Arnold Palmer played his last Masters game yesterday. It was his 50th one. Throngs of his fans always follow him on the course and are known affectionately as Arnie's Army. No matter where you are on the course the applause follows him as each ball is played out. I followed him at the GGO in Greensboro, NC, as a 14 year old tomboy with my father. It was one way to feel closer to my Father because he loved to play golf and using my Mother's clubs, he taught me how to play at an early age. Our back yard connected to the 14th hole at the local Golf Course.

My Father's passed on now; it's been 14 years he's been gone. But once after making 'a hole in one', his clubhouse got him an Arnold Palmer signed ball mounted on an engraved wooden plaque and an ashtray. They're still on the table by his old leather chair. He was probably more proud of his golf achievements than anything he accomplished in the business world.

When I see my Father in my minds eye now, I see him sitting in his leather chair, feet up on the ottoman. Other images I have of him are him in a tux, getting ready to go to some function, sipping on a gin and tonic, perfectly coiffed and creased. Or driving a golf cart, in la Coste shirt and saddle oxford golf cleats; leaping out beside his ball on the fairway, a mere second before the cart came to a complete stop. (The way every cart driver does.) Or shaving in the mornings in a still-steamy bathroom, then splashing on after shave, while standing at the sink in his boxers and tee shirt. Then he'd take out a freshly laundered and starched shirt. Ripping off the plastic, I'd sometimes put my arms in the long, flat sleeves and pry them open from the starch for him.

Many times it still aches to think of him for long. Today I find it comforting to "see" him.