This afternoon Stan and Kathleen were tooling down Snelling Avenue and made a quick, impulsive left into the Highland National Golf Course just to see. We entered a quaint old brick clubhouse, got info from young Rob ($20 for senior citizens, weekdays before 4 p.m., no cart) and headed back to the parking lot. Then Stan spotted a practice green and grabbed a couple balls to see if Highland putting was really as good as advertised. Meanwhile, Kathleen was drawn eastward to a smoking grill with a husky Irishman in careful attendance.
A tad hungry this afternoon, Kathleen timidly inquired if he was selling burgers.
"No," came the hearty reply. "But come on over. They're free. Have a burger. Here's beer if you want it. Buns there. How about some peppers? Chips? That's stew over there. Water's in the cooler."
Well, I want to pay you something, Kathleen protested.
Not possible, it turns out.
A stunned Stan joined her, still grasping his putter, balls in his hand. Never needing to be called to dine twice, he put down the putter and split a hamburger bun amidst a chorus of jocular exchanges between a knot of St. Paulites enjoying a beautiful golf afternoon.
Before Stan could get to the bottom of his stew bowl, the group had established that the barefoot guy stirring the booyah with a canoe paddle was probably Kathleen's kin. Pat Sullivan. He's the guy in the photos with Stan and Kathleen.
Yes, there are hundreds of Patricks and Sullivans in St. Paul, but this one asked all the right questions and knew the answers. Our Lady of Peace. St. Paul Central. Old boyfriends. Cretin. Pat's dad is a geneologist, so Kathleen supplied her pedigree in the name of research: Gander, Neilson, Sullivan, etc.
Ah yes, St. Paul. One big small town. And if you don't know what booyah is, my friend, you're not from here, are you? Look it up in your wiki.
------------------------
Footnote: Pat says the nine hole course is even better than the vaunted eighteen. And yes. He does own a pair of golf shoes.