On this August Saturday, finally, the surge to enjoy Chicago summer while it lasts, has lapsed into simply enjoying summer. Things are lax.

In a sandy bunker at the Diversey Harbor driving range, the Golf 101 insructor who has been right so far, says the way out of the sand trap is to NOT hit the ball. Instead, whack the sand, hoist divots aloft to coax the ball, nudge that orb up up and away.

It works. Who knew?

Later, I’m visiting with Joanie, my Mom-in-law, who likes visitors very very much but can’t remember she does. In her 90-ish year, why should she? So, she finds spoons to cut our coffeecake and we wander around her wars, widowhood, worries and whimsy with which she has spent her life.

She doesn’t know these things the same way, yet she knows them. We dig around near memories but not right on top of them; deep, deep, deep but just outside here and now. We gentle the sand around her memories. We strike somewhere generally near the core of her so that Joanie can loft into today, pop right out of the bunker onto the green.

It works. who knew?