Brick’s Blog

     Most of the time, I listen to talk radio. During the week, my car radio is tuned to WRVA beginning with Jimmy Barrett, then in succession - Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, some Mac Watson, and if I am still running around that late - Sean Hannity. That’s right, no NPR for me. I like my talk radio to be commercially successful and conservative – not subsidized.

     So what happens on the weekends? Well, on Saturdays I can tolerate Andre Viette despite my complete lack of a green thumb; and I truly enjoy Richard McKann’s Home Improvement Show. Come midday on Saturday and particularly on Sunday morning with the supplement infomercials (my colon is just fine, thank you), I begin surfing the FM dial, hoping that one of the Oldies stations will actual play something old enough for me to know what it is. I mean old…like 60′s or 70′s.

     Well, every now and then, it happens. A song will come on the radio and you know by the first few bars exactly what it is. Unfortunately, those times are infrequent for me, but the planets aligned today with the right song and with me in the right spot. There I was on I-95. No worry about looking like a fool with the volume jacked and my head bobbing around. Nor would I be a hypocrite, since I’ve been known to remind more youthful drivers in and around strip malls and residential neighborhoods that Henrico has a noise ordinance, when their stereos are blaring.

     Before I knew it, not only was the volume jacked to the max, but my moon roof was open as well, as I marveled at what a great stereo my Lincoln has. Not a care in the world, as glided up 95 at 75 m.p.h. 6 minutes of pure bliss, and, fortunately, enough time and highway for the complete song to play before I re-entered more populated areas dictating less volume.

     Oh, the song? Great in 1968 and still fantastic today. Stones, baby. Sympathy for the Devil.     

     Last summer, my teen daughter, Lucy Gordon, indicated an interest in golf. Having bought my older son, Stuart, several sets of clubs over the years that kindled little interest on his part, it was music to my ears to think I might have a family member who would share my passion for golf. Just a few obstacles needed overcoming - her 6 week summer camp each summer, her three times a week dance classes during the school year, the facility improvements at our club which eliminated our driving range and practice tee for the last year, and simply the time and commitment to foster her interest. Well, I am delighted to report that we have persevered.

     Thursday, she had her 3rd lesson. More importantly, I have taken her to hit balls between her lessons. After Thursday’s lesson, we played 5 holes. We hit balls for 2 hours Saturday morning. We’ve got a tee time for Monday. She’s got the golf bug. And I am on Cloud Nine. 

     She’s also got the confidence and exuberance that only comes with youth. She’s convinced she’ll make the Junior Varsity team this year, get a golf scholarship to college, and play on the LPGA. With the slow real estate market, maybe I need to set my goals as high. I know one thing. It sure won’t hurt spending more time in her company, while basking in her enthusiasm.