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Mel Hathorn

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Member Since: Apr, 2002

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Books
· The Prisoner's Dilemma

· Celts and Kings

· The Castlereagh Connection


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· Thanksgiving Day Dinner at Oliver Wight Tavern in Old Sturbridge Village

· Spanking Plato: Prologue - Chapter 3

· Sticking it to the Man

· Women in White: Parts 1-6

· Men In Black

· A Study and Discussion Guide to The Prisoner's Dilemma

· The Corporation Who Mistook Itself for a Person

· The Gymnast

· No Broccoli Tonight!!!

· The Prisoner's Dilemma (Authors note)


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· Constitutional Amendment to end Corporate Personhood

· Is Reaganomics Dead?

· A Reasonable Teaching Philosophy?

· No Taxation Without Representation


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Hartford PGA Tour: Going to the Dogs?
By Mel Hathorn
Posted: Friday, June 22, 2007
Last edited: Saturday, June 18, 2011
This short story is rated "G" by the Author.

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Recent stories by Mel Hathorn
· Spanking Plato: Prologue - Chapter 3
· Thanksgiving Day Dinner at Oliver Wight Tavern in Old Sturbridge Village
· Sticking it to the Man
· Women in White: Parts 1-6
· The Corporation Who Mistook Itself for a Person
· Men In Black
· A Study and Discussion Guide to The Prisoner's Dilemma
           >> View all 27
The Hartford PGA Tour was almost a non-event. Maybe after this experience it should have been.
HARTFORD PGA TOUR: GOING TO THE DOGS?

The school bus had stopped again trapping and irritating drivers. This irritation was more than the usual annoyance that drivers feel behind a school bus. For you see, many of these drivers were running late to the opening ceremonies of the Hartford Professional Golfers Association (PGA) Tour.

For years, Hartford area clubs such as the Hartford Jaycees had sponsored the Greater Hartford Open (GHO). However, during the past few years, the Tournament—now sponsored by corporations—had been held in Cromwell, CT at the Tournament Players Club (TPC). It was now identified as the Professional Golfers Association (PGA) tour. Unfortunately, this year someone made a scheduling error. The tournament was scheduled the same week as the final week of Cromwell public schools before summer break.

I was traveling west on Route 99 in Cromwell on this opening day. It was 8:45. Normally this busy road has two lanes. This week police had put a series of carefully placed traffic cones transferring the street into three lanes. Heading west, the right lane led traffic into a right turn at the entrance to the TPC. The center lane, clearly marked by red cones, was the through lane. The left lane was reserved for traffic heading east.

I was driving in the center lane trapped directly behind a school bus when its flashers turned yellow and then red. The octagon stop sign swung out from the side of the bus. All traffic stopped.

In the right lane, a courtesy van from the local hotel filled with officials, dignitaries, and speakers for the opening ceremony stopped next to me. The van was trying to turn into the TPC. I looked into the van. Several important people were muttering to themselves, glaring at the bus, and checking their watches; they were running late. Traffic was backed up for two miles.

A small child accompanied by his mom ran from the house in front of the stopped van. As he started climbing the steps of the bus, his mom waved him back. He had forgotten his lunch. He ran back into the house and grabbed his lunch bag. His mom whispered something to him and gave him a hug. He climbed onto the bus. She called out as he stopped halfway up the stairs. She yelled something to him. He turned around to respond. She continued to wave goodbye. He returned the wave. The incident took about three minutes.

The bus stopped at the next house where six kids stood in the right lane. Again the flashers came on and the octagonal sign swung out. The kids clustered at the bus door and in the ensuing struggle one dropped his books. He ran around the street picking up his books. Another kid ran after the homework that the wind had torn from his hand. This delay took about five minutes, as once the kids got on board they stopped in the aisle laughing and talking to their friends before sitting down. The bus couldn’t move until each kid was seated.

As the bus began moving ahead, the flashers came on again stopping at the next house. The octagon sign swung out once more. This time the child was waiting at the side of the road accompanied by his family pet, a sad-looking, aged bloodhound. The hound was clearly on his last legs and wasn’t long for this world. The hound wobbled after the child into the right lane and sadly stood by the door of the bus as the child climbed aboard. Clearly this was the daily habit of the hound. Normally, the hound would have waited on the front lawn for the bus. Since the bus was in the center land the hound sat on its haunches in the middle of the right lane blocking any chance of traffic getting past the bus.

The courtesy van passengers were clearly annoyed. One glared at the hound. He signaled to the driver to honk his horn. The poor hound, deafened by age, simply turned around with a sad look as if to say, “Eh? Were you saying something?” Its confused eyes and drooping ears turned back to the bus. It followed the bus to the next house walking in the right lane. The van honked and the driver yelled, but the hound seemed to be confused by all the changes in its daily routine. It waddled down the street in the right lane following the bus.

One of the well-dressed dignitaries stormed out of the stationary van and dragged the animal to the side of the road. Before he could climb back on the bus the hound walked back into the street and stood at the bus door. “Ya haffta rub his stomach,” the kid’s voice yelled out the window. “He’ll go back home if you rub his stomach!” Sure enough the hound had rolled over on his back. With paws in the air the hound’s head lay back in anticipation of a good stomach rub. His jowls had flipped back exposing what looked like smiling teeth.

“I don’t believe this.” The dignitary said.

“If ya rub his stomach, he’ll go back home,” repeated the kid.

Once more the man tried moving the dog to the side of the road. Once again the hound ran back to the middle of the street. In sheer desperation the man bent down and rubbed the stomach of the hound. A police officer ran over. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Ya haffta rub his stomach,” the kid yelled.

The man explained and the cop pulled the dog off to the side but the animal once more returned to the street. Finally both gave up and rubbed the dog’s stomach.

After a few minutes the dog rolled over and in gratitude jumped up to give the well-dressed man a slobbering kiss leaving drool and dog hairs over his immaculate suit. The hound walked back home.

Finally the bus reached the intersection where the right lane forced traffic into the TPC area. The bus continued through the intersection until it reached the town line a few feet further up the road. The cones were now placed in the opposite configuration. The bus usually made a U-turn into a large parking lot to reverse direction and head east. As it turned into the parking lot it knocked over several carefully placed cones. They lay scattered on the road like bowling alley pins. Traffic, heading east and west, not wanting to run over the cones weaved and turned into a myriad of lanes. Some almost had a head-on collision, but fortunately accidents were avoided.

As I drove through the carnage, I glanced in my rear-view mirror. The bus was making additional stops on the other side of the road continuing to leave a trail of chaos and confusion. I could see this happening every day this week. I understand that the opening ceremonies began about forty minutes late.
   

 

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Reviewed by Karen Vanderlaan 6/22/2007
loved that old hound dog! enjoyable read but glad i wasn't in that traffic


Books by
Mel Hathorn



The Prisoner's Dilemma

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Celts and Kings

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The Castlereagh Connection

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