Golf ball run

The air was hot and thick. I was covered with sweat, my arms and legs brown and dirty. I had just finished shoving downed branches and limbs through my chipper. It was a filthy job but I needed mulch; it was worth the effort. But now, with daylight promising to fade, I simply took off down the road to get in a short run. I should have changed shoes but didn't take the time. I noticed my heel was hurting and any spring in those worn-out shoes was long gone miles ago. I felt sluggish, running merely out of obligation and guilt. I didn't feel very inspired.

When I got to my pre-determined turn-around point at the top of a hill, I started back down. Off in the weeds I noticed something white and round. "Ah, a golf ball," I thought to myself. "I should pick it up." But why? I don't play golf nor does anyone else in my family. Still, it's hard not to pick up a found item no matter what it is. I feel a sense of pride every time I return home with some random object, showing it off to whoever will give me the time of day. So, compelled to do so, I picked it up and ran on. But not very far.

Soon, I saw another and another strewn along this lightly-used country road. They were not clumped together. Rather, over the course of a mile and a half, I continued to find perfectly good golf balls. And since I picked up one, I was compelled to pick up all the others. Soon, I had four in each hand and another eight or so stuffed into my running bra. It was quite a sight. My chest had turned into a voluptuous, albeit bumpy, uniboob. Talk about some bounce. The chested balls had a tendency to pop out as I ran, sending me to chase them as they rolled down the road. But chase them I did, wondering what circumstance produced this smattering of golf balls along my route while hoping that none of the neighbors were watching. My run now had purpose and I was delighted.

About a half mile from home and just when I could not find another millimeter of bodily storage space for the next found ball, there in the ditch was a basket, the kind you find at a driving range. My growing and carried load had a new home. Good thing. I found another half dozen before turning down the driveway.

Did I need those golf balls? Hardly. Was it fun to find them? You bet. Almost as much fun as finding all those candy-laden eggs my Grandma used to hide come Easter morning. Thank God for small pleasures. Proudly, I placed the basket full of golf balls on the counter and waited for the questioning to begin.