That is the Northern Bowling Club is right across the street from me. I mentioned this wonderful little diversion in my blog yesterday, and in the spirit of generosity, I'm giving you two blogs today for the price of one. (I think blogging is my new obsession.)
It is actually an outdoor bowling club much more akin to botchee (I know I'm butchering the spelling) ball than pin bowling. There seem to be a number of rules associated with being a member:
1) You must be at least 55 preferably with salt and pepper hair. Even better yet you should be completely white.
2) You must wear gray flannel slacks and white shirts or windbreakers.
3) If you are a man, you ought to wear a white riding cap.
The groundskeeper is this lovely old gentleman, and every time I see him out there gardening I get a little misty-eyed missing my dad. Why, you ask? Not because of their age. This gentleman is at least 10-15 years older than my father. But because this Scottish chap gardens in dress clothes. That's right. He wears gray flannel dress pants, suspenders, a light blue, buttondown collar dress shirt, and a tie to cut the grass, prune the hedges, and water the flowers. I knew there was a genetic reason my dad did this. It's in the Scottish genes.