One of the best gifts of the season came to me early on Christmas Eve morning. My Blackberry rang; I answered to a familiar voice calling “hey” from the other end. The chill melted from my heart like icicles falling off the roof line. “Hey!” I answered. My friend had moved away almost a year ago–a full season of golf had passed without his return, not even a guest appearance. He had played every day in his new locale; his handicap had fallen to an impressively small number. I was happy for him if not a little jealous. Even so, I could hear a wistfulness in his tone, missing the old gang, the pick-up mini-loops, the silly bets and the easy laughter of long summer afternoons. There is something about your first home course you never get over. I missed him, too. Next year, for certain, we’ll get together and play a round. Until then, it was great to hear his voice.

Mid-morning I received a second phone call. It was my very dear and elderly golf companion. She wanted to get together for lunch. How can I possibly take the time, I thought? I was so busy cooking, cleaning and preparing; there is never enough time for it all. And then I realized how true that thought was; there is never enough time. There is not enough time to spend with our friends, to play all the golf we want, to appreciate the simple things in life. Priorities, my friend, are of our own choosing. I could certainly carve out an hour for lunch. Whatever else did not get wrapped or baked, or bought or dusted, a bit of my time spent in the company of one of the kindest, most generous women and golfers I know was not to be missed. Our visit was brief. I quickly went on about my remaining chores but my step was lighter, my list seemed shorter.

Sometimes the best Christmas gifts are unexpected. There’s something about a no-brainer thirty footer; the sculled shot that ends up kicking distance to the hole; or an errant drive that looks bound for the woods but kicks back into the fairway. There’s nothing like a phone call from an old friend or a hour spent with a special mentor. These are all gifts; wonderfully forgiving and somewhat magical… just like Christmas.

Recently received from Michele Weeks of the American Lung Association:

Every year we sell Golf Privilege Memberships to benefit our organization. This year we have partnered with Golf Digest Tee Times to offer a new and improved golf program. The new Golf Privilege Membership is still the same great price of $39.95 (that’s $20 off the non-ALA price) but now includes over 3300 courses and an array of online specials! I know there are a lot of discount golf memberships out there but I think a lot of folks would be interested in our membership since it offers a way of giving back to a great organization. These also make terrific gifts for the upcoming holidays. You can purchase the Golf Privilege Membership by visiting www.alagolfmembership.org. We would greatly appreciate it if you could inform your readers of this awesome opportunity. If you have any questions you can call 804-267-1900.

Here is a little more info on the American Lung Association:

The American Lung Association of the Atlantic Coast is the leading organization working to save lives by improving lung health and preventing lung disease. Our work takes place in the community where you live. We teach children and adults how to live with asthma, and we provide support for families whose members are living with lung disease. We fund research that will directly impact the care of people with lung disease. We fight for laws that make the air cleaner, and we help teens and adults to quit smoking. We are leading the fight for air – join us!

Thanks, Michele, for the info!

Happy golfing to anyone who still has decent weather to get out on a regular basis! As for me, a mild and partly sunny day in the 50s is good enough to tempt me out for a few holes… every golf day is a gift at this time of year in southern New England!

Here I am facing the fall member-guest in just a few days when it seems like the season has barely begun. This is an event I look forward to each year as I play with a very special friend and mentor. I hope to live up to her expectations!

My brother and nemesis on the golf course reports his handicap has crashed. I say he is playing way too much golf… and I need to work less and play more. He has lined his pockets with my money and I want it back!

My new pet peeve: members who bitch about course conditions, hole after hole. It is what it is. The greens have to be punched at some point. Get over it. They’ll come back better than ever.

I think I might be catching on to that “press” thing… and liking it… it sure has worked for me this year. How about that $20 putt on 18, guys?

Practice might not make perfect but it sure does help build confidence.

Just because you break 80 (or 90 or 100) a couple of times, it doesn’t mean you’ve really mastered the game. As my friend said the other day, this game has a way of jumping up and biting you in the behind at any given moment. Don’t I know it.

I found a couple great new playing partners this summer but sure did miss my old friend anyway. Jack, it’s just not the same without you! Miss you, toots!

Dearest brother: I am so looking forward to taking back all the money you stole from me last spring during Master’s week. At least this time I am not picking up my clubs stone cold after a four month winter layoff while you lolly-gagged about in the southern sunshine practicing your game. By the way, we’ll be playing my home course. Bring cash.

Dear sister: I hope you find some time to practice. Retirement is agreeing with my game and I’m playing to a single digit. But since you’ll insist on playing from those forward tees, let’s play even.

My dear brother: Even? Do you think I’m that stupid? Let’s discuss the official USGA handicap system (oh, I forgot, you don’t consider golf a real game). Let’s forget those five strokes you should give me. I have a wonderful idea instead. My friend the pro - oops, I mean my friend - has agreed to take you back to the gold tees at the Pines - it’s nice because that way you’ll get to see the whole course - since you’re my big, strong brother, this shouldn’t be a problem. It’s only 7000 yards and just wait until you see how pretty it looks from the back of those narrow shoots to the fairways… I’ll catch a glimpse of you now and then as you wander by my tees… or not, as you might be taking a short cut to another fairway.

Little sister: 7000 yards with you at those pink tees? 7000 yards is out of the question.

Bro: baaaaark, baaaaark, baaaaark.. that’s the sound of a chicken, if you can’t tell. So I guess we can discuss those strokes now?

Sis: How’s that 8th hole? If I remember correctly, you already get a stroke on that girly par 5 while I have to play it as a par 4 from 100 yards farther away. There’s one stroke you can kiss goodbye.

Hey, you: I didn’t design the golf course. And it’s only 60 yards shorter. Either the mosquitoes are huge after all that rain in June or I’m just hearing some other huge whining noise in my ear. Five strokes.

Brat: Well, I can see that my baby sister can still cry to get what she wants! How about this: 4 strokes, less one a side for home course advantage, leaving us at 1 a side. You’ll get two and you’ll like it (I’m way too easy).

My dear mathematically challenged brother: Middle children sure can tend to bully their younger siblings. You should really see someone about that. Must I remind you again about that USGA handicap formula? They pretty much have that supposed home course advantage thing figure out - not to mention that Dennis Pines is the toughest rated course for women in all of Massachusetts and possibly all of New England. Also, lets note I do not live a life of leisure like you – a retired southern sissy boy with silky soft hands. I still have my nose to the grindstone in the office, day after harrowing day… Do the math: I am due FIVE strokes. Suck it up and give me my strokes. Waaaaaah (crying and stomping of feet)!

You whiny baby: Checking your scores tells me you must have a remote office on the fairways. I, however, have to clean the litter box, scoop the pool, do Sudoku’s, keep up with the Red Sox, etc. You think all that is easy? OK, OK I’ll give you 4 strokes, you get the fifth one on that fake par 5.

My favorite brother: I’ll take it. Looking forward to seeing you. Bring your A game.

Rained out of our usual Friday golf match for the past few weeks, my two friends and I were desperate for some stress relief. Kids, grand-kids, job issues, health issues - the tension had pooled up inside us like the puddles in the streets. We were saturated to our very bones with everyday anxieties. After the horrendous weather of the last few weeks, a few sprinkles couldn’t deter us from our intended tee time.

The clubhouse was jammed with bodies after a men’s tournament held that morning. Already primed with a few pops, the peanut gallery was in rare form as the three of us checked in at the desk. The heckling was loud and unforgiving. “Go on; get out there! Afraid of a little rain?” We were not just the only women in sight, we were the only golfers - period - that were foolish enough to head out into the rain, trusting that the skies would clear in the short term.

It’s one thing to play golf in the rain for a scheduled tournament and quite another to head out in a downpour just for fun. There was no turning back now; our pride was at stake.

I have always prided myself on being prepared to play a golf tournament in any weather. Never once had I showed up for a rainy day match without full rain gear, wet grips, a towel, extra socks - you name it. I even learned to pack a baggie for the scorecard from a well versed octogenarian competitor.

Not so this day. Somewhat naively, I had left the house under partly sunny skies and gave no thought to rain gear. In all truthfulness, the folks on the Weather Channel had said it wasn’t going to be raining - and I believed them. Silly me.

By the time I drove the half mile to the golf course, the sun had come and gone three or four times. Cruising through the parking lot, the drizzle started up again in earnest. Somehow, operating on blind faith that the Weather Channel would actually be accurate, it never occurred to me to return home for my gear. It wasn’t like the tee was crowded, believe me. The course was wide open, awaiting any golfer crazy enough to step to the first tee.

My tee shot sailed out into the fairway, aided by the gale force wind behind it. I lofted a shot to the green - it stopped about four feet from the pin. Water already dripped off the brim of my hat as I kept my head down and stroked it in for birdie. Real life and all its troubles were already far, far behind me.

What a sight we must have been. The difference between a rain resistant windbreaker and an actual rain jacket quickly became evident. Two of us had no rain gear what so ever save for wet grips. By the time we made it half way down the second fairway we were soaked to the skin. Our third was draped head to toe in over sized Gore-Tex including a not-quite-styling bucket hat. If it hadn’t been for the pair of ever-so-fashionable Jackie-O style sunglasses she sported, she would have looked homeless. Onward we played. A fashion show, it was not.

My friend, the Jackie-O lookalike, was wielding a love-hate relationship with her pink and white striped umbrella. Every few strokes it would blow off her cart;while she chased it into a sand trap her push cart would roll off in another direction. It was like watching a crazed version of a very manic Mary Poppins. Our laughter warmed our otherwise drenched and wind whipped bodies.

The rain kept coming but it no longer mattered to us. We couldn’t get any wetter. The ranger showed up on six and just shook his head; it was nice to know someone cared about our whereabouts. We slogged on, questioning our own sanity.

As we teed off on nine the rain dialed down to a heavy mist. The ranger peered over at us from beyond the green. “Calling it quits?” he reasoned. Heck, no, we declared; we’re making the turn!

Inside, the guys were warm and dry at the bar, recovering from the soaking they’d taken in the morning’s tournament. The nice thing about playing in the rain is that the memories it makes last way longer than it takes to dry out your clothes and your clubs.

There’s something about going to war against the wind and the rain and surviving to tell the tell that offers up the very basis of gratification. It’s all about persistence - not how you look, what you shoot, how you’re dressed - and personal satisfaction. In times like these, the best of life is found in the most unexpected moments.