Our cup runneth over

This time last week we were recuperating from our trip to the Outer Banks.

We are still catching up. Good thing memories of our time in the sand and surf linger.

We also know we spent a fair amount of time at the area's putt putt establishments.



We found one that had a little train that took us to the top of putt putt mountain. It was an adventure for us all.
Michael displayed an intensity in the game we didn't anticipate. Each hole, he gave it his all. Countless times we showed him the proper way to hold a little putter. He still turned it around and used it like a Swiffer to push the ball into the holes--all 18 of them.



The baby looked on.



He watched big brother Jason with his Tiger Woods-like intensity, trying to sink every putt perfectly. He was very serious in his mission. We wouldn't mind some of that Tiger Woods-like precision. In any case, we were surprised that after an evening spent at the putt putt golf course, they wanted to return.

So we did.

The boys had an even better time the second visit.



As Michael was sweeping his ball across the putt putt greens, finally getting it into the hole, we would ask him how many strokes it took.

Always, the answer was "two." I suppose if you treat it like a hockey puck, that would be the case.

When we returned home, I asked both of them about their favorite part of the trip to the beaches of the Outer Banks.

Unanimously, they said, "Putt Putt."