A.J. Timothy's Almanac

By J. Rickley Dumm

Miraculously saved from certain death and suddenly thrust into a life-changing journey difficult to comprehend and identify, fate, literally, drops onto an already troubled young man named Nick Gaines. From that moment forward, whether he realizes it or not, he is owed. Standing vigil is an improbable entity that holds an account payable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Rickley Dumm
• Release date: Sep 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781735739014

J. Rickley Dumm

J. Rickley Dumm is a graduate of the University of Oregon (GO DUCKS!!), a Sigma Chi, and a former television producer and writer (Magnum, P.I., Riptide, Silk Stalkings, et al.). He currently lives in Southern California.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Windless! Contentment! Green with envy! The ambiance and the uncommon environment was such that being there felt as if ‘temperature’ had never been a word conceived by any lexicon, whether in monolingual or bilingual dictionaries, foreign languages or reference books.

It was always a perfect day in Heaven, especially on the golf course.

The course had lush, green, sweeping fairways; white-as-white bunkers with soft sand, and perfectly sheared putting surfaces with smooth, rolling undulations. Fairly tall, delicate trees of nearly every variety lined the fairways; however, just for occasional difficulty, there were aprons of rough, strips of four-inch high lawns outlining the sumptuous fairways, and for more trouble in spots, high weeds and barren, bumpy surfaces simply for historical purposes which God had initially intended for that ‘enjoyable walk in a pasture.’ As well in that same area were bunkers that looked as if they’d been formed by high intensity mortar shells. What a track!

The flagsticks and flags on the marble-like putting greens were pink with large, white golf balls put on view in the center of each rectangular flag. Players in Heaven knew which holes to sequentially play, and thus, there were no numbers on any of the pink standards.

Mindful to all players was a large, crystal-like, glass structure that could be seen from all 18 holes on that pristine track. The edifice was the shape and size of whatever one chose to make of it—a temple, a castle, a cathedral, a shrine, or simply a building. It didn’t matter. There it was, commonly referred to in Heaven as The Glass Palace!

Not too far from The Glass Palace was the clubhouse where golfers of both genders could congregate and trade stories and lies of their former selves and adventures on the course though dare a soul be caught lying if God was present among the throng. There was no food or drink per sé, not even water to consume from taps, drinking fountains or plastic bottles—if there were any of the three at all!—unless a member decided to imbibe from one of the pastoral creeks that weaved like ribbons throughout the course, or wade in one of the clear, clean ponds.

On the first tee box, a hand jammed a crystal golf tee into the perfectly flat, groomed plateau. Embossed of the golf ball was: GOD.

God looked magnificent in his Heavenly threads as He waddled to his stance, consciously and quite naturally impersonating His beloved friend, the legendary ‘Tramp,’ Charles Chaplin, who refused to participate in such a ridiculous game.

Likewise, legendary golfers Bobby Jones and Ben Hogan, observed, nonchalantly standing with their drivers next to a sign: "460 yards, Par 4." Bobby was attired in his usual knickers, coat and tie. Ben wore casual, creased slacks, collared cotton pale blue golf shirt, and his famed Hogan lid. Three caddies stood obediently nearby, a trio of men chosen for their limitless knowledge of the links, as well as the rules adopted, even in Heaven, by the Gentlemen Golfers of Leith, and the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews.

God, obviously, was a history buff and knew the game of golf was one amusement or interest, or sport, that had lasted on Earth for more than two thousand years enduring the test of time; in fact, an activity prior to the immaculate birth of His son. Players, if one could call them that, took part in the game in its earliest stages during the reign of Julius Caesar, and later during the Song Dynasty in China from the years 960 to 1279. Of course, the ‘game’ of those times was not the game known today.

The pedigrees of today’s game were founded in Scotland in 1457. At that time, however, King James II forbade it’s playing as it was distracting from military training. Naturally, many men largely ignored the ban—another pastime, apparently—neglecting their military preparation. It became so frequent and slipshod that in 1502 the game was given the royal seal of approval by then King of Scotland, James IV. Thus, intrinsically, he could be called golf’s first monarch. (It had been said, or perhaps it was merely a story or quip by some misogynistic bloke, that the word golf stood for Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden. On the other hand given the times, that could have been true. That was surely not the case today!)

In the earlier days, players would attempt to hit, or chip, pebbles over and through a designed track or over sand dunes using sticks or crude clubs, but, officially, golf became a sport when the Gentlemen Golfers of Leith formed the world’s first club in 1744 and set up an annual competition for prizes of silverware. A fellow by the name of Duncan Forbes drafted the competition’s rules. Though his wording was of the era and a bit extravagant, the words stuck familiar even now:

‘...If your ball comes among water, or any watery filth, you are at liberty to take out your ball and bringing it behind the hazard and teeing it, you may play it with any club and allow your adversary a stroke for so getting out your ball.’

That was to say—hrumpf, hrumpf—a one-stroke penalty for removing your shot from an unplayable lie that was your own damn fault, so shut the hell up and hit away!

The first reference to golf, acknowledged on the historic home turf of St. Andrews, was in 1552, but it wasn’t until 1754 that the St. Andrews Society of Golfers was started and developed to compete in its own annual tournament using Leith’s rules. A decade later, the first ever 18-hole golf course was created and laid out; then and there, it established the current, recognizable standard for the game. The standardization of 18 holes as regulation didn’t occur as a consequence of some significant decision agreed to by committee. It was more coincidence and random developments over a period of time, and as mentioned, in the mid-1700s at St. Andrews in Scotland. One story that materialized as the reason for 18 holes was there were 18 shots of Scotch whisky in a bottle; and thus, possibly, perhaps it was even probable, golfers of the day took down one shot of whisky for every hole they played. Be informed, however, that story was just that—a story, a legend and a myth.

And a decade after standardization, King William IV honored the club with the title, Royal & Ancient; thus, the Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews became the world’s premier golf club. As time moved forward, rough link courses such as Carnoustie, Royal Troon et al. were designed and erected with pasture-like surroundings and bunkers so round and small, or so large and deep, one could place and hide a United Kingdom double-decker bus in one and still have room for a picnic and a volleyball game! Nasty would be considered a kind word for those bunker babies!

(The first permanent golf club in North America was founded in Montreal, Canada, in 1873, named Canada’s Royal Montreal Club. The first 18-hole course in the United States was The Chicago Golf Club in Wheaton, Illinois, in 1893).

As the Centuries stormed forward on Earth into the 19th and 20th Centuries, as did the more widespread introduction of the game, it was fortunate—or not, according to some of the legends in the clubhouse—that God enjoyed His creation, He making sure the abundance of golf equipment, golf balls and colorful, dorky clothes accompanied those who became members of His test of golf in Heaven, and made available to Him as a player Himself.

Bobby, of course, used his vintage hickory woods and stiff ash shafts; likewise, Ben stayed with his steel shafted clubs and Persimmon woods. Not God! He employed the latest technologically tooled clubs with whip-like shafts and titanium club heads, and an oddly designed, flathead putter that resembled the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars! God was no fool, especially on His course.

When God had finally completed His Chaplin waddle, He wound back and swung. Wacka...wacka-wacka! The contact echoed through the tree-lined first fairway.

The ball was launched down the unspoiled, lush fairway, straight as an arrow. Bobby and Ben marveled...until it began to slice.

Ghastly!

God appeared unconcerned, standing erect with a smiled as wide as one of His Norwegian fjords. Without distress, though watchful, Bobby and Ben followed the flight of the ball. It zinged into a breathy, open pine tree, ricocheted into another tree a good distance away then into the air. Amazing luck!

Bobby and Ben shifted their skeptical gazes to their golfing adversary who remained untroubled.

The ball continued its flight through the clear air over the lavish fairway, losing altitude. The tiny white, dimpled agate dropped and careened off a rock along the bank of a creek with the purest water one could ever imagine, and re-launched into the air toward the putting surface some 460 yards from where the threesome stood.

They’re right, Ben. Bobby uttered.

Indeed they are.

Miraculously, the golf ball landed on a rake just off one of the greenside bunkers, bounced onto the green and rolled six inches from the cup.

God, as happy as an earthly clam, turned, handed His driver to His caddie and shrugged, innocently, at His playing partners.

What a game, eh, fellas?

Bobby and Ben gazed with indifference at Him.

Are we going to dawdle or are we going to play golf? Bobby drawled.

God’s expression curdled. Aw, Bobby.

This is golf. You know the rules.

Two stroke penalty. Ben added, gazing at Him with his determined blue eyes.

Two? God was aghast.

For that, Ben informed him, today it’s two. Hitting three.

The caddie handed back His driver and another ball. God wasn’t at all pleased but He was God—He neither complained nor debated. Those were the rules; in fact, the rules as He’d previously, long ago, handed down, as it were. Hrumpf-hrumpf was about all He would allow Himself to utter.

Meanwhile in a neighborhood on Earth it was February. The weather was crispy with a slight nip in the air but a nice, yet cloudy, day. Row-upon-row of prefab apartment buildings that were, at least, thirty-years-old curved along a street that was in a state of disrepair with potholes and asphalt cracks that could have been carved and sliced with swords wielded by digitized Transformers. It seemed like a neighborhood purposely forgotten by the city fathers. Somehow drivers were able to navigate and maneuver such shabbiness, probably with more than a few expletives.

Exiting one of the buildings was a young man named Nick Gaines wearing an ill-fitting suit, yet he was presentable and clean-shaven. Nick was a smart, easy going guy of twenty-nine but from his youthful appearance, he could have been mistaken as being in his early-to-mid-twenties. Nick was kind of like the character Marty from the story by Paddy Chayefsky and the 1955 film of the same name—everyone liked him, but no one really noticed him or actively cared about him. He was just ‘there.’

With an expression of anxious self-assurance, Nick moved down the cracked sidewalk to an old, piece-of-shit convertible clunker. It blended without too much contrast to the condition of the street, and though a clunker to be sure, it was still in better condition than the foundation upon which it was parked.

Nick got in behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine seemed to mix perfectly with the asphalt and concrete surroundings as it wheezed and moaned, puked, gagged and finally started. Nick was hardly fazed; he’d lived with that car’s sound for quite a while, and that clunker had gotten him to the places he needed to go. He curled the vehicle from the curb, and it bounced and rolled on down the street like a jalopy from an early Looney Tunes cartoon.

In another part of town, a Mercedes 500 luxury vehicle sped forward, obviously in some hurry, taking the wealthy driver where she needed to go. The lady was in her forties, bejeweled, fur coat, and appeared to be coming down from an all-nighter, fatigued, hung over, and mussed.

Nick drove the speed limit, anxiously checking his hair in the rear view mirror while elsewhere the wealthy lady made a beeline up another thoroughfare, murmuring to herself:

Don’t call ‘til I get there...don’t be late, Myra, don’t be late; I have to get there...

The Mercedes came barreling along toward the next intersection; she made a quick, almost desperate, turn and somewhat fishtailed, nearly sideswiping a parked car then sped forward. Myra was a rolling bomb!

On the gold course in Heaven, Ben Hogan putted a difficult left-to-right then right-to-left roller into the cup. Bobby Jones had to smile. Hogan achieved the unachievable.

Ben entered their scores from the last hole as he, Bobby and God moseyed to the next tee box.

I continue to say, sir, you’ve designed a mean but challenging course, Bobby was telling Him.

All in the nature of the game, Bobby, God concurred. I wanted intermittent lakes and streams on both sides, a few undulating fairways and doglegs to keep the big hitters like you and Ben honest; deep-dish beaches, and quadruple-tiered greens with no reads. I didn’t realize...

Ben interrupted as he replaced the scorecard in his back pocket. That’s the hell of it here, I think.

They got to the next tee box. Bobby Jones teed off and hit a scalding drive straight down the middle. One could almost see the flames. Almost! Quite apparent to the left of the fairway, about 150 yards out, was The Glass Palace. Ben teed off and, likewise, his drive traveled straight down the center of the fairway. Hogan could paint any course with every shot. He picked up his tee and gandered to look at God.

"You don’t seem