A TOAST TO THE BEER SUMMIT

What a wonderful idea. Gather around the old White House picnic table and throw down a brewski or two. Discuss your squabbles. Iron out domestic agendas such as the Clunker Program. Speaking of clunkers, invite the VEEP but have him drink a nonalcoholic beverage. It's a beautiful scenario for our Prez and our country.

So what kind of beer would you have guessed that BO would have slugged down? Certainly not Adams for that President had character and guts and morals.

How about Busch? Are you kidding me? Busch? Bush.

Old Style from Chicago, a working class beer, might have been apropos, but then again, there's nothing old about the BO style. Some might even argue there's no style either. Invariably no class.

Miller Lite? No need. It's brewed in Wisconsin, a solid liberal state for the Dems.

Yup, it has to be Bud Light. It's too perfect. BO wants to be your bud. He goes out of his way to prove that he's just another Joe, he can identify; he can relate.

As far as the light. Again perfect. He is a lightweight in ideology. His whole administration might well be defined by his choice of beer.

FOCUS AND TEMPO AND TEMP

Golf's that way. Stay focused. Whatever you do, don't take technique on to the course. Leave it on the driving range.

About a year ago, I decided that I needed more right hand in my putting and not break my left wrist. It was the absolute worst putting I've ever done. I'd change putters: same result. I simply couldn't putt.

Tempo, too. I'd have technical swing thoughts in my backswing. Not so good results.

Temperature today when I finished was 102. I finished my round at 10:45. But at Camelback, there is lots of shade. So with water and ice and lots of shade, I survived. Actually, I kinda thrived.

I pared 7 of the first nine holes. A sandwedge and a sandtrap cost me from shooting in the 30's as I doubled both par 5's, a rarity for me. As I found water on both 6 and 9.

One birdie on the back, but alas, another 40 as my chip on 18 was one inch to the right of its landing place next to the hole. But I'll take that.

Putting was my forte today. No thought of wrists or hands or pressure. Just see it and stroke it. No 3- putts, and at least 6 or 7 1-putts. Golf is a lot easier that way.

The price, the company, the course, the temp. Well, you can't have everything.

HOW DO YOU STAND IT?

I get asked that when our temperatures sky rocket. They are in full bloom this week.

Cases in point: it was 97 degrees at 5:30 this morning. I waited until we were half way in our three mile walk to reveal that stat. to my wife.

Yesterday at 3:30 with the temperature at 115, I walked about a quarter mile to put a letter in the mailbox down the street. Of course I was the only one walking. But even at 6:15 AM, we are usually the only ones walking. In the bright sunshine, I was toast as I made the PM walk.

In our pool, I can burn myself on any part of the raft not submerged. I learned early on not to touch the end of any golf club when an iron literally becomes an iron, but this is the first time I've encountered the blue raft burn.

Even with humidity hovering in the upper teens, it is still a scorcher. Tomorrow's golf game, a tee time at 6:48 at Camelback, is appropriately named. If I blog tomorrow, you'll know I made it.

WHEN YOU LIVE

When you live a long time, you hurt

From things not done,

From times not spent,

From things unseen

At the time or not at all.

To wish undone

To want another go a round

A do-over, a re-try, a mulligan or two, not per side but per day.

It's not a solitary hurt either,

But a universal hurt for those you love.

A "Watch Out!" a warning shot, a yellow light.

It compounds for those unknown, but still a yearning for them, too.

Not necessarily a remember when

Or a feeble intention of doing again.

It's a wake up call, an alarm, a bugle played without tininess.

It simply says, "You only go around once. Don't waste a second."

"Don't miss that chance to share, to enjoy, to love."

THE SANDLOT

For many reasons, playing ball in pick up games or sandlot games far exceeded organized Little League or Pony League games. It was actually a rite of passage or at the least, a way to make one grow.

The gathering of players required no set number. You started the game with what you had. That is, maybe only 6 showed up. Divvy up sides and the sounds of bat on ball or yelling would draw others. Of course captains had to do the picking. They, the oldest and ablest. A baseball bat was tossed by one to the other and hands were gripped on the bat until the winner could top off the knob.

When others arrived, they would be sent to the team that was behind. If even numbers showed up together, a captain would designate who went where. They didn't need Bill James to decide who was the better player. You were known by your ability. You had what they call today "street cred". Your reputation proceeded you.

If huge numbers showed up, then each captain would select his players until the last three. Then one gracious captain would offer 2 to the other team while he took the odd man. You always wanted to have even sides because you wanted a good game.

It didn't matter if your dad sponsored the team, which gave you a free ride to be chosen. It didn't matter that there were no umpires. It didn't matter if someone got called home in the middle of an inning. You adjusted accordingly. Sometimes trades happened under those circumstances, spur of the moment.

In fact, if you turned the game over to kids to administrate, select, judge and have fun, then you had the best of both worlds. Kid jurisdiction and no adults to interfere.

HARPER'S FAIRY

The absolute first sign that age was attacking me was when I climbed the stairs at work and had to breath hard. I still have trouble ascending.

No Bill Bryson, I tried the Appalachian Trail at Harper's Ferry, Virginia. Limited by time, I like to think that I could have advanced farther. Smack in the middle of the Trail, which I think must be a misnomer or misspelling: it has to be Trial, it is flat for awhile before escalating into the Maryland Heights, and by the way, that is properly named.

Below is the beautiful Potomac as it reaches out to the equally beautiful Shenandoah River. Canoeists and a beautiful church with elongated steeple marked the view chock full of green trees.

We met no memorable characters as Bryson. Lots of friendly people, a few with dogs. Plenty more with dogs had passed before. One couple with Abigail forgot that we had petted her just thirty minutes prior when we met them again on the trail as we were headed back to town.

Our grandson found a stick which he used for walking. He didn't much need it, but he had observed other more serious hikers and he wanted to belong. He also found a snake skin and G-Ma, armed with a plastic baggy, secured his prize.

I had my sip of the trail and I'm glad we did it. All told, we probably walked three miles of it. I know; I know. That's not really a sip. But it was enough to savor. And that's all that counts with this Harper's fairy.

BACK FROM THE EAST

We took two grandkids touring. We went all over.

"Have you brushed your teeth? Have you peed? Have you combed your hair? Hurry up. It's time to go." Our 8 year-old said we started every day the same way. And he was right.

With 33 others we went to D.C., Mount Vernon, Williamsburg, Jamestown, Shenandoah, Richmond, Valley Forge, Yorktown, and Philadelphia, and I think I missed a place or two. But I'm tired from our Saturday where we threw a penny on Ben Franklin's grave, saw the Liberty Bell, and Independence Hall in the morning and then flew from Philly to Chicago to St. Louis where we dropped off the kids to their parents and flew to Phoenix. We still made it back for the nine o'clock news.

So that's where we've been. No time for computers; no time to blog.

One story. At the National Art Museum in Philadelphia, there was a wedding just about to start. The Museum is, of course, where Rocky ran the steps to his theme song and raised his arms in triumph.

When we got there, a bandwas playing pre-wedding songs. Supercharged and amped with loud speakers, they were playing the theme. Well, of course we ran. The last to catch on that that was our plan, I scooted up there determined to make it before the end of the song. Between steps I was hoofin' but they quit about ten steps too soon. Even though I was being encouraged by an unknown visitor to dig (I actually thought it was a coach friend of ours).

In silence, well at least no singing or playing of music, I ascended the last few steps where my wife and granddaughter had made it before the end of the theme song.

But what a thrill. The whole trip. And, yes, I'd take our two young ones again. In fact I told both that I hope they do something similar in 50 years with their own grandkids. Our great-great-grandchildren.