Dad Ate My Golf Ball

By Peggy McManus (AKA Piggly Wiggly)

November 2025

I'm just getting back from what was supposed to be a quick trip to the grocery store. I only needed a few basics, but I got sidetracked by the candy aisle and spent a good 20 minutes there, trying to talk myself out of buying a candy bar or two. In the end, I succeeded, although now that I’m home and candyless, I am second-guessing my decision. 

When it comes to candy, I'm a lot like my dad, who was a big candy lover. Even as a kid, I got a kick out of watching to see how long it would take him to pick out a candy bar at the grocery store. It was always at least half an hour. In the end, he inevitably settled on an Almond Joy to share with Mom since it was her favorite. 

In those days, my personal favorite was penny candy. One penny for one piece of candy — it was the deal of the century! Back then, I killed slugs in Mom’s garden for a penny a kill, so, in my mind, one smashed slug equaled one Jolly Rancher. Sucking on one of those could take all day! That meant I only needed to murder one slug a day to feed my sweet tooth, which was great because, as I'm sure you know, killing slugs is a disgusting way to make a living.

Around the holidays, Mom liked to make delicious homemade candy for all our friends and family. She was actually quite skilled at it, too. I remember big red cinnamon-flavored lollipops hardening on a sheet of wax paper on the kitchen counter. They looked like they were made of delicate, bright red glass. Her homemade fudge was to die for, too. It was creamy and chocolatey, and I’ve never had fudge since that was anywhere near as good.

On the other end of the candy-making spectrum was Grandma. For some reason, she insisted on making divinity for the holidays. If you’re new to divinity, it’s a sticky white sugary blob with hard chunks in it; presumably nuts, but with Grandma, you never knew. I wouldn’t eat it, and for a kid with a sweet tooth, that says a lot about Grandma’s divinity. 

One Christmas in the mid-1960s, we were at Grandma’s house outside of Sandpoint, ID. We had just finished a fabulous turkey dinner, and were sitting around the dining room table, patting our full bellies and wishing we had enough room left for one more scoop of mashed potatoes and gravy.

“Let’s clear the table for Grandma, kids,” Dad said, “Then we’ll play that new game Santa brought you.”

My sisters and I were anxious to play and quickly cleared the table. The new game was a tabletop version of miniature golf, complete with a table-length golf course covered in green felt. The “golf club” was a small steel mechanism with a button on top that you pushed to make the club swing and, hopefully, shoot a tiny white golf ball down the green. There were various obstacles to set up for each hole, like tunnels and hills, that made it increasingly difficult to get the golf ball down the course. Whoever had the fewest number of strokes by the end of the game won the prize, which was getting out of dish duty for the day.

Playing the game with Dad was challenging, since he was oddly skilled at using the weird push-button golf club to hit the ball, and his shots made it through obstacle after obstacle with relative ease. Needless to say, he won the game. Still, it was super fun, and I didn’t mind that losing meant my sisters and I would be washing the Christmas dinner dishes. 

When we finally finished up in the kitchen, Mom sent me to my room to get ready for bed. As I passed the dining room, I noticed Dad and Grandma were still sitting at the table, and I walked over to tell them goodnight.

Grandma must have said something hilarious just as I approached because Dad suddenly threw back his head, laughing hysterically. Unfortunately, the angle of his head gave me a clear view into his mouth, and what I saw there made me scream.

“Arrgghhhh!” I raged in shock and fury, then burst into tears and dashed off to my room. 

I had clearly seen the miniature golf ball from our new game crushed and dissolving on Dad’s teeth. It was appalling, and now our fun new game was ruined. I was still whimpering when I heard a soft knock on the bedroom door. 

“Piggly, can I come in?” Dad asked.

“No,” I answered.

“I’m not leaving until you let me in.”

“Hmmmphh,” I replied.

Dad opened the door softly and came over to sit on the edge of my bed. He handed me a tissue to wipe my nose.

“You know Grandma hates it when you use her blankets as tissues,” Dad said. “It is pretty disgusting.”

“You know what’s even more disgusting?” I snipped. “Eating your kid's golf ball!”

“What are you talking about?” Dad asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. 

“I saw you eating the golf ball from our new game when you were laughing at Grandma,” I said accusingly. 

“You’re kidding, right?” Dad said and erupted in laughter.

I couldn’t believe it. Dad was literally laughing in my face. I burst out crying again, leaped out of bed, and ran out of the room.

“Har, har, har!” Dad laughed, clearly unable to control himself. 

What a sicko, I thought. I was still sobbing when I reached the bottom of the staircase.

Mom came out of the kitchen to see what the ruckus was about.

“What’s going on?” she demanded.

“Dad ate the golf ball from our new game, and now he’s laughing about it,” I told her through my tears.

“Pat, get down here and, for Pete’s sake, stop cackling.”

Dad came down the stairs, wiping away tears of mirth and trying to hold back more laughter.

“Our daughter says you ate her golf ball,” Mom said. I could see she, too, was trying hard not to smile, and I wasn’t happy about it.

“I plead not guilty,” Dad said.

“I can’t imagine that you are guilty, but how do you explain why Piggly is so upset?” Mom asked.

“I was minding my own business, chatting with Grandma. Just as I popped a piece of divinity in my mouth, Grandma said something so funny that I burst out laughing. The next thing I knew, Piggly was screaming and running out of the room.”

“I don’t see why that would upset her so much,” Mom said. “I mean, I know she hates Grandma’s divinity, but why would she care if you ate some?”

“I couldn’t understand it either,” Dad said. “I went after her to find out what was wrong, and she accused me of eating her golf ball. Apparently, the crazy kid thought the divinity I was eating was the golf ball from the game we had played earlier.” Dad tried to stifle a new round of laughter, but failed.“I admit, they do look a lot alike, but I swear, I did not eat the golf ball.”

Likely story, I thought, and walked over to the game box still sitting on the table. I lifted the lid, and yup, the little golf ball was right there. I guess Dad had been eating divinity after all, although the golf ball probably would have tasted better.

“Okay, you’re off the hook,” I said, turning away quickly and heading back up the stairs to my room before my parents could see the half-embarrassed, half-relieved grin on my face.

The next morning, Dad came and sat down next to me on the hearth of the wood-burning stove where I was whittling a stick from a cottonwood tree.

“You know, the golf ball eating incident last night made me remember something very similar that happened to me when I was about your age,” he said.

“Did your dad eat your Christmas present?” I asked.

“Actually, yes,” he said.

“What’s wrong with this family?” I asked, shaking my head in dismay.

“No one knows,” Dad sighed. “Anyway, I must have repressed the memory until last night, when you accused me of eating your Christmas present…” 

... And then Dad proceeded to tell me a story so awful, it haunts me to this day. 

It was Christmas morning, and Santa had brought Dad a neat little boat to play with in the bathtub. It was powered by lighting a small wax candle that fit in a holder on top of the boat.

Dad was so excited to play with it that as soon as Christmas breakfast was over, he asked Grandma if he could take a bath. She happily agreed, thrilled that Santa had found a way to entice her son into the tub for a much-needed scrub down. Dad grabbed his new little boat off the dining room table and ran upstairs to fill the tub.”

The second he plopped down into the warm bath water, Dad realized he had forgotten the wax candle downstairs on the table. He yelled out, hoping someone would hear and come see what he was hollerin' about, and, a few moments later, Grandpa appeared at the door.

“What’s all the racket about, boy?” he asked, walking into the bathroom.

“I forgot the candle that fuels my boat downstairs on the table,” Dad said. “Could you fetch it for me?”

“I was just down there and I sure as shinola didn’t see any boat fuel on the table,” Grandpa said. “But this chewing gum I found there is pretty much the worst-tastin’ gum I’ve ever had!” He pulled a white, waxy blob out of his mouth and dropped it into a nearby wastebasket. “Why the heck would anyone put string in chewing gum?” he pondered, then turned and stomped out the door.

Dad’s jaw hit the floor. That wasn’t gum! Grandpa had chewed up his boat fuel! Dad leaped out of the tub and ran to the wastebasket to retrieve the discarded wax. He hoped it could be salvaged, but alas,  the chewed-up boat candle was beyond repair. 

The Christmas boat would never sail the treacherous waters of Dad’s bathtub. It ended up on a dust-covered shelf in Dad’s bedroom, where it stayed for the remainder of his childhood. 

---

“That’s a pretty awful story, Dad,” I said when he had finished. “No wonder you blocked it from memory.”

“Yes, it was traumatizing, but I did learn a good lesson — Never eat toys. They don’t taste good, and it upsets the children.”