On the Rules of Golf

My children play stone golf. It is their own cross-country rendition of the regular game; it zigzags and flies loudly across the pasture under the late slanting pink sunlight.

This is an easy game. They clout the stone with the yard sale clubs, then follow it and clout it again if they find it. If they don't, they reach into their pockets and get another one and proceed on through the various hindrances inherent in golf without a course.

With no recessed holes, no flags, no numbers, the game is reduced to its essence, which is just clouting and running and an occasional headlock amongst the compadres. It is not uncommon or unacceptable, in fact, for the smallest player to be dragged to the next tee by the largest in a dry land version of the cross-chest carry, as long as this is carried out in good humor.

Tree golf is more complex. In this game, grazing, or "barking" a consensus tree at least an acre away counts as a goal.

Considering the uneven ground and unkempt tall grasses whose blades have fine surgical edges very distracting to bare feet, one can tee off from anywhere on the fairway using any of the fortuitously shaped organic tees left behind in great profusion by last years horses.

One is invited to bring music. It can be loud and ribald. The reverent hush is unknown to my brood.

One can, without penalty, move one's Day-glow ball out of range of the big sprinklers if the mental pressure of running in between sprays and whacking the ball before getting caught and drenched from behind is too great for the required concentration. Also, if one is being unduly harassed and deliberately watered and taunted by dry and frisky players who get the consistently lucky ricochet, one may claim the same privilege.

The great challenge in this game is avoiding bashing the head of the vacuous pup who is magnetized by anything clamorous, and who loves no activity more than that which puts her tiny brain in the path of annihilation.

"Just swing," the children say confidently, notwithstanding the insanely barking doggy snout quivering inches from the ball, the brindle rump-to-the sky posture full of wags and death-wish tension. It conjures up visions alien to the refined airs of conventional golf, causing sensitive people to balk, to hesitate, to send their balls meekly back into the sprinklers.

Other than these conditions, there are no real rules, which is the way we seem to get along best. Perhaps it is a genetic propensity toward improvisation. I know that when someone I like begins to pound on the Scrabble table for fixed rules, I feel startled. It seems so odd. So rabid and perplexing.

On the other hand, possibly we are coded rebels who, in doing things insistently in their own way, such as, in a northern climate, playing croquet primarily at Christmas.

This requires, naturally, heating the wickets in order to stick them through the frozen ground and sending each other off on an ice bound obstacle course devised by smirking children and their wicked and indulging uncles who have assisted them also in preparing shrill arguments in defense of the beauty and justice of a route that rolls through 20' chutes and into the particularly hazardous and repugnant entry to a shockingly unkempt tool shed, skinning between two big tree trunks where a human body in full winter paraphernalia cannot possibly fit, and which includes passing through, not around old car bodies and traps made of chicken wire.

The object of these games is clear. In fact the winner, according to our rule-puncturing propensities, can be declared in advance so that we are freed from the anxiety and nastiness of in-house competition. All those who finish prevail and feel victorious.

We concentrate, instead, upon the event of the adults joining the children as children for awhile, dodging the chores and burdens of the household to enjoy the wild noises and liberated excitement that live on the edge of such easy chaos. Somehow it is good for us.

As for suitable refreshments for this rowdy type of athlete, I offer, all seasons, Red Potato Salad Vinaigrette. It goes together in two quick steps so that the cook is not trapped in the kitchen, it is hearty fare, it is an easy companion to other foods, and it is definitely open to suggestion.

For six servings, I use 12-14 smallish red potatoes. Wash them, trim black spots, and halve them if they are bigger around than a lime. Be sure to place them into cold water in a large kettle and then bring the water to a boil. Add 1 tsp. salt and simmer until tender.

Remove the potatoes from the water and allow them to cool completely. Make your own vinaigrette or the following:

3/4 C. olive oil

1/4-1/3 C. seasoned gourmet rice vinegar

1-2 cloves garlic, pressed

salt and pepper to taste

1 T.-1/4 C fresh dill or 1 tsp. dried

dash of sugar

Mix this into the potatoes along with any or all of these:

1 C. celery, chopped

1 Four oz. can sliced black olives, drained

1/2-1 sweet onion, sliced into thin rings

3/4 C. walnuts

1/2 C. sliced or diced red pepper

1/4 C. parsley, chopped

Now toss these together and allow to chill down, a procedure, my children inform me, that is known to be effective in treating many of the various constrictions of advanced age.