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As the final pair painstakingly made its way around the last holes late Sunday at the Masters, the empty fairways were a sad sight. Not long before, they glistened with dew in the morning sunlight; players strode down their centers after blistering drives; and patrons stood scattered around their edges admiring the spectacle. Then, there…
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I’m starting to wonder if our next dog will sing along the way our lab Sammy does while I play the piano. I imagine trying to play her song without her, and I think keeping it a duet would help. Some things are better with a friend. While I worry about becoming a solo act,…
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Lately I’ve found myself talking very excitedly about my son’s swimming, mostly to my wife, but also to his friend’s father, my physical therapist, my parents, my coaching colleagues . . . basically, anyone to whom my son’s nascent swimming career is even remotely relevant is aware of his budding talent. “He’s doing that already?”…
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Over the years I’ve developed some rules for dealing with young kids at swim practice. One is, never ask a swimmer, “What are you doing?” The question is totally unproductive: it’s almost guaranteed to be uttered in anger and frustration, and the kid’s not going to have a good answer. Better to just go ahead…
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Sitting atop the roof at Folly Beach’s Catch 23, formerly Snapper Jack’s of bridal massacre fame, my college roommate Dan and I discussed the nature of unexpected joy, those fleeting moments in which the miraculousness of one’s existence is suddenly a palpable thing, when the light coming in the window or the thought of a…
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It was a Friday morning, and my day had gotten off to a late start. I stumbled still half-asleep into the living room, and the sound of Cartter’s heavy footsteps hustling from his bedroom in the back hallway roused me to alertness. “Scotty, guess what I found?” Scotty matched his older brother’s tone of enthusiasm…
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The morning of the kids’ last day off from school over Christmas break, I was roused at six a.m. by a moaning sound that mixed with the whir of the box fan in Danyelle’s and my bedroom. It was so constant and steady that I thought the spinning blades must have randomly achieved some resonant…
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As I pointed at each little pair of dots in the picture next to the table of contents, my 6-year-old Scotty peered over my shoulder, and I asked him, “Can you tell what those are?” A dog lay next to a campfire, looking out into the surrounding wilderness. “Stars,” said Scotty. It’s what I’d thought…
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Rounding the bend on Scotland Drive each evening on my way home from the pool, the twinkle of the lights strung around my neighbors’ trees and shrubs arouse no feelings of Christmas cheer, nostalgia, or grinchy bitterness. I look left and right, hoping for something to well up inside me, and I come up empty…
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The Raging Elitist 