You can force bulbs, but you can't force spring. Oh, but wait... I live with golfers. And, I live with skiiers. Alas, the mountains have melted: the skiiers are saddened. We redirect with the promise of a lively golf season. Then, some how some way, our Malcolm family of four is on a golf course in early April. Where under the shade of a forest, spring has not sprung nor has the snow melted.

Where Liam is the only one wearing appropriate foot attire: boots called "Bogs."

Where the normally simple operation of a golf cart is not so simple: not too fast...the wheels will spin and sink into the bog, nor too slow... slow wheels will get sucked into that gulping mud.

Where the cold wind howls on the first hole -- a water hole: stirring up the overwhelming aroma of goose poop.

We worked out the kinks on the first hole, zig-zagging golf balls back and forth, and occasionally to another fairway. A half hour later we moved to the second hole. With less wind and fewer geese, our pace quickened.

I chose my three clubs for this season: the driver, 8-iron, and putter. I understand the purpose of open-face vs closed-face heads, that there is meant to be a correlation between club and distance. My body does not, particularly this early in the season. I choose to focus on getting the ball in the air and going straight with the driver and my 8-iron. I patiently listen to the chatter about what irons the three Malcolm boys are using, but I stand firm. About 50% of the time I accomplish my goal: shots that are airborne and straight ahead. Then, some whiz off beyond seasonal hazards. Since I picked up clubs 24 years ago, I have played with bright pink balls. Never were they so useful as this spring 9-hole-3-hour day.

To the question, "What did you get on that hole, Mom?" my consistent answer was, "I'll take ten."

I take great liberties with my game of golf.

Scoring is one thing I choose not to do.

My 8-iron is the iron I choose to use.

That's as serious as the game gets for me.

Plus, every season, I have the one great hope that I don't behead a goose.