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Engineers at Davisco Foods International Inc. wanted to incorporate mix-proof valves into their process controls for three new cheese vats at the company''s Jerome, Idaho, facility. Unfortunately, the PMOs did not recognize any block-and-bleed valves that could handle the cheese curds the system would have to deal with. Rockford, Ill.-based Sudmo North America Inc. accepted the company''s challenge to design a valve that could handle large particulate without clogging and then win regulatory approval for the design.

Our longtime Presidents Day group eventually adopted "The Reasonable Man''s Rules of Golf," which involve playing out-of-bounds as a lateral hazard, improving a really bad lie if no one is looking and using the 10-club-length penalty-drop option. Though this has made me a better person by teaching me to take the game less seriously, it has not ended rules feuds. We give each of our trips a name and etch it onto a gaudy trophy that someone (named Bill!) recently lost: the Dead Cat Open, the Arctic Open, etc. One year it became the F---It, I Did It Open, in honor of a memorable rules brouhaha, which included one very frank and productive talk, as they say in diplomatic circles. As we concluded a particularly competitive match one of our opponents hit an approach shot over a green into a palmetto bush. I looked at the lie and was sure we had won. But a couple of minutes later he hits a terrific shot to get up and down and tie the hole and the match. That night I make a point of praising his Tigeresque escape. "Sure it was a great shot," said one of the other guys. "Because he picked it up and pulled it out of the palmetto before he hit it." I was speechless. "What?" I said, looking at the offender. "F---it. I did it!" he said, and the tournament was named. WHERE NICETIES really take flight, however, is with pace of play, a major cause of golf-trip grief. In our group there used to be a guy named Herb (not his real name, because he can still get us on some good courses) who was a methodical person, to put it charitably. Herb''s pre-shot routine was a sort of tea ceremony that included wandering around without a club, tossing grass blades into the air, pacing from the nearest distance marker to his ball, putting his kiaspowertools glove back on and locating his clubs. I endured the ritual by chipping pine cones into the back of the cart or hawking balls. But one year at Amelia Island, when our balls were the same distance from the green, Herb crossed the line.