Lawrence.com

Maybe it's this weather, or maybe it's "The Facts of Life" reunion, but something's got me in a nostalgic mood. It's a feeling compounded by my recent return to the sixth grade.

Last week, some co-workers and I were invited to play at a golf event I thought I could handle: the Wakarusa Valley Elementary Putt-Putt Open. The Wakarusa Valley Elementary School and the Golf Course Superintendent's Association of America, where I work full time, have a fun little business/education partnership set up. We have pen pals at the school, and we make occasional field trips to each other's places. It's a learning experience for both groups. I get to look back at what it was like to be a child. Meanwhile, the kids get to see how I restrain myself from swearing madly when I miss a 2-foot putt.

The school did an amazing job of setting up a 9-hole mini golf course. I'm telling you, there's a bunch of little geniuses over there. Of course, their genius only caused me more golf frustrations. I seemed to be the only mini-golf player that putted out of bounds. (In my defense, however, that is the title of this column.) Several times I wished I had brought my pitching wedge along.

One hole was set up to look like the moon. At par three, the goal was to putt over a little moon rock into a PVC pipe, which would take your ball to the cup. To finish the hole, you had to hit into a crater. Harder than it looked � I scored a six on the hole.

Number four, outside the office, was a nightmare. Hazards included computer keyboards, large rolls of paper towels and a sand trap in the form of a large bowl filled with sand.

The hole outside the cafeteria was tricky, but an expert could sink the ball in one shot. Economy-sized cans of food � those containers so big that you would only ever see one at a school cafeteria � were lined up at the tee box. The best bet was to putt through the can of green beans and watch your ball ramp up to the life-sized Tiger stand-up. Not Tiger Woods, but Tony the Tiger. Remember, school lunches are grrreat!

Golf digest

By being there around noon, we were lucky enough to eat in the cafeteria. Because company was coming, the date for their Thanksgiving meal was moved forward. It was a real feast: turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing. I learned that it was a special treat to get butter. They only serve it on two occasions: when there's guests and when it's a holiday. (I've since tried to use the "I got us butter" method to impress the fairer sex. But it seems the women I go out with aren't overwhelmed when I ask the waiter to break out the Land O' Lakes.)

Apparently, we were lucky to have missed peanut butter-and-jelly day. One of the kids told us, "They do something to the peanut butter and jelly." The way he said it was spine-tingling. He sounded just like young Cole in "The Sixth Sense" when he claimed, "I see dead people."

Not much has changed since I was 12. They still serve pizza and corn together, and a bowl of chili with a big cinnamon roll means that life is good. I'm amazed that the little box of milk can quench even a tiny person's thirst. But they have replaced the plastic trays with a cardboard-like material, similar to the drink holders you might get from Wendy's.

Walking into the building brought back a lot of memories, a return to the days when the most important things in the world were G.I. Joe comic books, Garbage Pail Kids, Wichita Wings soccer and the cutest girl in school, whom I won't name, because my crush still hasn't quite worn off. Come to think of it, neither has my adoration for comic books, trading cards or indoor soccer.

Now, it's not just the golf that is miniature. The drinking fountains are barely taller than my knees. I had to keep an eye downward, for fear I'd step on something or someone. It was confirmed that I was out of place when an astonished fourth grader looked at me, and said, "Wow ... you're tall!" Because at that age, anyone taller than your dad must be the tallest man in the world.

After lunch was over, we were rounded up into the gymnasium for a special production by the sixth-graders. The rest of the school was called into the gym, and next thing you know, the house was packed. Dozens of parents lined the walls, camcorders in hand, battling for the best angle. Some patriotic music started, and the kids began to wave their red, white and blue streamers in unison.

I shot five over on the course. But despite the poor putting, I was happy just to be able to feel like a kid again.