The South Skunk River flooded the driving range when I was 11.
It took me out of my golf ball picker-upper job for six days. But it was grand.
Floyd Penkhus, my boss, let Steve, the Hedberg boys and me use his red rowboat, and off we went. We took a left at the 225-yard marker and explored uncharted territories of Ames, Iowa.
Steve had stashed 50 cherry bombs from the Fourth of July. I swiped a whole box of Hostess cupcakes from the pantry, and Gene Hedberg brought a mammoth jug of A&W root beer.
We were explorers and conquistadors of the highest order. We threw cherry bombs in the muddy water and watched them explode. We guzzled root beer and stuffed our mouths with the chocolate cupcakes. We took turns rowing, bumping into trees that dotted our wilderness. We sang, “Davy, Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier.” Life was super.
At 74 years of age, I try to recapture those pure moments of joy. I play with my four shepherds in our creek. I hike up the mountainside and spot a pack of coyotes down below.
And when things are just right, I sing boldly to nobody, “Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee.”