So sunny, so nice, so Elsbeth offered to ride with me if I wanted to go out for nine holes of hit-and-hunt golf. The winter has been so long I was pretty excited.

The sign said "Carts Stay on Paths," so there was a lot of walking and the course was wonderful but the rough was very deep. If you bent one too much you often could not find it.

My first game in a year was not pretty but I got a lot of exercise.

We did have to call the clubhouse only once.

After a sterling drive that accidentally hit a limb my ball dove into knee-deep grass. I decided to try a shortcut figuring if I could get up a flying head of steam I could get across a short stretch of rough easily.

So I goosed it, rrrrrrm rrrrrm, and off we went and got MAYBE FOUR FEET and then bogged down.

Elsbeth had on low-cut highly fashionable golf spectator shoes and offered to steer if I wanted to get out and push. That was fair. But I tried to talk her into pushing while I steered because she does not understand the gearshift.

She tried to convince me there was nothing but forward and reverse in the gears. Ha. I knew she was bluffing and told her about the manifold not connecting with cylinders but she was firm.

So I got one foot out and the mud instantly covered my ankle bone. So there was only one thing to do. Call the clubhouse on her cell phone, tell them the location, pretend I was someone else who could not read English-Neal Kneip-and waited for the rescue squad.

Several foursomes walked by but I pretended I was doing a crossword puzzle and did not look up.

Two boys came from the clubhouse about 15 minutes later, and when I asked if they had a long chain they suggested I get out and push while they helped. With my wife steering it worked.

The mud will wash out of my pant legs but I never did find the ball I was hunting for.

SON PAT was with Elsbeth and me recently when we were driving by the Elda Boehm Botanical gardens across from the SeaTac Senior Center and we spotted a crew of workers clad in colorful daffodil-yellow rain gear.

There were about eight of them and they were busy planting, grubbing, raking and hoeing and I decided it would make quite a timely picture for the paper.

So I stopped and asked Pat to go out in the rain and take a few shots. He declined because he had no jacket on so I got out and just at that moment a worker carrying a plastic bag of trash came toward me and I tried to focus on him, urging him to stand still for a second.

He ignored me and I thought he didn't hear me so I shouted for him to stop as he walked by.

About then a huge guy in a black uniform approached me yelling, "You can't take pictures." I explained I was looking for spring scenes for the paper and he said forcefully, "You can't take pictures of these men. They are prisoners on work duty. You have to get permission or they can sue you for invasion of privacy if you don't have proper papers from the jailer."

So, no picture but when the sun comes out and the flowers bloom be advised that good things can be done by bad guys.