In the summer of 1965, I got my first job, mowing the greens at the local country club.

But it all started a couple of summers earlier, when I signed up for morning golf lessons through a summer youth recreation program. The morning lessons, with the pro at the country club, meant 15 or 20 kids hacking and slashing for a couple of hours.

The real fun, however, was in the afternoon, when a few of us would carry our old, chewed-up clubs through the woods, over the hillside, to find some isolated spots at the farther reaches of the country club.

We’d start hitting balls while keeping a wary eye out for golfers and the greenskeeper, who would always be driving around in his 1955 Jeep. If we heard the Jeep coming or spotted some golfers, we would duck into the woods or brush and lay low until the coast was clear.

Inevitably, the greenskeeper, Chuck, would catch us.

"You kids can’t play here," he would say. "You have to be members. Now go on home before somebody else sees you."

We would head into the woods, pretending to leave but would be right back on the course as soon as he was gone. We would get caught again and again throughout that summer. Chuck had a lot of patience, though, and never reported us to board members or our parents.

By 1965, I had saved enough money from allowance and by mowing lawns to have bought some clubs and afford a junior membership at the club. I golfed almost constantly after school was out but was most excited when Chuck asked me if I wanted a job mowing the greens every morning. I probably would have done it for nothing.

Today, courses have riding mowers with three sets of blades. It takes no time at all. Back then, you walked a two-foot wide greens mower back and forth across the green. It took about four hours to do nine greens.

It could get pretty boring, but in response I learned to take a lot of pride in the work. The mower left light and dark stripes on the green because of the way the rotary blades cut and the direction of the roller. I made sure the stripes were perfectly straight so that on days you mowed front-to-back the golfers could see the beautifully cut green as they approached.

Chuck was an easygoing guy, probably mid- to late-20s. He was local, did his stint in the Army after high school and came back to his hometown to take the job at the club his father had before him.

I found out later that Chuck was allowed to hire me because he had been diagnosed with MS and was showing the signs. He had trouble doing all the walking you had to do to mow the greens.

Two summers later, the summer of 1967 and just out of high school, I worked full time at the golf course on the other side of town, cutting not just greens, but also fairways and roughs. I cut a lot of grass that summer.

I met a guy, Dave, a couple of years older than me, who played a lot of golf at the course. We’d see each other often; he playing, me working. He was a golfer and I was OK, so we had some good matches, too.

He had just finished at a two-year college and seemed to be biding his time. "I’m getting drafted," he told me one day.

"Oh, man, what are you going to do," I asked.

He said he was leaving for basic in a few weeks and he would probably be going to Vietnam.

I wasn’t even 18 yet but felt relieved that I was planning to attend college and would have a draft deferment.

Dave did leave after a few weeks, and the next time I saw him, the following summer, he was playing golf. But it wasn’t the same.

His friends had rigged up a little seat and attached it to the side of a golf cart. That way somebody could drive up beside his golf ball and Dave could swing at it while sitting there. He couldn’t putt, though, because carts weren’t allowed on greens.

A land mine; both legs, mid-thigh.

What a great attitude he had then. But I heard it didn’t last. He became bitter and gave up trying to play golf.

I became bitter, too, about the war, and started wondering what we were fighting for. And, today, with a new war, I’m still wondering.

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Cary Brunswick is managing editor of The Daily Star. He can be reached at (607) 432-1000, ext. 217, or cary@thedailystar.com.