Whitey, an avid golfer, thought I should be too. The last time he

visited, ever, he brought a five-gallon plastic bucket full of old

golf balls he’d collected over time and bequeathed them to me. Dutiful

son, I stuck them in the attic and forgot them. Palolo gets a lot of

rain, but no snow, and no hail. Except once, the day diesel-driven

hydraulics tore down our old Joe Pao house — hail the exact size of

golf balls bounding, bouncing, skipping, scattering at all angles down

the street down the hill down the valley, eager to join Whitey in


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