Doug Blough

Other than that two-pet limit thing, which I've made perfectly clear is a mockery of a sham of a travesty, I only have one bone to pick with the lovely town of Powell, and it's a big (big in its littleness) one because it's a recurring, unnecessary hardship. Some might claim it has more to do with Garland, but it's called “Powell” Golf Course, so Powell is the guilty party.

I often play Powell's beautiful course on Monday at the reduced rate my meager Social. Security checks can squeeze in since my 50-year gambling habit really interfered with retirement planning. So Mondays I usually golf with Dave “Beem the Dream” Beemer and the feisty Myron Heny — he of the legendary decorated house each Christmas. I just drape cooked spaghetti noodles over the lampshades and put decorative balls in the litterboxes, so I've never been in the running over here. (I once in the ‘90s had eight cats and I was entirely legal in Cody. Adjoining townhouse neighbors seemed to move at a dizzying rate, but who needs 'em)?

Anyhoo, getting back to the bone I'm picking with Powell, it's all about that tiny green, golf course sign between Powell and Garland. This little thing on the right side of the highway when a driver's eyes are more safely focused on the westbound lane is dumb. It;s a few inches of sign saying in miniature letters, “Golf Course,” and by the time you see it, if you do, it's almost too late to navigate the left-hand turn. Not everyone has eyes like an eagle ya know. Between my cornea disease Beem and I share, kerataconus and my recently diagnosed cataracts, it's precarious squinting for that tiny sign.

A few outings ago, I never did find it and before I know, I'm in Garland about ready to cry because I was already pushing tee time, and I'm not sure where the Garland cutoff to the course is. I'm speeding up and slowing down looking for a sign of ANY kind, so I just turned left on a dirt, winding road that seemed likely in the general direction of the course and my tortured eyes celebrated seeing the golf course driveway. I had to rush inside to pay and come back out to see Beemer and Heny eyeing me impatiently.

Now, I'm not blaming all that visual hardship for shooting a lousy round, backing into a car as I exited, or even for getting beat by an 86-year-old. That I blame more on Beemer's extreme over-coaching, like blurting out “Don't blade it” in the middle of my chip shot, the strongest part of my game. Of course I bladed that chip far over the green.

No, I'm not blaming the search for a tiny golf course sign for all that, but it didn't help. Why not a large sign and even a standing metal likeness of a golfer in the middle of a swing, or maybe taking a leak behind a tree?. You want people to golf at your course, show them where it's at for God's sake!

Now, Cody's golf course is MUCH easier to find with signs everywhere, but I will say Powell has Cody beat to hell for golf carts. What an ingenious courtesy to have a ball and club washer right there on the carts. Several years ago I mentioned this cart superiority to the Cody club pro and he said, “Well, the problem with that is they get really smelly.”Hmmm, I've golfed Powell dozens of times and never smelled a thing except for Myron's sandwich while making the turn.

I freely admit I'm un-coachable, and I'm not improving; I'm getting worse … When I'm addressing that ball, there's a myriad of tips over the years that once worked but no longer do, crowding my OCD brain. The last thing I need to be on time for a relaxed game is driving 30 mph for a couple miles desperately searching for a near invisible sign. It's madness I tell ya! And I've seen all of Garland I care to see. (Nice burg though if it was on your agenda).