American in Spain

Judging from my blog records, sometimes this tournament is usually held in May, but sometimes in late April or early June. Unlike some past years, this time we had fantastic weather. Even better than a perfectly sunny morning, we had a morning where it had rained for a few hours before we started, so even the normally soft sand, out of reach of the tide, was firm.

It is a nine-hole event, with a shotgun start. For you non-golfers out there, that means that everyone goes to their assigned hole, and then the tournament director, at the exact starting time, fires off an airhorn (obviously from the name, gunpowder was involved traditionally), and then we all begin. I was in one of three foursomes (nine holes = nine groups), but we never made those behind us wait, and those in front of us never made us wait, so it was ideal golf.
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What follows is the final chapter of a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

I returned for a third visit to St. Paul after Peter and Tina separated. Peter was living in a small apartment. We went out at night and played frisbee golf, and we reminisced about old times. Bloodball. Accidentally getting into a pickup basketball game against varsity players at SIU. The sound made by Kentucky Derby horses as they raced past our spot on the rail in the infield. The decibel level at Indianapolis. The time Peter poured a gallon of cold milk on the back of his sunbathing girlfriend, and the look on her face. Potato Sausage soup made with Sauce Maurice. The time we played the same pinball machine for 18 hours on a dime. Eating oysters on Bourbon Street. The time we were camping out and a raccoon ran off with our whole loaf of bread. Corn.
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What follows is a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Sometime that fall Peter’s kidneys stopped working entirely, and he began dialysis. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he lay in a recliner for six hours connected to a machine which filtered waste from his blood. For several hours afterwards he was exhausted. Despite the toll it took on his body, Peter remained upbeat. He had a single standard answer to the “How are you doing?” inquiry, which he stuck to for thirty years. “Can’t complain!” he would say cheerfully. Every time I heard him say that I thought to myself “Dude! If anybody has a right to complain it is you!”, but I never said a word.
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What follows is a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Sometime during my first week of employment I realized our plan would not work. The state facility which employed me was the natural place for Betsy to work as well. We were in a small town in East Tennessee, and it was 1973. She could not list my address on her application. I had naively thought we could pretend to be married, but I realized I could not lie to my boss. I called Betsy and convinced her to marry me at the courthouse in Maryville, just south of Knoxville. I took Mary with me to the hospital in order to get the blood tests necessary for the marriage license.
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What follows is a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Two jobs requiring Masters degrees in Behavior Modification came open in Greeneville, Tennessee, and Mary and I applied, and were selected to fill them. I rented a cute guest cottage in Greeneville, and Mary lived there with me until she found an apartment of her own. Somewhere along the way my friend Hoy stopped by for a prolonged visit, setting up his hammock near the guest house. I had talked the landlord into renting me the cottage by telling him I was engaged to be married, and was preparing the cottage for my bride. One Friday evening he asked to speak with me, and told me that it didn’t seem to be working out as I had said it would. I told him to give me just a little more time, as my bride would be joining me soon.
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When planning our Sunday with rain in the forecast, we brainstormed several ideas, including the San Sebastián Aquarium, but in the end we settled on the Eureka! Science Museum, or Eureka! Zientzia Museoa, in Basque. Having driven two hours east to San Sebastián, we had a slight head start on the also-eastbound rain storm. We decided to visit the beach and see a strange mangled-metal art piece jutting out of the rocks, aptly named el Peine del Viento (The Comb of the Wind).
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What follows is a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

I-55 wasn’t complete, and we had to get off the Interstate in Mississippi. Peter was driving, and pointed out to me that a policeman had been following us for several miles. He carefully obeyed the speed limit, so we were both surprised when the cop turned on his lights and siren and pulled us over. When Peter asked why he had been pulled over, he was told that he had been driving “too close to the center line”. A bus driver, Peter had naturally kept his driver-side wheels consistently close to the middle line when driving carefully.
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What follows is a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

During the day I took classes and interned at a mental health center in another town, and Peter took some Social Work courses. At night we played pinball. As was our habit, we brought our autistic analytical skills to the task, and became very good pinball players. We joined the International Pinball Association and became card-carrying members. I was “Flips”, because of my mad flipper skills. Peter was “Plunger”, because he was agonizingly slow introducing each ball into play. Having previously determined the optimum amount of momentum the ball should carry as it exited the chute, he would routinely bend over and examine the plunger marks closely before loosing the ball.
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What follows is a serial essay written by my father, Paul Rasmussen, about his best friend, Peter Brown. Part 1, Part 2

It was a beautiful morning when we left Beloit. I had the top down on the bright red 1963 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible I had bought shortly after Christmas for $300, and Peter was driving his very used 1950 Cadillac. We stopped at a roadside stand just outside of town and bought a couple of quarts of fresh strawberries. For 20 miles I pitched overripe berries high in the air, splashing them onto Peter’s windshield when successful. He passed me on the largely deserted interstate, and retaliated in kind. When we had used or consumed all our ammo, we resorted to one-upmanship. He passed me slowly, never glancing at me, while sitting in the passenger side. I passed him, laid back with my crossed feet up on the dashboard while I pressed a golf club on the accelerator. We were young, reckless, and happy.
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My youngest little baby turned four years old today. It’s hard to believe that only four years ago our family was incomplete. It feels like there have been four of us since forever. Even though it’s a Tuesday night, we invited over Ian’s best friend, Gael, and his other friend, Mara, who has an older sister who is Nora’s best friend at school. Nora’s best neighborhood friend, Carmen, also came to our little soirée. Carmen is exactly six years older than Ian, so she also got to blow some candles.
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