Archive | June, 2015

The Summer Smile Ten Dollars Can Buy by Melissa Bartell

For me, summer has always meant two things: the beach, and flowers.

bucket_of_flowersI was very fortunate to spend almost every summer of my childhood – until I turned sixteen, actually – at the Jersey shore with my grandparents. That was when I had a bathing suit for every day of the week. Actually, I had two for each day, because we had different suits for the ocean and the swimming pool.

That was also when I fell in love with flowers.

My grandmother had the ultimate green thumb. She grew backyard roses from cuttings stolen from friends and neighbors, she had a table full of African violets that seemed to be immortal. My grandfather, on the other hand, retired from the Army and decided to become a gentleman farmer, or at least, as much of one as was possible in a suburban New Jersey back yard.

His specialty was fruit – strawberries the size of my fist, grapes in soil that you wouldn’t expect to accommodate grapes, crops of raspberries that began wild on the edge of the compost heap and eventually took over the back quarter of the yard – but he, too, loved flowers. More than that, he loved bringing home fresh flowers, and presenting them to my grandmother, my aunts, my cousins, and me. He was a completely unaffected man, and the flowers he brought to us – usually things like sunflowers or tall stems of gladiolas – were offered, not in pretty tissue paper or a fussy vase, but jammed haphazardly into a galvanized steel bucket.

The point is, every summer I was surrounded by fresh flowers. Those back yard roses came inside and were floated in bowls, displayed in bud vases, scattered through every room of the house. Those sunflowers perked up the bathrooms and greeted us from the kitchen counter, becoming as ubiquitous in our lives as Grandpop’s crock of sourdough starter that lived above the dishwasher.

As I grew older, I learned that a house without fresh flowers is just as dismal as a house without pets. When I lived at home, my mother would fill the house with greens (spider plants, wandering Jews, ferns) and buy fresh flowers from time to time, and I picked up her habit.

In my dorm room, I always had flowers on my desk, even if it was just a few stems of carnations in a drinking glass.

In my first apartment, I had a bud vase on every windowsill – it was a studio; I didn’t have counters space or end tables.

Twenty years ago, when I got married, my husband and I went through the same budget struggles all young couples experience as we learned to balance the freedom of living entirely on our own recognizance with the requirement that we pay bills on time, keep gas in the car, and have money for laundry.

We learned that we each have minimum requirements for happiness. For my husband, to this day, sunflower seeds and fantasy novels are essential for his well-being. I, on the other hand, become bitter and cranky when I don’t have frou-frou coffee and fresh flowers.

More than once, I have spent my last ten dollars fulfilling that need – buying a bouquet of irises, indulging in five bunches of daffodils, filling the house with carnations – because those small joys that bring summer into the house are the things that keep me going, even when I feel tired, frumpy, and boring.

More than once, I have also advised friends, even those who, like me, are freelancers who often have incredibly erratic pay schedules, that indulging in those small joys – a coffee drink once a week, a basket of strawberries from the farm stand on the corner, a bunch of fresh flowers from the grocery store – is what makes life worth living.

When you spend your last ten dollars on flowers, I tell them, you’re not really buying just the flowers; you’re actually buying hope. You may take home tulips, but you’re also taking in that carefree summer feeling.

Sure, the flowers may have cost ten bucks.

But the summer smile that spreads across your face when you see them every day for the next week?

That’s priceless.

Photo Credit (for the bucket of flowers): Copyright: fotogestoeber / 123RF Stock Photo
(Used with permission)

About the Author – Melissa Bartellmelissabatellbiophoto


Writer, book reviewer, voice actor, dog-lover, and bathtub mermaid, Melissa can be found at her her website ( or her book blog (Bibliotica).

You can also listen to her podcast, “Bathtub Mermaid: Tales from the Tub” at Bathtub Mermaid or on iTunes.


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The Beauty That June Day…

“The beauty of that June day
was almost staggering.
After the wet spring,
everything that could turn green
had outdone itself in greenness
and everything
that could even dream of blooming
or blossoming
was in bloom and blossom.
The sunlight was a benediction.
The breezes were
so caressingly soft
and intimate on the skin
as to be embarrassing.”
― Dan Simmons**

That June by Christa Gallopolos

*from Dan Simmon‘s Novel Drood

Image: by Christa Gallopoulous
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The Smell of Rain on Hot Concrete

Summers were a mixed bag for me as a kid. I loved the ability to read what I desired, stay up late chasing lightening Deathtostock_creativecommunity2bugs, and indulging in the menus that only summer brought – from ice cream and watermelon to juicy tomatoes and corn on the cob. The downside, though, were the hours upon hours of time alone.

For an extroverted gal, it could be frustrating. And, a little boring. Sure, there were some neighborhood kids to play with, but in the heat of the day, everyone stayed inside to stay cool.

Once summer got into full swing, my mother would pack me up and take me to my grandmother’s house in Waxahachie. Though there weren’t any little kids to play with, a change in location stimulated my imagination.

I learned to sew, though I never quite managed to make wearable clothes. I learned to crochet, which we would do as we watched my grandmother’s shows – the Young & the Restless, One Life to Live and General Hospital were musts.

We at Watermelon Popsicles bought at the Piggly Wiggly and sometimes went to Sonic for not just soft serve, but a swirl of chocolate and vanilla soft serve. I picked ripe figs from the fig tree outside her bedroom, always fighting the blue jays for the juicy goodness.

At my grandmothers, I got to help with household chores. Things my mother did since it was easier for her to do them. I dusted, organized the pantry, cleaned the bathroom, and hung clothes out on the line to dry.

And when I began to get a little antsy, she would usher me outside to play. There were rocks to find and the hope of catching one of Ms. Gentry’s cats (I never could). I could walk around the block or climb up in the tree with my books and read while I watched the world go by.

The only downside to my grandmother’s house was that she didn’t have air conditioning. Well, she had a window unit in the Living Room but didn’t like to run it. Instead, she had black oscillating fans propped up on chairs in every room along with one big fan on a stand in the living room.

We slept with the windows open. I didn’t like the heat, but I learned waking to the cooing of doves was one of the most comforting and loving sounds in the world.

When I was home, a summer thunderstorm meant being cooped up in the house with no chance to ride my bike or DANCE by HDC Photography Flckrgo swimming. But, thunderstorms were magical when I was at my grandmother’s.

Imagine a scorching hot day and the rise of the humidity levels. Air conditioned spaces were a welcome respite from the trickles of sweat flowing down your back and the beads of perspiration that always made my hair kink up.

It was hard to breathe on those hot and humid days because the warm wet air just took more effort for your lungs to process.

When the weather finally broke, and the first heavy drops of rain would hit the hot concrete, it created this magical scent that not only dropped the temperatures, but somehow robbed humidity’s grip upon your chest.

To this day, the smell of rain on hot concrete propels me back to summers ensconced at my grandmother’s house.

Then, like any other restless day, my grandmother would encourage me to go out and play in the rain. (Something my mother never allowed because I would get wet and dirty and hurt myself).

The rain created magical rivers in the valley of the curbs that I could cool my feet in as I splashed to the corner. Sometimes, I stubbed a toe, but it was worth every sloshing step. Every globule of rain seemingly rinsed away any blues and all of the restlessness.

Once I’d had enough, I’d be met at the door with fresh towels and told to go ahead and take my bath. I’d go into the pink-tiled bathroom and sit on the side of the tub with my feet firmly planted on the bottom and watch as the grime from the blacktop would first make footprints on the porcelain and then begin to ebb away.

What never left me, though, is the scent of rain on hot concrete brings and the unadulterated love of my grandmother.

*1st Image via “Death to the Stock Photo. 2nd Image Via HDC Photography (Flickr Creative Commons)

About the Author – Debra Smouse

debrasmouse200x300 I’m Debra Smouse, a self-admitted Tarnished Southern Belle. I can help you detangle all your clutter, fall in love with yourself and your life, and unleash your inner sex kitten.

My truth? In order to live life the way you were meant to, you must fall in love with the day-to-day activity of living.

I spend my days writing and working with people who want to change the world, beginning with themselves.

A life coach and writer, me and my Gypsy Soul have stopped their constant roaming and have settled down in Dayton, OH where I share life’s adventures with the Man of My Dreams.

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If The Seas Catch Fire…by Bill Hughlett

Summer Love Bill H 3

“Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars walk backward.”
–ee cummings

About the Artist – Bill Hughlett

bill_hughlett_bioBill Hughlett is a CFO by profession and photographer by passion.

His award-winning work has been featured in Alaska Airlines Magazine, shown in Washington galleries, and graces many homes and offices around the country.

Together, Bill and his wife, Kayce Stevens Hughlett, create unique workshops that incorporate photography and writing with deep listening and personal awareness.

Their dream is to travel the world offering their gifts to others.

Witness more of Bill’s Work at

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12 Reasons to Visit Your Local Farmers Market by Sue Ann Gleason

One – You can take your dog shopping with you.

Dog at Farmers Market

Two – You can take your kids and they’ll think it’s a street fair.

Kids at Farmers Market

Three – You’ll really begin to appreciate the terms ‘local’ and ‘seasonal.’ And who knows? You may even find a very good deal.

c. good deal_sm

Four – You’ll get curious about the health benefits of cultured and fermented foods. You may even sign up for my summer Eat Your Way to Gorgeous online adventure and learn how to make your own!

d. fermented_sm

Five – You’ll find yourself wanting to explore the meaning of phrases like ‘fair trade’ and ‘non-GMO’ and learn why it’s so important to be an educated consumer.

e. fair trade_sm

Six – You’ll meet wonderful organic farmers like Hana Newcomb of Potomac Vegetable Farms who has been growing organic vegetables for thirty-five years.

Hana Newcomb of Potomac Vegetable Farms

Seven – You may discover that bee pollen is a better alternative to the ‘protein powders’ you thought you needed in your morning shake.

g. bee pollen_sm

Eight – You’ll find healthy “convenience” food that doesn’t come in a styrofoam container or a can.

h. soup_sm

Nine – You’ll start looking for words like ‘ecologically grown produce’ and you’ll be grateful there are still people out there who take the time to figure out how to control garden pests without chemical intervention.

i. ecologically_grown_sm

Ten – You’ll meet not only the faces, but also the commitment (no extracts, no shortcuts, no compromises) behind the items you purchase. You may even give yourself permission to indulge in some homemade ice cream like Sin du Jour by Sinplicity.

j. face_food_sm

Eleven – You’ll find herbs that delight your foodie sensibility and spark your imagination.

k. choc_mint_sm

Twelve – You may even come away with not one, but two beautiful pieces of art, because you were drawn to the spirit and passion of the painter and you knew that someday he would famous.

l. art_sm

And finally, you may decide to take a walk on the wild side and prepare something really yummy like a seriously simple nectarine salad for picnic lunch!

Seriously Simple Nectarine Salad

(from the Sprinkle, Splash, Swirl & Savor™ Collection)


  • 3-6 organic nectarines (depending on size)
  • 1 lemon or lime
  • 1 cup raw organic salted pistachios
  • 1 handful fresh mint or basil, slivered
  • extra-virgin olive oil (lemon-infused even better!)


  1. Slice nectarines.
  2. Drizzle with high-quality extra virgin olive oil.
  3. Add a squeeze of lemon or lime.
  4. Sprinkle with salted pistachios and slivers of fresh mint or basil.


About the Author – Sue Ann Gleason

sue_ann_gleason_bioSue Ann Gleason is food lover, food writer, food-based healer and champion for women who want to lead a more delicious, fully expressed life. She has been featured in Oprah and Runner’s World magazines and numerous online publications.

When not working with private clients or delivering online programs, Sue Ann can be found sampling exotic chocolates or building broccoli forests in her mashed potatoes.

You can connect with Sue Ann in a number of places. Delicious freebies await you!

Her Eat Your Way Gorgeous online adventure has two rounds this summer. Join one or both (for the same cost)

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The Innocence of Rocks by Kira Elliot

From an early age I knew the little slate gray rock found under the porch while playing with my Barbies had magic. I knew the pink granitic rock that sparkled in the sunlight while sitting in the palm of my hand had even more magic photo by seniwati flckrbecause it was pink.

When I was seven years old I used to sleep with rocks hidden under my pillow. I kept my rock collection carefully arranged on an embroidered linen cloth on top of my dresser. These rounded, sometimes jagged pieces of granitic were my friends from the natural world. Each night before I crawled into bed I would pick one or two rocks to sleep my under my pillow to fill my dreams of the places I found the rocks.

The rock I slept with most I found on the shore of Lake Michigan when I was four years old. That was the last summer trip we took as a family before my father moved out. I found the rock in the wet sand where the waves lapped the earth. When wet, it sparkled and turned a deep orange with stripes of alternating dark brown and light tan wrapping around the flat oval body.

I loved this rock and still have it today sitting on my dresser with a cotton handkerchief from my Grandmother and a clear quartz crystal. Imbued in the rock is the brilliant sunshine, the wonder of Lake Michigan stretching beyond the horizon, the sound of the sea galls and the gentle waves of the lake rolling to shore. It holds my innocence before my I knew great loss. It reminds me of joy even when life is hard.

I used to spend hours in the summer months hunting for rocks to add to my collection. I sat alone day after day scraping the dry dirt under the pine trees to unearth small brown granitic rocks with flecks of shiny crystals. I walked the trails in the woods behind the school searching for little speckled rocks among the skunk weed and ferns.

I still have have piles of rocks scattered all over my home. Little altars tucked away in bookcases, on top of dressers, on the corner of my desk. Little altars to remind of not only of where my feet have touched the earth, my lungs breathed the air, but where I witnessed magic of belonging or even loss.

To me a rock is infused with so much more that elements of the earth compressed together into a form that will sit in the palm of my hand. A rock is the wonder of endless hours digging through the dirt, scanning the shore of Lake Michigan. It is hours spent down by the little creek, the tall reeds hiding me as I sat watching minnows and crawfish swim in the little stream. Collecting rocks connect me to my innocence, to the wonder of the places I have been and most importantly to joy.

Summer time is perfect for rock collecting, no matter what age we are. Today, go out and find a rock, put it in your pocket or on your desk. Let it remind of you joy, innocence and the earth.

*Image Via Seniwati via Flickr Creative Commons

About the Author – Kira Elliot

Kira_Elliot_BioHi, my name is Kira.  I am a writer, artist and non-profit community developer living in the Detroit area.

I teach creative writing and mindfulness workshops and retreats.

I am an AWA Affiliate, certified to lead workshops in the AWA method as described in Writing Alone & With Others by Pat Schneider, Oxford University Press.

My purpose is to help make the world more compassionate and open by helping others open their hearts and trust themselves by sharing tools of creative writing and mindfulness.

Connect with me on the web.

Are you ready to begin writing your own stories from the heart? Check out my FREE Open Hearted Writing Practice E-Course.

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Potato Salad with Homemade Mayo

The consummate summer side for any BBQ or gather to me is potato salad. There are, of course, as many ways to make potato salad are there are days in the year, but no matter what potato salad I might try, nothing compares to the recipe I’ve developed through trial and error.

Begin with mayonnaise. Sure, you can choose any mayo, but during my detox I took a good look at the ingredients and saw that every commercial mayo, even the ones made with olive oil also had soybean oil and some preservatives I couldn’t pronounce. Who wants to put stuff you can’t pronounce into your body??

mayo_debrasmouseSince then, I haven’t given up on my beloved mayo, instead, I began making it from scratch.

Homemade Blender Mayo


  • One Egg
  • 2 tablespoons lemon juice
  • 1/2 teaspoon of salt
  • 1/2 teaspoon of dried mustard
  • 1/4 teaspoon of garlic powder
  • dash of onion powder
  • 1 1/4 cup (plain – not extra virgin) olive oil (divided)

Crack your egg into your blender and add tablespoons of lemon juice. Let them get cozy with each other for at least an hour though I usually let it sit on the counter for two hours (it’s very important that they be room temperature).

Add: salt and your spices along with 1/4 cup of olive oil. WHIRR it together in the blender until mixed.

Now comes the hardest part of the process: you are going to barely stream one cup of olive oil into the egg mixture.

Take the center cap off of your blender lid so that you have a hole. Grab some paper towels to cover as much of the hole as you can (mine spatters), turn your mixer on “mix” or “low” and gently trickle one cup of olive oil into the egg mixture. It needs to take you approximately three minutes to add the oil so that the mayonnaise doesn’t “break” and will emulsify properly.

If you listen closely, you will hear the pitch of your blender shift as it morphs from liquid to thickness.

Once you’ve added all the olive oil, turn off your blender and, using a rubber or silicone spatula, transfer into a seal-able container for your fridge.  (Mayo will expire when your egg expires)

Now that you have fresh mayo at hand, you can make the best potato salad.

Best Southern Potato Salad


  • 3 pounds small yellow or red potatoes
  • 4 boiled eggs, sliced
  • Kosher salt
  • 1 ¼ cup homemade mayonnaise
  • 3 tablespoons whole-grain mustard
  • 1 tablespoon celery seeds
  • ¼ cup DILL pickle relish (or diced dill pickles!)
  • ¾ cup chopped red onion
  • 2 stalks of celery, chopped
  • Freshly ground black pepper
  • Paprika

Place the potatoes and 2 tablespoons of salt in a large pot of water. Bring the water to a boil, then lower the heat and potato_saladsimmer for 10 to 15 minutes, until the potatoes are barely tender when pierced with a knife. Drain the potatoes in a colander, then place the colander with the potatoes over the empty pot and cover with a clean, dry kitchen towel. Allow the potatoes to steam for 15 to 20 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a small bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, whole grain mustard, dill, pickle relish, and 1 teaspoon of pepper. Set aside.

When the potatoes are cool enough to handle, cut them in quarters or in half, depending on their size. Place the cut potatoes in a large bowl. While the potatoes are still warm, pour enough dressing over them to moisten. Add the sliced eggs (reserving a few pretty slices to top salad!), the red onion, celery,  2 teaspoons of salt and fresh ground pepper to taste. Toss well.

Put your salad in the container you will be taking to the BBQ, then add the pretty slices of eggs on top and sprinkle with paprika.

Cover, and refrigerate for a few hours to allow the flavors to blend.

About the Author – Debra Smouse

debrasmouse200x300 I’m Debra Smouse, a self-admitted Tarnished Southern Belle. I can help you detangle all your clutter, fall in love with yourself and your life, and unleash your inner sex kitten.

My truth? In order to live life the way you were meant to, you must fall in love with the day-to-day activity of living.

I spend my days writing and working with people who want to change the world, beginning with themselves.

A life coach and writer, me and my Gypsy Soul have stopped their constant roaming and have settled down in Dayton, OH where I share life’s adventures with the Man of My Dreams.

Get Social with Debra

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Why Your Summer Mindset Is Attractive Year Round by Elizabeth Stone

Summer has always been my favorite. I’ve always thought of the hot months of summer as a muse of sorts. Not just for creative work, but for relationships. We aren’t used to thinking about relationships as having seasons, but the number of breakups initiated in the spring and fall tell a different story.

That’s why now is such an exciting time. The heartbreak and renewal of the spring has passed, and it’s time for the summer love stock juanjo_ripollesbloom of summer love.

As the heat of summer creeps up on us, so does the thought, the hope, the excitement about something fresh in the love department.

New, exciting relationships crop up right and left. Some meant to last forever, and some, elegant in their brevity. But the warm energy of summer beckons us to shed our winter protection, and along with it, our guard and inhibitions.

Summer’s easygoing vacation mindset is an absolute balm for attraction. This rebirth makes us feel sexier, more awake, hotter, more alive—and along with this mindset shift, more confident.

Suddenly, we aren’t trying so hard—we just are.

If we’re single, hope blooms in the air. If we’re coupled up, our energy is renewed. This season most of all, renews our fun, playful nature— and along with it, our easy, hopeful attractiveness.

Why is this a big deal? Because you can take it with you. Your contagious, carefree summer mindset is irresistible—and so are you, more now than any other time. But this doesn’t have to stay in the summer time—there’s power in bringing it with you year round.

What if you dropped your guard more often?

What if you shed your inhibitions more often— not just for a vacation-sized glimpse—but all the time?

What if you used that fun, playful mindset, year round?

I relish the thought.

Embracing our summer energy is not only magnetic right now— as we’re in the midst of it— but if we can bring a drop with us year round… magic just might happen.

*Image by Juanjo Ripollés Via Flickr Creative Commons

About the Author – Elizabeth Stone

elizabethstoneElizabeth Stone is  an author focused on all things love.

Elizabeth’s work has been has been featured on YourTango, DigitalRomance, Fox News Magazine, Madame Noire and many more.

She is author of  four books, including “How to Get a Boyfriend: Your Foolproof Guide to Attracting Your Dream Relationship” and “Make Your Man Stay Forever: Your Foolproof Guide to Lasting Love” all available on Amazon now.

Obsessed with getting you results in your relationships? Let Elizabeth share some guidance with a free copy of her book, Why Men Lose Interest and daily (almost) email series.

After 10 interesting and often hilarious years of navigating the dating world, she has settled down with her feisty husband and unruly dog.


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Because Golf Connects Me

I was always a Daddy’s Girl; some of my earliest childhood memories revolve around me just hanging out with my father DebraAndDad_June1981in while he tended whatever was on his list of chores: planting tomatoes in the garden, working in the yard, a trip to Western Auto to pick up spark plugs or oil, the TV repair shop to test blown out tubes, or over to his mother’s house to handle a household repair for her.

It’s easy to discount these kinds of memories of our parents; the simple shadowing of our parents going about the business of life.

Those gentle memories of those everyday tasks of witness and shadow curl into the recollections of the admirable characteristics of our parents melding into the tiny glimpses we receive of his passions.

My father had a genuine love of the land; he had rich earth pulsing through his veins after a childhood of working on his family’s farm.

Though he didn’t have a desire to tend a farm as an adult, he couldn’t shake his yearning to coax bounty from the earth. His grass was lustrous and thick, the hedges dense, and the roses fragrant and bountiful in their blossoms. The years we planted a vegetable garden meant summers full of okra, cucumbers, radishes and tomatoes.

To this day, he monitors the amount of rain thanks to a rain gauge on the backyard fence.

He was a hard worker and took pride in a job well done. He worked for the same company from the late 60’s until retirement (and still fills in when folks go on vacation). He religiously painted the interior of the house, was a skilled woodworker, and replaced out-of-date wallpaper and flooring.

I see those admirable characteristics – a love and respect for the cycle of nature along and hard work – as traits I yearned to emulate.

When it came to passion, though, my father couldn’t get enough of sports: football, baseball, and, of course, golf. Like his admirable characteristics I wanted to duplicate, I hungered to become an athlete so that I could more firmly fit into my father’s world.

No matter how hard I tried, I didn’t have a shred of athletic prowess or any hint of the hand-eye coordination.

Softball, volleyball, tennis and basketball were all frustrating and painful endeavors. But I held out hope that one 1339164798075day, I could finally play the one thing he was most passionate about playing: golf.

His golf clubs accompanied him on his bi-monthly overnight trips to Waco, where he snuck in opportunities to play once (or twice) with customers. When we had a country club membership, he played golf early on Saturday mornings with his friends.

During the summers when vacation days were more numerous than our budget to go on a trip, my father would take a few days (or a week) to deal with Big Chores, like painting the house.

Built into that time was a time to tee-off during the week and I got to go with him.

He would choose a midweek morning when the Club wasn’t too terribly busy. We’d head out early in the mornings while my sister and mother slept in, which ensured two things: that our time on the course wasn’t in the heat of the day and my mother wouldn’t complain about him being on the course instead of home.

We made time to stop at the Donut shop for a morning snack: warm doughnuts with chocolate icing for me and an apple fritter for him.

Then, we’d arrive at the club. The pro-shop was a delightful place to linger: sodas and snacks within reach, brightly colored clothes, and an array of drivers, balls, tees, and other golfing paraphernalia.

Back in those days, though some women played, golf was a man’s world and it fascinated me. The click-crunch of the men walking along the concrete in their spiked shoes and the sounds their deep-throated laughs as they shared jokes with their friends.

The moment we were out of sight of the club house, two things could occur: I got to drive the cart, a heady activity for a pre-teen. And if no one else was around, I got to take a good whack at the ball with my father’s highly polished wooden drivers. We’d get sodas and hot dogs from the Cart Girl to tide us over, then make our way back to the clubhouse for a real lunch of char-grilled burgers, piping hot french fries, and sweet iced tea.

onthegolfcourseBest of all, I saw the golf course through my father’s eyes instead of having the view colored by my mother’s complaints of the time he spent on the course. Not only could my father relish moving the ball down the fairway, he could lavish his senses in the lush beauty of the course.

The golf course was a lovingly tended peaceful respite from the stresses of the outside world.

The country club membership was abandoned in the eighties and along with it my opportunities to go out on the course with my father.  It was 2008 before I invested in myself and Golf: beautiful clubs (none of which were wooden), special golfing shoes (no longer sporting metal spikes), and lessons to wrap my mind around the skills I never could quite master as a child.

Now, each time I step onto the fairway or drive a cart from one hole to the next, I breathe in the beauty of the course and realize my childhood dream of sharing my father’s passion for golf has finally come true.

About the Author – Debra Smouse

debrasmouse200x300 I’m Debra Smouse, a self-admitted Tarnished Southern Belle. I can help you detangle all your clutter, fall in love with yourself and your life, and unleash your inner sex kitten.

My truth? In order to live life the way you were meant to, you must fall in love with the day-to-day activity of living.

I spend my days writing and working with people who want to change the world, beginning with themselves.

A life coach and writer, me and my Gypsy Soul have stopped their constant roaming and have settled down in Dayton, OH where I share life’s adventures with the Man of My Dreams.

Get Social with Debra

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