A Golf course has a lot in common with a road when you get right down to it. That's not a popular view though, is it? It's a little like saying, "hey, your mother's ugly" or worse, meeting your friend's new baby and saying it's head isn't the right shape.
When you go out golfing you do it for the sport, for the exercise, maybe even for the cameraderie, but rarely, if at all, to criticize the developer of the golf course for having made the thing in the first place.
Face it, the guy who developed your local greens is probably outside more often than you and he knows a lot more about things like walkways for ducks and geese or how to keep offending critters and the dung they leave behind in someone elses backyard. He alone cares what is under the tender footfalls of the avid bunch teeing off in the morning mist.
He knows the lie of the land and how to arrange it so there isn't a bunch of junk in the middle of everything like beer bottles, cans of pop, fast-food wrappers, barrels of PCBs and used needles. He is a saint for the sake of his property. He does what Tolkien does in "Leaf by Niggle". He tends his garden and earns his wings as his satisfaction grows in accomplishment.
Meanwhile, as he grows older and he diverts a stream or two to make way for expanded fairways or a creek runs dry from suburban encroachment, he sprays pecticides for grubs and anti-fungal agents to combat leaf mold.
Then he gets cancer and dies at home with his loving family in attendance all around him. He goes to the big golf course in the sky and leaves his earthbound riches to his children. And suddenly it doesn't matter that his son has the worst slice of anyone he's ever seen swing a driver or that it is his daughter whose handicap is pro-ready also has a head for business.
He lived. He golfed. He died.
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