Old Doc Writes Romance and YA Fiction (The Sunglasses Kid)

        I’m not gonna say I’m old, ’cause my kids and msslightly would chastise me if I did anyway.  But in dog years I’m getting up there.  In spite of the fact the chronological clock can not be denied they say I am young at heart, and I take that as a high compliment.  I have quoted this one before but it bears repeating:

         Social worker to elderly patient checking in the nursing home:  “How was your childhood?”

        Patient:  “So far, so good.”

         So with all that in mind, here is Doc B’s annual attempt at romance writing (it is spring after all) with a dash of YA fiction.  And in case any of you guys think I am poking fun, I am not.  No matter how much we protest, most folks my age would trade places with you in a heart beat for a second set in the gig.

        

 

                                         The Sunglasses Kid

 

        “Hey honey, have you seen my golf shoes?”

         “No dear.  Where did you leave them last fall?”  She looked up from her knitting and smiled.

          “Hm.  I don’t think I’ve played since the Mississippi trip except to hit balls and swing around the loop.”  (a five hole stretch at the house)

        “Check your travel bag.”

        “Where is it?”

        “Garage; back behind the bin for the baseball equipment.”

        “I need to clean that thing out.  Those days are over.”

         “You might make a comeback.”

        “Yeah, I guess so.”  Nothing like a spouse who has faith in you.  “I feel lucky, maybe I’m good for fifty today.”

        “I hope so, they’re having a sale at Rag Tag.  I need some new cloth.”   

        “Hey, have you seen my sunglasses?”

        “Tommy, Tommy.  You are such a little boy.  I found them all over the house last season.  They’re in the top drawer of your desk in the study.”

        “Left or right?”

        “Hush.”

         I retrieved a pair.  “O.K.  I’ll be back in time to throw something on the grill.  Spring is close, and you know about those sunglasses.”

        “I hear you.”

        I love sunglasses.  Part of it is clinical; they offer significant UV protection.  And too, I was a myopic kid and could not buy them off the rack.  After five eye procedures (two cataracts, two posterior caspule lasers and one retinal detachment and still blessed to have with 20/20 vision)  I consider the opportunity to buy a pair of cheap drug store sunglasses a thrill.

        My Marfar was the sunglasses kid.  Still is.  One of the major miracles of my college career was that I managed to make an ‘A’ in Organic Chemistry while I dated girl who could wear a pair of sunglasses the way she did.  She seldom wore them over her eyes.  More often they were perched on top her head nestled in that sun bleached hair.  When we’d go to the beach, I often wondered how in the world this skinny little boy got hooked up with the girl next door who could make a pair of sunglasses look that good.  It isn’t proper to brag on my own wife, but that was the prettiest woman I’d ever laid eyes on.  Until my little Marie came along (she looks just like her mama) no one else on the planet was close. 

        I fished a pair out of the desk drawer and took them for her to check out.  “How bout these?”

         “You look like you could kick Arnold Palmer’s a^^.”  (White lies never hurt in marriage)  “Go win me some money.”  

        I know you guys in the frozen tundra still have to suffer through the end of winter.  I hate to rub it in but golf season has opened here.  (If you pick your days you can play all winter)  The front nine was chilly, but it got up to sixty-one by noon.  I closed with a 40 on the back.  83 ain’t so great, but this time of year it was good enough for a win. 

         As per my custom, I went home and put my winnings at Marfar’s place at the table.  

        When  I walked through the kitchen to go fire up the grill, I noticed the money was gone.  She grabbed my waist from behind.  “How’d you do?”

        “83.  Not so good.  But I won fifty bucks for you.  I was the sunglasses kid’s guy today.”  (Every boy hopes he can win a bear for his girl at the fair; I don’t care how old he is or how open minded for women’s rights, and I am very much all about that.)

         “Keep your mind on golf out there, sir.”

        “Yes ma’am.”

        I can always tell when spring is here.  When you turn into River Run, there is one slope where the sun hits it just right.  It is the first place where the grass turns green every year.  But more than that, I always start to try to find my sunglasses, and my Marfar’s also.  The psychologists call it classical conditioning, or maybe imprinting too.

         But to me it is is simple as this.  If my Marfar perches a pair of sunglasses on top of her head, flashes a grin and tells me this young man can kick Arnold Plamer’s a^^ in golf, I believe her ’cause she ain’t lied to me yet.

        And man, can that girl still wear a pair of sunglasses.

Dr. B

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