Paradox at Pebble Beach

By Michael Dove

Golf-loving driving range attendant at Pebble Beach golf course Walter “Chipper” Blair enjoys the simple joys of golf but his life is complicated by meeting the beautiful teaching pro Jenny Nelson and the reclusive very wealthy Scotsman Ben Morris who has an estate off the fourteenth fairway. Chipper has a strange relationship with a rich widow who gets him involved with the society crowd living in the Del Monte Forest near the golf course. Events spiral out of control for Chipper as he enrages his Pebble Beach Corporation employer and becomes the suspect in a possible murder investigation. The reader will enjoy this fun golf related suspense novel. Will he find love? Will he be indicted for murder? You will be immersed in the lifestyles of the rich and famous in this beautiful area; all the favorite haunts and restaurants. Great golf. Intrigue and mystery. Nothing is as it seems in Paradox at Pebble Beach.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781663253538

Michael Dove

Michael Dove is an author, columnist, and community influencer in Monterey County, California. He played NCAA Division 1 golf at the University of California at Berkeley where he also earned BA and MBA degrees. He is a scratch golfer and nationally ranked runner. He has won a national Jefferson Award for his community volunteer service.

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Copyright © 2023 Michael Dove.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-5352-1 (sc)

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iUniverse rev. date:  01/26/2024

CONTENTS

Legend for Map

Pebble Beach Company History

Ben

Jenny

Putting Heaven

Chipper

Irene

Just Playing Golf

Home on the Range

The Ocean Holes

Party Ready

The Hastings

Between The Brandy and Cognac

The Executive Committee

Del Monte Golf Course

The Coo’s Office

The Beach Club

Meeting Ben and Angus

Golberry

The Hay

The Nantz’s

Chipper’s Makeover

The Long Spoon

Golberry’s Office

Mission Ranch

Ben’s Kitchen

The Realtors

Miss America

Ben’s Putting Green

The Sunset Center

Still Undefeated

Real Estate Dealings

Steven Hastings

Nothing but Golf

Ben’s Advice

Money Talks

Irene’s Advice

The Webster House

Jenny Meets Ben

No Abandoned Property

Jenny and the Brassie

A Rare Vacation

Stein and Wallen

San Francisco Tourists

Pro Shop Inventory

The 911 Call

Grieving

Irene and Bill

Deputy Henderson

Dr. Friedman

Irene and the Sheriffs

Judson, Larkin, and Hitten

Dr. Friedman

Reading of the Will

Thomas Wallen

Double Dates

Surveillance

Walter Senior and Linda Blair

Questioning Jenny

Stein

Questioning Chipper

Strip Golf

Casey Boyns

Stein’s Lesson

Rebecca Sloane

Chipper’s Estate

Afterword

Author’s Note

First ya’ picture it in the sky laddie against the cypress and the pine and the clouds. Then ya’ hit the ball exactly where ya’ see it and it flies where the maker in heaven can count the dimples. And he’s smilin’ as much as you are at the freedom…..at the beauty. Nothin’ can compare laddie.

Ben Morris

Pebble Beach, California.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction and my imagination.

Any resemblance to actual events or people would be totally

coincidental. I have great respect for the Pebble Beach

Corporation. I have used my imagination to create events in

this story that make it more interesting for the reader.

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LEGEND FOR MAP

1. IRENE’S ESTATE

2. BEN’S ESTATE

3. DRIVING RANGE

4. THE HAY RESTAURANT AND BAR

5. THE LODGE

6. PRO SHOP AND FIRST TEE

7. 7TH HOLE

8. THE BEACH CLUB

9. WEBSTER ESTATE

10. NANTZ ESTATE

PEBBLE BEACH COMPANY HISTORY

1880

Pacific Improvement Company, headed by the Big Four of railroad fame—Charles Crocker, Leland Stanford, Collis Huntington and Mark Hopkins—open Hotel Del Monte near Monterey. Eleven years earlier, these ambitious gentlemen led the completion of the Trans-Continental Railway with the driving of the Golden Spike. Tourists now arrive on the Monterey Peninsula via Southern Pacific’s Del Monte Express.

1881

The Pacific Improvement Company opens scenic 17-

Mile Drive along the majestic coast that hugs what is

now Pebble Beach Company’s Del Monte Forest.

1887

Hotel Del Monte burns to the ground, but is quickly rebuilt and the official re-opening is held in 1888.

1901

Pacific Improvement Company collect their first toll for

17-Mile Drive, charging liverymen from Monterey and

Pacific Grove $0.25 per person to access the Drive.

1907

Pacific Improvement Company announces plans for a summer resort at Pebble Beach, with coastal lots available for $500 to $2,500.

August 28 1909

The original lodge (made of logs) opens to serve

meals to travelers on 17-Mile Drive.

1915

Pacific Improvement Company hires the entrepreneurial 29-year-old Samuel F.B. Morse, distant cousin of the inventor of the Morse Code, to liquidate all of the Company’s land holdings.

1917

A fire destroys The Lodge. Morse convinces Pacific Improvement Company to rebuild a modern lodge, rather than recreate what he called the old log lodge.

1919

Samuel F.B. Morse forms Del Monte Properties Company

and buys the 18,000-acre Del Monte unit including Hotel Del

Monte, The Lodge at Pebble Beach and two golf courses.

Both the new Lodge and Pebble Beach Golf Links open.

1924

The main building of Hotel Del Monte burns to the ground. Dynamiting the connecting loops during the fire saves the wings built in 1888. They remain to this day with a rebuilt main building, which opened in 1926.

1943

The U.S. Navy leases Hotel Del Monte as a naval pre-flight school for the duration of the war. Morse changes the corporate focus from the large hotel to the operation around Pebble Beach.

1947

The Bing Crosby National Pro-Am golf tournament is

played for the first time at Pebble Beach (after being played

for six years at Rancho Santa Fe before World War II).

1948

The U.S. Navy buys Hotel Del Monte from the Del Monte Properties

Company for $2.2 million. It is now the Naval Postgraduate School.

1977

Del Monte Properties Company reincorporates

as Pebble Beach Corporation.

1978

After the financial success of the movie Star Wars, Twentieth

Century-Fox Film Corporation purchases Pebble Beach

Corporation and reorganizes it as Pebble Beach Company

Del Monte Lodge is renamed The Lodge at Pebble Beach.

1986

The Crosby Clambake becomes the AT&T Pebble Beach National Pro-Am golf tournament.

1990

Ben Hogan Properties, under the ownership of Japanese businessman Minoru Isutani, purchases Pebble Beach Company.

1992

Taiheiyo Golf Club of Japan purchases Pebble Beach Company

and continues the Morse tradition of stewardship of the land.

1999

A group of American investors, headed by Peter Ueberroth and Dick Ferris, purchase Pebble Beach Company from the Lone Cypress Company.

2001

Golf Digest ranks Pebble Beach Golf Links as the No. 1 Golf Course

in America—the first time a public course has been so honored.

BEN

The old man was already awake when his radio, always on KRML from Carmel Valley, switched on at four thirty AM. He liked the eclectic mix of songs and in the event he wasn’t already awake, it was upbeat enough to stir him from the soundest sleep. His dog Angus, cuddled beside him, showed little interest and rolled over on his back. Ben Morris stroked the dog’s stomach then groaned several times before starting his morning routine.

Ben reached over near the radio and slipped three Aleve into his mouth and washed them down with some mango juice drink he had placed the night before; not the best for his stomach, but he enjoyed it and it didn’t make much difference at his age anyway. Several years before Ben had decided to just eat what he enjoyed contrary to what his doctor advised. He left KRML music playing as Angus seemed to like it.

He moved the covers over Angus, tucked him in gently so only his head was showing, and slipped his own painful legs over the side of the bed with some difficulty. The arthritis and aches and pains seemed to get worse every year. But he could still swing a golf club and that’s all he cared about. Ben walked barefoot slowly about fifteen feet to his third floor balcony door, happy that he had heated floors both in the bedroom and on the balcony.

Ben’s house was off the fourteenth fairway at Pebble Beach golf course. A fifteen thousand square foot, four story, palatial mansion that overlooked not only the fourteenth fairway but had magnificent vistas of the green fairways and the dark blue Carmel Bay in the distance. He lived in the ten bedroom, twelve bath home alone. He knew that the western part of his back lawn, adjacent to the fairway was exactly one hundred and sixty seven and one half yards to the middle of the green; not an inch more or an inch less. He placed a one foot high stone marker on the spot several years earlier when his wife Aileen was still alive. She had painted her name and a heart on the stone.

Ben smiled as he looked over the balcony. Although dark, he could tell it wasn’t a foggy, cloudy morning; but that was no guarantee that the fog might roll in at any minute and make the day chillier and damp and worsen his constant arthritis pain. He checked the Intellisense weather meter attached to the railing and was pleased at the six mile per hour reading coming from the north east. The forty seven degree temperature, although not ideal, was typical.

Ben hobbled inside and turned on the walk-in custom built spa that had instant hot water set at the maximum one hundred and four degrees. He stripped off his pajamas, careful not to look at himself in the mirror. He still stood an imposing slightly stooped six foot three, but he didn’t like the softness around the belly and creped skin and receding hair line that came with his age. He used the bathroom then went to the spa.

In the spa he sat quietly for a few minutes and tried to suppress the loneliness he felt from not having Aileen in his life anymore. Fifty eight years of marriage was a blessing and he missed her deeply. He then went through his morning routine of moving his feet and legs and hands and arms around slowly at first then more vigorously. Some mornings were better than others. He stood in neck deep water and did trunk extensions back and forth, leg lifts to the best of his ability, and more arm and leg shaking.

After exactly thirty minutes Ben got out of the spa, dried off, put on his custom made very thin and pliable hand warmers, and started his very slow dressing routine. The night before he had placed his plus fours and Morris tartan socks and cardigan. He put on his Squairz golf shoes as they were comfortable. He liked them even though the spokesperson in the commercials was Englishman Nick Faldo. The soft spikes could be worn in the house without ruining the heated hardwood floors or carpeting.

Ben wobbled to the radio and turned it off. Angus immediately shook off his covers and took off running out of the bedroom. Last year Ben had considered sleeping on the first floor to avoid the stairs going up to his bedroom but he needed the third floor balcony visit every morning. The bedroom held many memories of Aileen, as well as his spa. He could have put in an elevator but decided on electric stair lifts to take him down the two flights of stairs to the first floor. Stairs had become a bitch to climb and descending was worse. He strapped himself into the custom made and fitted Lifeway Mobility stair lift and hummed the last song he had heard on KRML as he descended. He adjusted his hand warmers as well.

Angus was already at the back door jumping and barking. Ben said Good boy Angus. Are you ready? Angus was a five year old black Scottish Terrier with abundant energy and personality. When the door opened to the good-sized mud room porch, Angus rushed to the small bookcase with a fish bowl on top that he knew held dog treats. Ben grabbed exactly seven treats and put them in the left pocket of his plus fours. In another fish bowl full of golf balls, he grabbed a Slazenger; the only golf ball he ever used. All of the balls had been made in Barnsley, Scotland, before the manufacturing plant moved to the Philippines. All were Slazenger one, two, or three numbered balls. It would be bad luck to use a ball with a number over three. Ben put one Slazenger ball in the right pocket of his plus fours.

Just outside the mud room was Ben’s installed Gospy spotting telescope fixed in place to see the fourteenth green at Pebble Beach golf course. Ben knew from experience the usual pin positions based on the day of the week but he always checked because a few feet in either direction made quite a difference in the swing he used. He also double checked the wind speed and temperature on his second Intellisense meter that was next to the telescope. He wasn’t pleased as the wind speed was up to nine miles per hour. He might need to use the brassie rather than the long spoon. He loved the long spoon as it was the club he hit as his second shot when he made birdie on the seventeenth at St. Andrews many decades before. Ben could still picture the shot in his mind as it hit short of the green and rolled up to within three feet; exactly the shot he pictured in his mind before he hit it.

Because his back yard was slanted away from the house toward the fourteenth fairway, Ben took another stair lift down to the flat part of his lawn near Aileen’s stone marker. Angus was sitting quietly, waiting eagerly, when Ben finally arrived. He went into a wooden storage box and took out the brassie and his golf glove. He took off his hand warmers and put the glove on his left hand. The garden and lawn maintenance crew, who came every other day, were paid extra to maintain a six foot by six foot patch of level fescue grass. It would have been cheaper to have a piece of synthetic grass installed but that definitely would have been wrong.

The sun was just rising as Ben swung the brassie several times, a longer and longer backswing each time, to warm up. Angus stared contentedly. Ben knew that, because of the wind speed and temperature, this was NOT going to be THE DAY. He placed the Slazenger on the ground and was ready to go. He lamented out loud to Angus, You know Angus this distance used to be a mashie or spade mashie for me. It’s sad I have to use the brassie. Because of the tall trees between Ben and the green he knew he had to play a hook to get around them. He visualized the shot he needed to play and then took a deep breath. Ben’s swing was a lot like Byron Nelson in his prime, with a deep knee bend.

The shot was a bit lower than Ben wanted but he clipped it clean off the fescue and made solid contact; the ball was hooking as he planned. He shook his head as he did every morning, as he knew it wasn’t perfect. He said, Fetch Angus and Angus took off like a dog possessed. The little black dog was panting and smiling and loving life as he was fulfilling his purpose.

Ben wiped off the face of the brassie, put his glove and club back in the box, and as quickly as he could got in the stair lift back to the porch. It was always touch and go if he could get to the telescope before Angus fetched the golf ball. This morning the ball was twenty feet past the pin, long and to the right; exactly where Ben expected it to be. Damn brassie. I knew I was between clubs. He continued watching in the telescope as Angus didn’t slow down and picked up the Slazenger in his mouth and did a one hundred and eighty degree turn.

Angus returned to the top of the stairs and put down the Slazenger. Out of breath, he was happy and contented when Ben rewarded him with the seven dog treats You are the greatest dog ever Angus. I love you. Ben put the Slazenger in the used golf ball fish bowl. He would only use a ball once. The once-used balls were donated once a year to the Pebble Beach Junior golf program. A messenger would be called once a year to pick up about seven hundred golf balls in plastic bags from outside Ben’s front gate and donated anonymously.

Ben and Angus slowly retreated back into the house.

JENNY

Harder! Harder! Jenny pleaded, You’ve got to turn your hips more! You’ll never get it up that way! You’ve got to turn the hips to the right then back again to the left. If you don’t move them you’ll never do it right! Swivel! Swivel!

She put her hands on his hips and rolled them slowly to the right and then back again to the left. Your weight shift is key. That’s it! If you don’t do it that way you won’t get any power and you won’t generate any power or torque at all. Now you try it yourself!

Mr. Takahashi grimaced and then smiled and moved his hips to Jenny’s cadence …right…left…right…left…right…left…That’s right Mr. Takahashi, now do it faster. You’ve got it Mr. Takahashi. Jenny screamed happily, now we’re making progress!

Chipper Blair was watching with amusement from the weathered shack at the south end of the driving range. He had only seen Jenny Nelson give one other golf lesson and her technique was the same… unbridled enthusiasm…and she got results. Chipper wondered if she purposely teased to relieve the boredom of giving lessons to hacks that he felt had no business playing the game and really had no chance of ever improving. He vowed never to give another lesson after being let go unceremoniously from his last assistant pro job for telling Mrs. Moroney, the wife of the senior men’s club president that she should give up the game and take up knitting. Mrs. Moroney didn’t take his comments very well and he was fired pretty much the same day. At least the former club gave him an honest reference and actually recommended him for any golf job that didn’t involve giving lessons or socializing with members or guests.

The fog was drifting back in over the Monterey pines that framed the driving range at Pebble Beach. The shadows of the pines were disappearing as the late afternoon fog and mist eclipsed the sun slowly. Jenny and Mr. Takahashi put on sweaters to finish the lesson. Jenny kneeled and placed one of the three remaining golf balls into a perfect lie in front of Mr. Takahashi. Now remember everything I’ve told you…slow takeaway…straight back….let the arms going back force your shoulders and hips to turn naturally…when you get to the top then let ’er rip….swing hard.

Takahashi’s head dipped as he moved through the ball but his five iron shot actually got up in the air and blooped about eighty five yards down the range…one of his best shots of the session. Alright Tak-baby! Tiger Woods move over…Taks on his way to a Masters victory! Jenny’s yell was deafening. Now let’s hit the last two just like that one.

She placed the next ball and remained kneeling as Takahashi whiffed once then dribbled one off to the right about thirty yards. Jenny ran out to get a few extra balls scattered about ten yards ahead and returned. Ok Tak…let’s forget about that one….it never happened. She placed the next ball on a little tuft of grass to make it easier to hit. Move those hips and swing hard.

Chipper muffled a laugh as all Takahashi’s efforts and Jenny’s encouragement only resulted in a shank that rolled through the first row of pine trees and ended up in the high grass. Chipper knew it was an area that the range ball vehicle wouldn’t be able to pick up and he’d have to do it by hand.

Ok Mr. Takahashi… last one…make it a good one. Jenny put the ball on a tee and had Takahashi hit his driver, the latest Callaway model Paradym triple diamond, one inch over length Fujikura Ventus black stiff shaft; custom fitted and full retail price. Jenny yelled as Takahashi drilled a roller about a hundred yards straight ahead of him. That’s ok Tak, your swing looks better than it did an hour ago. Just keep working on that hip turn and don’t be afraid to swing hard. Chipper thought to himself that with a used driver from the Goodwill shop in Seaside, with a senior shaft, Takahashi might be better off.

Jenny loaded Takahashi’s clubs into the back of one of the courtesy carts used to transport guests from the pro shop to the driving range and back. The range isn’t very close to the clubhouse and pampered guests at the lodge wouldn’t use it if they had to walk back and forth. It helped increase the lesson bookings. The range usually had more deer grazing than customers hitting balls.

Although Jenny walked about ten feet away from Chipper on her way out she didn’t smile or acknowledge him although she did make eye contact. He saw Takahashi open his wallet and give her a few bills tip but didn’t see the amount. Jenny and Takahashi exchanged bows and pleasantries and slid in opposite sides of the courtesy cart.

Jenny wore khaki pants with a white golf shirt covered by a green sweater vest with the Pebble Beach logo on the chest. She wore a red visor, even in the fog and mist, for her sign of individuality. The outfit was mandatory that day for the golf staff and she looked much better than most. The green vest complemented her jade colored eyes and the white shirt showed off her jet black hair that she kept short. Although Chipper hadn’t drawn her attention or friendship he was developing a crush. Most women he knew in the golf business had prematurely craggy complexions from sun and wind damage. No furrowing brow on Jenny yet. The visor seemed to indicate she cared about her skin but there was really more danger from pneumonia at Pebble than sun damage. Chipper had only been working a month and his only real conversations with Jenny were her usual, give me a bucket of balls please. At least she said please. Chipper was almost six feet tall with a slight build and Jenny was just a few inches shorter.

Jenny looked to be no more than twenty three or twenty four and looked like she would be as much at home at a debutante ball as she was giving lessons on the driving range. Chipper noticed that her hands were a giveaway though as the short nails and callouses at the bottom of the fingers of her left hand were evidence of a lot of time hitting golf balls. He looked at his own hands and smiled and thought that his similar callouses were all he had in common with Jenny Nelson.

It was almost five o’clock, the time head pro Roger Hennessey wanted the range closed today. Chipper walked the length of the teeing area and picked up all the empty baskets lying on the turf. It wasn’t part of his job, the Pebble Beach maintenance crew were paid to do it, but he spent some time picking up and replacing dozens of divots lying in front of the teeing area. It bothered him to see the turf destroyed. At the end of the day the ground always looked like a scarred battlefield….pox marked and pitted. Chipper said out loud, I wonder why most players replace divots when they are playing but not on the driving range? He then reset all the tees so the ground for that day could rest and the paying customers would have pristine grass the next day. Back at the range shack he stacked all the baskets and put them in piles according to small, medium, and large.

Chipper opened the cash register and was thankful Pebble Beach still wanted customers to deal with a person rather than a ball machine that dispensed balls using a token or money deposited. He took some pride in his job although he didn’t enjoy talking much to those buying balls. He put in his pin number and opened the cash register and spent about thirty minutes reconciling the register total recorded with the cash on hand. He then put all the receipts and paperwork in a bank sack in a small safe under the counter, rolled down the wooden window, left the shack and locked the door behind him.

He walked to the caged tractor and thought to himself that if the range was limited to low handicap golfers this part of this job would take twenty minutes shorter than the usual forty minutes. The tractor had a fifteen foot wide ball collector and he had to sweep the entire driving range back and forth to collect them for the day. The only bright spot of this was the deer that usually congregated on the range to keep him company in the early evening. The fawns would examine the golf balls and Chipper wondered what instinct kept them from eating the Titleist range balls with red stripes around the middle. Pebble spared no expense on using decent golf balls and refused to use cheaper hard cover re-painted balls that didn’t perform well. He snarled as he got out of the cage to pick up by hand the balls Takahashi and other hacks had smacked into the longer grass along side the right side of the range.

The worst part of the day was gathering the balls from the cage and re-bucketing them for the next day’s group of hackers. If the balls were too dirty or damaged he separated them into a metal trash can for cleaning or another for damaged balls. He had a pet name for the off-color or damaged balls and he wondered what the Pebble Beach Corporation did with these jelly beans. He had no doubt they sold them for some sort of profit. By this time of day he was impatient to finish and get out on the golf course and breathe. In the summer it was light until almost nine and if he could only get these damn balls into the buckets he would be out of there.

Chipper unlocked the shack again and put all the filled buckets back inside. He opened the safe and retrieved the day’s cash and receipts. He locked up again and, finally finished, got in the cart parked behind the shack that the corporation provided for him to travel between the pro shop and the range and back each day. It was an old one and it stuttered when he started it. Clouds of black smoke came out the back. Definitely not one of the newer carts that guests used when they were chauffeured. It was on its last legs. Three of the days he was working on the range the cart wouldn’t start and he had to walk back. He complained but nothing was done to help him so far.

Shortly before eight o’clock Chipper was walking toward the second tee at Pebble with his carry bag on his shoulder. Roger never let him start on the first tee and Chipper didn’t question his decision. The second tee was more than fine and the perk of being able to play Pebble, even in twilight and many times in the dark, was one of the main reasons he took the job. He was happy Roger had taken a chance with him even with his previous employment woes. When he turned the corner of the dogleg walking on the first hole and could see the second tee about a hundred yards ahead on the right he started feeling the usual excitement about starting to play.

When he reached the second tee he opened his bag and replaced his Nike running shoes with the brown Foot-Joy golf shoes he had in the side pocket. He placed the running shoes in the same pocket. He took out his driver and smiled at the feel of it in his hands as he took some practice swings and did some stretching with the club nestled in the small of his back. He was totally comfortable. This was where he was meant to be. He reached in the bag and pulled out a brand new Titleist Pro V1 and the whiteness of the ball was striking compared to the dirty range balls he had just thrown around. He was tired and his back ached but he was confident on the tee.

The Corporation never put out the blue tees well back where they were when the ATT Pro-Am was played in early February. Chipper liked to play from the tips and he teed up as far back as he could near the hedge bordering the right side of the back tee. If the regular hacks that paid the regular green fee of five hundred and fifty dollars a round were to play these tees they would take all day to finish. At this green fee most of the players wanted to take a long time anyway to savor the views and golf at Pebble Beach.

Because of the mist and the prevailing wind coming in from the right Chipper liked to play a controlled hard fade. You couldn’t feel the wind from the tee because of the hedge but Chipper Blair knew it was there. He took a sweater out of his bag and put it on. This really wasn’t the most ideal time of day to play. He felt stiff as he started his backswing slightly outside in order to hit a fade, but didn’t make solid contact and watched with disappointment as the ball flew high and left of where he had intended. The second hole was a relatively short par five but Chipper’s two hundred and forty five yard drive was in the left rough and the hole wouldn’t be a birdie opportunity from there. As he walked fast to his ball he thought how lucky he was to even be playing. Tourists travelled from all over the world to put down their five hundred and fifty dollars to play Pebble Beach and they had to take a cart or a caddie. Roger Hennessy gave Chipper a job and let him play because Chipper’s father, Walter J. Blair Sr. had served in the same Marine unit as Roger in the first Gulf War. Roger and Walter had never lost touch. Roger went into the golf business and Walter Blair Sr. had become a trial attorney. When Chipper lost his last club job, Roger had been more than willing to use him as the range attendant or helping in the pro shop. He even let him use the title assistant pro. If it had been anywhere but Pebble he would have refused the old man’s help. His uneasiness with his father’s role in his life had softened over the past few years and it seemed like everything was coming together now.

PUTTING HEAVEN

Ben Morris and Angus sat in the kitchen of his estate house. He used the remote to turn to the golf channel on the seventy inch screen. The big screen was on a swivel mount attached to the kitchen wall. He sat awhile and rested then prepared a breakfast of two organic Weetabix in a bowl of whole milk covered with blueberries,