighter who simply doesn’t quit.
I think a Trump-Romney handshake will be good for America.