My father died in 1985, at a younger age than I am now. He was a real "greatest generation" guy, an Air Force vet, a pilot, a weatherman, a smoker and a drinker. My life choices were a constant source of puzzlement to him, although he dutifully financed them (usually). He was an enthusiastic golfer, an activity inherited and enhanced by my brother Chuck Cook, and although I've never taken up the sport, by sheer osmosis I've acquired more knowledge about it than I can use.
For some reason, when I was around 10 or 11, my father would take me periodically to the golf course and pay me a nickel a hole (rounded up to $1.00 for 18 holes) to "caddy" for him — that is, to drag the wheeled tripod holding his bag while he played, by himself. I have no idea why he did this; maybe my mother made him, to spend time with his younger son; or maybe he was hoping (against hope) that I would acquire an interest he could relate to. I didn't, and I was pretty bored by this activity, but a dollar was major coin for a 5th grader in the early sixties. Whenever he asked, I went.
Those caddying days make an oddly vivid memory, and I can still close my eyes and see him under the summer sun, striding ahead of me, holding a club for the next shot, while I toiled behind with the bag. Happy Father's Day, major, wherever you are.
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