Alexa Stirling

A L E X A S T I R L I NG | V I

exams at Carlton College. There she expects to get her B.A. next year. She is 21. Glen, the eldest boy, is now 17 and is at the moment down in New Hampshire skiing at Mount Washington. He is in his third year at Glebe Collegiate (high school). Dickie, the youngest, is at home and is doing the things that most little boys of 10 usually do. They are a nice trio and no end of fun. I tell you these things so that you may have some idea of the interests which surround us. We go as most people hereabouts do, to our summer place for July and part of August and during the fall do a bit of partridge and duck hunting. It’s a good life and we have lots of fun in a quiet way. If you care to I would be glad if you would get word to the other judges who voted about the “Hall of Fame” and let them know how I appreciate having been chosen. Let me hear what goes on with you – and again many thanks.

Very Sincerely Yours Alexa Stirling Fraser 12 Lakeview Terrace, Ottawa Ontario, April 14, 1950

It would be Alexa’s last letter to Pop. He was admitted to Emory Hospital while the tournament was played, and he died shortly thereafter on October 15, 1950. Another of Alexa’s childhood mentors, Stewart Maiden, had already died November 4, 1948, at the age of 62. Father time was marching on, and Alexa felt it would be good to see her old neighborhood again. Besides, Glenna Collett Vare had also agreed to play for “old times sake.” The reunion would do everyone some good.

As Alexa made her way to Atlanta from Canada, her thoughts were flooding back to the grand old days at East Lake. She pictured the uncommonly handsome, robust Bob Jones taking a healthy cut at a ball with his hickory-shafted driver dubbed “Jeanie Deans.” Alexa had read and enthusiastically followed Jones’ triumphs culminating in his Grand Slam. She knew he had retired at the top and made the Warner Brothers films on “How I Play Golf.” She had read some of his books and was aware of his Augusta National dream course and the Masters Tournament. Jones’ Hollywood photo with his Palm Beach tan was a vivid memory. Of course, she could expect that since Bob was 48 years old now, he probably had a little grey hair and was likely a little heavier. He always was a little on the pudgy side anyway. But he’d no doubt have that illuminating smile, bronzed face and youthful spring in his step – you know, the way he triumphantly marched after his ball on the course. Why, he’d probably hurry up to her and she’d recognize him right away, even after all these years. He’d likely gotten more handsome and dignified with age. She just knew he was playing good golf and his life was a peach.

In truth, quite the opposite had occurred. For two years, Jones had experienced severe, continued suffering with throbbing pain in his arms and legs. Two surgeries did little to curb the pain. Bob relied first on one cane to prop himself up. Then he required two canes. These were followed by metal leg braces that made him shuffle

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