Even though it’s been cool this week, there are more signs of spring and hope of summer each day.

When the grass in the yard starts looking so overgrown you are forced to fire up the lawn mower (so the neighbor won’t put his hands on his hips and stare at your place with a look of disapproval), it may be time to accept the fact the seasons have changed.

Fishermen are looking though the selection of flies at the Sports Lure as if they really knew what a rainbow trout might like to eat this time of year.

And local golfers are getting into the “swing” of things with the Men’s Summer Golf League already underway.

People we’ve known over the years insist golf is a “wonderful sport because you can enjoy it even if you are 70, 80 or 90 years of age.”

The guy who first came up with that idea had not yet experienced the frustration of watching his skills decline at a steady pace with each passing year.

In fact, he probably should have substituted the word “enjoy” for a better one like “tolerate.”

The Bench Sitters read a quote about golf they wanted to share this week:

• Stand proud you noble swingers of clubs and losers of balls.

• A recent study has found the average golfer walks about 900 miles a year.

• And another study found golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of beer a year.

• That means, on average, golfers get about 41 miles to the gallon.

• Kind of makes you proud. Like a hybrid.

And a few months ago one of our readers sent along a little poem about this game. Not sure who wrote it, but the author had to have a handicap of 25 or higher.

In my hand I hold a ball,

White and dimpled, rather small.

Oh, how bland it does appear,

This harmless looking sphere.

By its size I could not guess,

The awesome strength it does possess.

But since I fell beneath its spell,

I’ve wandered through the fires of hell.

My life has not quite been the same,

Since I chose to play this stupid game.

It rules my mind for hours on end,

A fortune it has made me spend.

It has made me yell, curse and cry,

I hate myself and want to die.

It promises a thing called par,

If I can hit it straight and far ...

To master such a tiny ball

Should not be very hard at all.

But my desires the ball refuses,

And does it exactly as it chooses.

It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,

and even disappears before my eyes ...

Often it will have a whim,

To hit a tree or take a swim.

With miles of grass on which to land,

It finds a tiny patch of sand.

Then has me offering up my soul,

If only it would find that hole.

It’s made me whimper like a pup,

And swear that I will give it up.

And take to drink to ease my sorrow,

But the ball knows ... I’ll be back tomorrow.

Even if you have never tried this form of recreation, somehow the poem makes sense. In the meantime, keep smiling and we’ll drop a line again next week.

Sven

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