The framed poem hung in the kitchen, by the kitchen table. I noticed it the first time I stayed at Uncle Bill and Aunt Tia’s home in Monte Sereno; they had picked me up at the San Jose airport, a 20 year old college junior in the Bay Area for a summer internship at Lockheed Missiles and Space.
Uncle Bill was my grandmother’s younger brother, but at 6′2″, by no means a “little” brother. And I didn’t know it at the time, but I was blessed by the chance to get to know my great Uncle Bill that summer, as he died of complications from a stroke less than 3 years later.
There are lots of Bill and Tia stories. Lots. They brought laughter and excitement into every room, into every gathering. And love, too. They adored each other.
And they also loved the game of golf. Hence this poem in their kitchen. Although it was written more than a century ago in Scotland, it seemed to epitomize how my Uncle Bill and Aunt Tia felt about golf. I myself don’t play, but have to respect a game that elicits this kind of description.
—David R. Forgan, 1899, SCOTLAND