‘Who’s the artist?’ ‘Yes Lydia…who is the artist?’ Sybil asked. ‘Well…I don’t really know, I found it at a yard sale on day, had it ...ramed and there you see my ten dollar find, mind you the framing was expensive.’ She added. ‘Are you interested in selling it?’ Brent said taking his seat on the couch. ‘I’ve grown pretty attached to it, I don’t think so…but if I do decide to sell it I’ll let you have first dibs on it.’ She sat down on an overstuffed chair and sipped her wine. ‘Hey Brent, when. It was a vast array of rolling hills, broad stretches of grass, beautiful vistas of the Bay of St. Andrews, and tall grassy roughs. The fairways, for the most part, were broad and, seemingly, free of obstacles, other than their own undulating nature. But an errant shot in that rough -- oh, it would be a dilemma for any golfer. The rough was very rough indeed! Lost balls, I thought, must be commonplace. Hitting out of that terrible stuff must be akin to harvesting grain with a scythe!Kim shook. More

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