Author Archives: Woody

Make The Fresh Spaghetti Sauce

by Woody

Where I read it I cannot recall, but the lesson remains indelible: “Make the fresh spaghetti sauce.”

The anecdote was about a woman unexpectedly, and far too prematurely, widowed. Months later, she was walking in a park with a friend and, among chitchat, asked about dinner plans.

The friend nonchalantly said her husband that very morning had mentioned a craving for her homemade spaghetti sauce. But the day had gotten away from her without going to the store for fresh tomatoes and she didn’t feel like stopping on the way home. Sauce from a jar would suffice.

The two friends continued their strolling visit for a while when, out of the blue, the widow said softly, but with weighted feeling: “Make the fresh spaghetti sauce.”

As she was picking out fresh tomatoes at the grocery shortly thereafter, the friend realized the widow was not really talking about a homemade dinner. The wisdom had been about making the little extra effort for someone you love, whenever you have the chance, because that special person could disappear from you life — by death suddenly, yes, but also simply growing up and moving away.

In other words, bake a cake even if it’s not their birthday; play a board game or go on a walk when you’d rather read; take them to a concert you wouldn’t choose.

This past weekend, I made the fresh spaghetti sauce for my 33-year-old son by taking him to his first NFL game. This may seem surprising given that I was a sports columnist for three decades and you would surely imagine I had taken my son to countless pro football games over the years. As the maxim has it, the cobbler’s children go barefoot.

Truth be told, my son and daughter were so busy, busy, busy with their own sports games and running races growing up that there just never seemed time to go to pro sporting events together.

Also at play, however, is that when they were in their early teens I was rear-ended by a speeding drunk driver at the 2003 Super Bowl in San Diego. Nerve damage in my neck and hand forced me to leave sports writing. In fact, that was the last NFL — or NBA or Major League Baseball — game I attended because I have had no desire to not sit in the press box and not have the rush of deadline pressure.

What changed Sunday? The Cleveland Browns, my beloved team since boyhood and still, were playing the L.A. Rams in SoFi Stadium and for his birthday gift my son, who likewise bleeds burnt orange, wanted to go.

While I have covered a handful of Super Bowls, even more NBA Finals and a few World Series, I dare say this regular-season game instantly ranks as my all-time favorite because of my companion. Despite being conditioned to “no cheering in the press box,” I became hoarse from yelling and high-fiving and chest bumping my son through the first three and a half excitingly close quarters…

…before the Browns showed their true colors by boinking a game-tying PAT kick off the upright and promptly fell apart in trademark fashion to get blown out.

A Browns’ victory would, naturally, have been wonderful. All the same, my son and I could not possibly have had a more masterpiece day. As dyed-in-the-wool Brownies fans, there is even a certain charm in a fourth-quarter meltdown.

Indeed, I am so glad I made the fresh spaghetti sauce — even if it figuratively wound up spilled all over our brand-new throwback No. 32 Jim Brown jerseys.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Ball Drive Cannot Fail Thanks to Givers

by Woody

“The gift is to the giver and comes back most to him,” wrote the wise, and Santa Claus-bearded, Walt Whitman. “It cannot fail.”

Sometimes the gift that comes back is a sweet memory, as Joe Paul can attest after giving 10 basketballs to “Woody’s 2023 Holiday Ball Drive” for local disadvantaged youth.

Specifically, Joe gave Mikasa brand balls, recalling fondly: “When I was a little kid, I got a rubber Mikasa basketball every year for Christmas. I can still remember the squeaking noise the rubber made on the wood floor on the rare occasions I got to play indoors. Usually, I was on the outside courts or in my backyard counting down the final seconds and taking the last shot for the Lakers in the NBA finals. By Christmastime of the next year, I had worn off all the rubber nubs and the ball was perfectly smooth.”

This Christmas promises to create countless similar happy memories thanks to generous givers like Joe and…

Kym King donated 10 basketballs, as did a person wishing to be anonymously recognized as “Basketball Jones,” and 10 more came from the Lewis family of Jan, Tom, Cory, Emily, and Maddy.

Representing opposite bookends of life, Nick Sarris gave 41 assorted smiles “in memory of baby Sienna” and Rebecca Fox donated two soccer balls “in memory of Arlys Tuttle, a dear friend and the beloved matriarch of the Tuttle family” who passed away recently at age 101.

The Hein family of Chris, Julie, Audrey and Howie gave 25 assorted balls and Sally and Tom Reeder donated 13 more “including one basketball because that’s how the whole thing started.”

Terry and Draza Mrvichin gave five basketballs; Nita Perkins dished out four; Signe Smale gave three; Scott and Randi Harris assisted with two; and Dennis Jones, Susan Adamich, and Kris Young contributed one each.

Jim Parker, my ol’ sports colleague, donated six balls as did Lynn Kenton, noting: “I hope these will make it to some deserving kids and make a difference in their lives.” To which I reply: They will and they will.

“In memory of Tim Fahringer ‘Ute9’, a loyal friend and teammate, VHS Class of 1980,” an anonymous benefactor gave a baker’s dozen of smiles while Kelly Lanier gave five more in honor of her recently deceased mother, Judy Lautenschleger.

Alan and Kathy Hammerand kicked in three each soccer balls, footballs, and basketballs; Olivia Reddy-Daly assisted with the same triple trifecta; and so did Don and Lynne Steensma.

Paul and Patty Schuster contributed five basketballs in memory of Charlie Feyh, “an instrumental and influential coach for our youngest daughter during her formative years,” and five soccer balls “to acknowledge the great coaching our older daughter received at Buena High School.”

Jeff Barks passed in eight balls, Sherrie Basham gave six, James Barney added three, and Allison Johnson donated two basketballs in honor of “my brother Michael Demeter who played basketball for CLU and is a very generous person.”

Dave Stancliff, my first newspaper boss, donated one basketball, noting: “I still remember getting my first ball on my fifth Christmas and going over to a nearby school that had an outside court. It was just me that morning. I heaved the ball towards the hoop … and missed, and missed again and again, for what seemed like hours. When I finally made a basket, I was sold. This was going to be my game. Sadly, old age and injuries keep me off the courts these days, but I still play vicariously in every Lakers game.”

There is still time to become an MVP – Most Valuable Philanthropist – by dropping off new balls at Jensen Design & Survey at 1672 Donlon St., Ventura CA 93003 (weekdays from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. through Dec. 11); or have online orders shipped to this same address; and I will take it from there. The Thousand Oaks Goebel Adult Community Center also has a bin for ball collection.

And please be sure to email me at woodywriter@gmail.com about your gift so I can add your generosity to this year’s tally and thank you in an upcoming column.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Dinnertime Nancy Drew Mystery

by Woody

A common parlor game, with the number often varying, is to ask: “If you could invite any three people, real or fictional, to dinner who would they be?”

The other evening, on a date night out with my much-better-half, I would have given most anything, even my delicious appetizer crab cakes, to have Sherlock Holmes, Lieutenant Columbo, and Nancy Drew pull up chairs for I unexpectedly found myself trying to solve The Case of The Mystery Glass of Whiskey.

“Thanks, but that’s not for me,” I told the waitress as she set down a tumbler filled with amber nectar. Gesturing at my pint glass, still nearly full with a tasty local craft brew, I added: “I think you have the wrong table.”

Cheers on a recent date night with Lisa…

Smiling, she said someone had sent the drink to me.

“Who?” I asked.

Her smiled broadened, taking on a hint of mischievousness: “Sorry, I promised not to tell.”

“But I need to thank them,” I persisted.

“Too bad,” she said, her eyes dancing with delight to be part of the whodunit.

I scanned the restaurant but saw no one I recognized, albeit the mood lighting and too many backs of heads, which is all I saw of half the patrons, made identification rather difficult.

Naturally it would be rude to delay in sampling the gift, for surely the secret Samaritan was surreptitiously watching, so I raised the glass high with a “Sláinte” toast to my unkown benefactor and took a wonderful warm sip.

I am no whiskey connoisseur, although I have toured the Jameson Distillery in Dublin, Ireland – twice, including earlier this year – and if I had to guess I would have ventured it was indeed Jamo.

When, against all odds, the waitress confirmed my stab in the dark was correct, it was a valuable clue. You see, for a recent anniversary gift I gave some dear friends an Irish bottle of Jameson personalized with their names on the label. I looked around again, searching the room more thoroughly, certain I would spot them.

I did not. Surely they were hiding, laughing at my bafflement.

Alas, a quick series of exchanged texts with the husband convinced me that This Hound of the Baskerville was barking up the wrong tree and they were in fact not the playful culprits. By now my wife and I were amused to giggles trying to solve the mystery.

Out of the blue, an “Elementary, my dear Watson!” insight struck me. Yes, whiskey was the vital clue – but not Jameson specifically. Knowing next to nothing about whiskeys, I have more than once asked a close friend, whose blood has surely been aged in oak barrels, for his recommendations.

“Are you out for dinner tonight?” I texted him now, naming the restaurant.

Without delay my phone pinged. The reply was simply a dimly lit photo of my wife and me at our table. A moment later my friend sidled up to share a big laugh and two bigger hugs.

No whodunit was involved in a similar encounter a few days later, in a different restaurant, when my beloved dentist personally delivered a coastal microbrew to me, also with a smile and some shared words. Best of all, he didn’t add a shot of Novocaine to make it a boilermaker.

Between these boozy bookend encounters, at yet another local eatery, a friend in my wider circle dropped by my table to say hello, sans largesse libation. But here’s the important lesson: spirit, not spirits, is what truly matters, for her impromptu visit warmed my chest ever as much as a mystery whiskey.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Holiday Ball Drive Tips Off Again

by Woody

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, annually for more than two decades, I always gave thanks for – and to – Jim Cowan for always helping get my Holiday Sports Ball Drive off to a fast-break start.

Always, Jim donated ten basketballs because the sport was especially dear to him. He had played on an undefeated CIF championship team at Ventura High under legendary coach Bob Tuttle in 1949; on two state championship teams at Ventura College; at Whittier College; and, while serving in the military, on the Far East Army All-Star Team.

Always also, Cowan, a longtime former Ventura County Superintendent of Schools, dedicated his gift basketballs, often posthumously, in honor of coaches and teachers and other individuals who had played important roles in his life.

Jim passed away four years ago at age 87, but his spirit remains an indelible part of the ball drive thanks to his widow, Ann, who has continued to donate 10 basketballs each year in his honor.

“I remember my dad telling me a story about playing basketball and a young boy came up and wanted to play,” Janice Heverling, Jim’s daughter, shared with me. “Dad said, ‘Sure,’ and when they were done playing, he asked the boy if he had a basketball. The boy said, ‘No,’ and my dad gave him the ball they were playing with and said, ‘Well, now you do!’ And that’s why he loved your ball drive so dearly.”

This lovely remembrance perfectly echoes my own encounter, more than 25 years ago, that was the inspiration for starting my ball drive. At a youth clinic former Ventura College and NBA star Cedric Ceballos awarded autographed basketballs to a handful of lucky attendees. Leaving the gym belatedly afterward I happened upon a 10-year-old boy who had won one of the prized keepsakes…

…which he was now dribbling dribbling dribbling on a blacktop outdoor court, and shooting baskets with, all while perhaps imagining he was Ceballos with the game clock ticking down to the final buzzer.

Meanwhile, the real Ceballos’ Sharpie signature was quickly wearing off.

Curious why the boy had not carefully and protectively carried the trophy basketball home to put safely on a bookshelf, I interrupted his playing to ask.

“I’ve never had my own basketball,” he answered nonchalantly between game-winning shots.

That Christmastime, thinking of that boy – and other boys and girls who do not have their own basketballs to shoot, soccer balls to kick, footballs to throw – Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive was born. Then, and each year since, you dear readers have responded like MVPs – Most Valuable Philanthropists – by donating avalanches of balls for local kids in need of an assist.

Are you up to the challenge once more, perhaps even topping last year’s total of 1,038 young smiles? If so, drop off new balls (no batteries required!) at a Boys & Girls Club, YMCA, Toys For Tots, or similar program. The organizations will pass them into deserving hands.

You can also drop off new balls (weekdays, except Thanksgiving and Black Friday, from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. through Dec. 11) at Jensen Design & Survey at 1672 Donlon St. near Target on Telephone Road in Ventura; or have online orders shipped to this same address; and I will take it from there.

Please email me about your gifts at woodywriter@gmail.com so I can add your generosity to this year’s ball tally as well as acknowledge you, with a dedication to a loved one if desired, in a future column.

As Jim Cowan once told me, “It feels golden to help others.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Spice of Life is Tastiest Ingredient

by Woody

The key ingredient in any dish, from fancy cordon bleu to backyard barbecue, that makes taste buds dance the happiest and sing the loudest is not a mystery spice, rare herb, or secret sauce, but rather, simply, the company with whom you eat.

Indeed, enjoyed with the right person or gathering, a nothing-special hot dog surpasses a perfectly prepared meal in a restaurant gastronomique in Paris.

Which is why, although I am not a regular chowhound of hot dogs, one of my all-time favorite meals was a stadium frankfurter. Actually, about 25 of my favorite meals, that being the ballpark number of Ohio State football games I went to during my elementary days alongside my two older brothers and dad.

The sweetest condiment for a hot dog is the joy of special company.

Frankly speaking, in a blind taste test those ol’ Horseshoe Stadium hot dogs would probably have ranked dead last. Eating them blindfolded would have actually been a good idea because, unlike the Buckeyes’ scarlet-and-grey home jerseys, the wieners, plucked from pots of murky water that looked less potable than a swamp, were grey only.

Add in stale buns, depleted condiment stations, and a Sir Edmund Hillary-like climb back to our upper-deck seats, by which time the wieners were cold dogs, and you had prison-like grub…

…unless you were sandwiched between your two big brothers in the bleachers, in the spring of your life, in glorious Midwestern autumn, in which case it became the standard against which I still measure all hot dogs.

Another of my most memorable hot dogs also involves my oldest brother. It was in New York City, long ago, from a vendor cart. Strolling away, my brother took his first bite and – Splat! – the entire web of sauerkraut fell onto the sidewalk that was grosser than the witch’s brew-like hot dog water in Ohio Stadium.

Rather than turn on his heels and ask the vendor for a replacement bale of sauerkraut or, perish the thought, eat the hot dog naked – let me rephrase that; eat a naked hot dog – he invoked the five-second rule; scooped up the sauerkraut, now flavored with a sullied sundry of sidewalk spices; and gobbled it up with the gusto of Joey Chestnut in Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Ever since, every hot dog I’ve eaten always tastes a little better knowing it isn’t topped with sidewalk-seasoned sauerkraut.

Based on pedigree, it’s hard to top a Dodger Dog. Fittingly, one of my most savored hot dogs was in the Dodger Stadium press box dining room, during a seventh-inning stretch, when my writing idol Jim Murray joined me for a quick chew and chat.

All this thinking about hot dogs was stirred this Halloween when I had another fantastic frank that joined my grand slams of memorable meals. Just as candy tastes better when it’s earned by trick-or-treating on foot, it is similarly true for hot dogs I can now attest.

In addition to sweets for kids, for the past 30-plus years Scott, a friend of a friend, has given out hot-off-the-charcoal-grill chili dogs, complete with all the fixings – sans, thankfully, sidewalk sauerkraut – to adults. Youngsters are welcome to both treats, adding up to few hundred hot dogs served annually.

Scott’s enthusiasm and charisma, assisted by a fun giant wiener hat and aided further by free margaritas and full-size beers, make his hot dogs unforgettably delicious and worth the trip across town.

To be perfectly frank, these neighborhood-famous chili dogs, with the fellowship of my brother-of-a-friend Ken added in, were darn near the equal in my memory to those battleship-grey cold stadium hot dogs of long ago.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

More Fun than Barrel of Monkeys

by Woody

Some things boggle the mind, such as how in the world is Bingo not already in the National Toy Hall of Fame? By the way, Boggle rightly is not enshrined.

Sand, if you can believe it, was inducted in 2021. Stick (2008) and Cardboard Box (2005) are also in the NTHF at the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, NY.

Don’t get me wrong, boxes sometimes provide more fun than the toys that come inside. And don’t shake a Stick at Sand being a blast, although whacking a Stick at a sandcastle is a lot more fun than Barrel of Monkeys, which, for good reason – the reason being it’s boring – is not in the HoF.

And yet I dare say Barrel of Monkeys is more deserving than Rubber Duck (2008), which, in my book, is the most undeserving of all 81 inductees to date. Speaking of books, how did it take 11 years longer for Coloring Book (last year, along with long-overdue Matchbox Cars) to go in than a yellow rubber ducky? Shame on the Fame!

The NTHF’s 1998 inaugural class had no slouches – nor even a Slinky, which had to wait two years before slinking in. The original HoF superstars were Barbie, Crayola Crayon, Erector Set, Etch A Sketch, Frisbee, Hula Hoop, Lego, Lincoln Logs, Marbles, Monopoly, Play-Doh, Radio Flyer Wagon, Roller Skates, Teddy Bear, Tinkertoy, View-Master, Duncan Yo-Yo. Hard to argue with any of them except View-Master in my view.

The Class of 2024, expected to be three strong, will be announced Nov. 9 and my 12-year-old-self has a bone to pick with most of the 12 finalists.

Bop It debuted in 1996 and is honestly more fun after the batteries die and thusly becomes a colorful plastic Stick good for smashing sandcastles or playing fetch with your dog.

Cabbage Patch Kids were born in 1979 and should be banned from any HoF as surely as Pete Rose for forcing parents to gamble on which toy store to stand in line for hours on end hoping to find a CPK doll on the shelves.

I think Library Card should be nominated instead of Choose Your Own Adventure Gamebooks. Connect 4 similarly gets no high-fives from me, nor my vote, as the colored disks are best used as a replacement when a Checkers piece (2003) gets lost.

“Nay!” too for Ken, who is no G.I. Joe (2004); likewise, Little Tikes Cozy Coupe is no Big Wheel (2009); and Slime is no Play-Doh, so I again say, “No-go!”

Baseball Cards are out because they are now kept in protective sleeves, not played with, and certainly not clothespinned into the spokes of a Bicycle (2000) to make it roar like a motorcycle.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is too broad of a nominee, encompassing action figures, TV shows, movies, comic books, video games and much more, so thumbs-down to Turtlemania even though my adult son will be as angry as red-bandanna-ed Raphael.

The Nerf Toys’ arsenal is also cumbersome, but the original 1970 Nerf Ball alone should have long ago joined its cousin the inflatable Rubber Ball (2009) for bringing the playground safely inside without broken lamps, windows, and noses.

Helen of Troy was “the face that launched a thousand ships,” but Battleship is the game that sunk a billion Carriers (occupies five spaces), Battleships (four), Cruisers (three), Submarines (three), and hardest-to-find Destroyers (two)!

Make me King of Playtime and “You sunk my battleship!” wails and shouts of “Bingo!” will fill the air in the National Toy Hall of Fame, and flying Nerf Balls will too.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Murderous Tale in a Lovely Book

by Woody

Few things bring a newspaper newsroom to a total standstill, the common cacophony of keyboards and chatter suddenly swallowed by an eerie hush.

The Space Shuttle Challenger explosion did so when I was a young journalist; as did the two hijacked jetliners slamming into the Twin Towers 15 years later; as, most certainly, President Kennedy’s assassination did long before my writing career began.

When I tell you a similar pall blanketed the old Ventura Star-Free Press newsroom, back when it was on Ralston Street, back on an autumn day in 1987, that not only were voices hushed, but tears rolled, you will understand something truly dreadful had occurred.

Which is why, to be honest, when my colleagues began bemoaning with disbelief that Bob Hope had passed away, I was slightly puzzled. Granted, he was a Hollywood legend and this was sad news, yet the earth-shattering reaction seemed far beyond proportion.

The reason for my confusion was because I had joined the S-FP staff only a month earlier and, due to unfamiliarity, ignorantly misheard who died. The legend suffering a fatal heart attack, at age 69, was Bob Holt, a longtime reporter and columnist who was every bit as beloved as he was talented, a very remarkable twin feat.

In the ensuing days and weeks I perused back issues of the newspaper, kept in endless binders the size of couch cushions, only thicker, reading some of Holt’s columns. It was readily apparent why he was so admired by writers and readers alike.

For nearly four decades Holt wrote for the S-FP, beginning in Sports, later covering hard news, and also penning a slice-of-life column that frequently featured his two girls, Debby and Betsey, oftentimes to their chagrin.

I bring up Bob Holt today because his eldest daughter, Debby Holt Larkin, has written a new book titled “A Lovely Girl: The Tragedy of Olga Duncan and the Trial of One of California’s Most Notorious Killers.” It is part true-crime story, part memoir through the eyes of 10-year-old Debby in 1958, and fully a page-turner.

Debby will return to her hometown to talk about her book, and about her dad for he is interwoven throughout, at two events: Saturday, Nov. 4, at 10 a.m. inside Ventura City Hall, formerly the courthouse where the salacious trial took place, a trial Bob Holt covered; and Sunday, Nov. 5, at 2 p.m. in E.P. Foster Library.

The poet Robert Frost famously said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” As surely as the account of Olga’s murder, she being a newlywed nurse who was seven-months pregnant, made my eyes spill over, so too did the lovely closing pages with young Debby and her father and two surprise tickets to a Dodgers game, thus proving Mr. Frost correct.

“When it finally came time for me to write that scene, I was very emotional,” Debby shared with me, “which surprised me a little because I’d been thinking about it for so long. I did the draft in one sitting. The words just flowed with tears streaming down my face. By the time I wrote that last sentence, I was sobbing. To this day, I can’t go to a professional baseball game without thinking about my dad at some point – bad call, terrific play. And when they sing ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game,’ it still makes me tear up. He always sang it at the top of his lungs!”

Another song, despite the chronicled tragedy, comes to happily mind page after page: Bob Hope singing, “Thanks for the memory…”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Measuring Door is a Time Portal

by Woody

“Don’t paint this door,” I told the foreman of the painting crew and, for good measure, attached a sticky note to it: “Please! Don’t Paint Door!”

So you can imagine my reaction a few workdays later upon seeing the door, pintles removed from its hinges, leaning against a wall and freshly painted white as a cumulus cloud. Thundering mad was I with “#$@&!” being my newspaper-friendly reaction.

There is a very good chance you have in your home a similarly prized door – or wall. Specifically, a Measuring Door or Measuring Wall where you mark the rising heights of your children.

The Measuring Wall when I was growing up was actually not in our home but in my great aunt’s kitchen. Her given name was Elizabeth, which became Libby, which to my dad was Aunt Libby, which when he was little came out Aunt Wibbie, which stuck and was what my three siblings and I called her.

We visited Wibbie a few times a year and always she would march us into her kitchen where, one by one, we pressed our backs against the floral wallpapered wall near the refrigerator, wallpaper that still chronicled the growth of the small boy who became our towering dad.

“Stand up tall,” Wibbie would say, herself short by any measure, her directive as unnecessary as telling a kid to “eat your ice cream” because kids always want to be as tall as possible when being measured. As we assumed the posture of Buckingham Palace guards, she would mark our new heights, and the date, in pencil, the point always newly sharpened.

Just as one piece of broken tile is not much to look at, one measuring mark is nothing special – but put many together and you have a beautiful mosaic. Alas, you cannot very well pack up and move a kitchen wall, so when Wibbie passed away our mosaic was surely peeled off or painted over by new homeowners.

You can, however, relocate a door quite easily. And so it is that The Measuring Door for my daughter and son moved with us to a new house during their mid-childhoods, their heights from toddlerhood until they stopped growing at ages 17 and 19, respectively, recorded like clockwork – or, rather, calendar-work – twice a year on their birthdays and half-birthdays, a time-lapse image of two human saplings becoming trees.

Indeed, the pencil markings echo a tree’s growth rings that are broadest near the center of the trunk because the early stage of life is when timber grows most rapidly. Similarly, the distance between growth markings on a Measuring Door or Wall are widest during teenage years.

A tree’s growth rings also tell the story of rain and sunshine with thicker rings, drought and hardship with thinner ones. Growth markings likewise tell this story: that the little brother passed his big sister in height when he was 14 and she was 17, thanks to his biggest one-year surge of five inches; that her biggest leap was at age 12; that she eventually reached 5-foot-10, in thick socks, while he continued to 6-barefooted-3.

When our Mona Lisa of a door was reinstalled you can understand my elation upon discovering that a mustache had not been painted on it after all. The painter instead had taken great care to create a fresh white perfect frame around the priceless pencil marks, marks that now include four-year-old granddaughter Maya and in short time will be joined by her sister, Auden, not yet a year old, and newborn cousin Amara.

Our Measuring Door has become a Family Tree.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Cooking Up Some Kitchen Sink Soup

by Woody

“This is delicious,” I told my daughter. “Where’d you get the recipe?”

“It’s my own,” she answered. “I basically just clean out the refrigerator and call it Kitchen Sink Soup because I put everything in it but the kitchen sink.”

Similarly, here is a Kitchen Sink Column of notes and quotes and other stuff…

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I don’t know about you, but bumper stickers never influence how I think about anything – except, sometimes, uncharitably about the driver.

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“I have a burning question,” column reader Albert Rodriguez recently wrote me and before proceeding I was worried he had misfired an email intended for his urologist. He continued: “What is the proper order – reading the book first or watching the movie adaptation?”

As with whether toilet paper should roll over or under, there is only one acceptable answer: book first! If an author oftentimes does not know where a book will go while writing it, a reader most certainly should not know ahead of time.

John Steinbeck’s “Joyous Garde” writing cabin.

Also, while it is irrefutably true the book is always better than its movie adaptation – prove me wrong! – there is great satisfaction in having already read the book and thus being able to say afterwards, with conviction and even a trace of scorn, no matter how terrific the movie: “The book was better!”

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Speaking of books, I am reminded of this observation from writer Donna Talarico: “Simply put, I love books. I own so many. Many of which I have not read (yet). I just need to have them. On shelves. In piles. In random conference tote bags. Paper magazines and newspapers too. Some call it clutter. I call it cozy. It’s comforting to know I am surrounded by pages of stories. And, thus, by storytellers.”

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Oh, yes, as for the TP roll – over, always!

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Driving past as a kid was shooting baskets the other day reminded me of this: One can never leave a practice court without swishing your final shot, a long one at that, and usually with Chick Hearn’s voice in your head counting down the final seconds to the buzzer.

Ditto for leaving a golf driving range without hitting a final shot straight and true, no matter how long it takes.

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A number of my column readers have asked, as mentioned here a few weeks back, why the Woodburn abode is nicknamed “Casa Joyous Garde.”

It is in honor of John Steinbeck, who, at his summer home in Sag Harbor, NY, in the backyard overlooking the gorgeous cove below, had a tiny hexagonal writing cabin he named “Joyous Garde” in honor of Sir Lancelot’s castle.

Since our house is slightly larger than Steinbeck’s 100-square-foot castle, we added “Casa” – although to be honest, in light of Steinbeck’s home recently selling for $13.5 million, his shed-sized Joyous Garde alone is likely more pricey than our entire castle.

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Tragically, these words by Mr. Steinbeck remain as true today as when he wrote them: “All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.”

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Speaking earlier of storytellers, this wisdom comes from the late, great British author Henry James: “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”

I also love this sentiment from singer and composer Melanie DeMore: “Every day I wake up and think, ‘Who am I going to hold up in song.’ ”

The final ingredient in today’s Kitchen Sink Soup: A reminder to be sure to sing to someone, perhaps even yourself, today.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Caught in a Catch-22 Situation

by Woody

Johnny Carson, doing his Carnac the Magnificent character on “The Tonight Show” many years ago, memorably gave the clairvoyant answer, “Catch-22.” He then opened the sealed envelope and read aloud the question within: “What would the Dodgers do if hit 100 pop flies?”

The joke, hilarious then, would land flat this season with The Boys In Blue having just become only the eighth team in major league history to win 100 games in three consecutive seasons. Moreover, excising the 2020 season that was shortened by COVID-19, the Dodgers have now reached triple-digit wins in their last four full seasons.

Anyway, I found myself in a funny (in hindsight) Catch-22 situation the other day that eventually turned me Dodger Blue in the face. It was regarding a certificate of deposit that had just matured. Despite being with an online bank, to keep the CD from automatically rolling over I was required to make my withdrawal by phone.

After an eternity in the call queue listening to the musical equivalent of Ambien, a representative finally asked for my full name and account number, then had a few more questions.

“Mr. Woodburn, for security purposes, what’s your date of birth? The last four digits of your social security number? Mother’s maiden name?

He was just beginning.

“Mr. Woodburn, what’s your mother’s mother’s sister-in-law’s mother’s maiden name?”

Me: “Ummm…”

Rep: “Lets try a different question, Mr. Woodbum. Who was the first concert you attended?”

Me: “Yes, The Who.”

Rep: “Very clever, Mr. Woodbury. What was the model of your first car and which of the nine photo squares is it touching?”

Me: “I’m talking to you on the phone, not looking at a computer screen.”

Rep: “Well then, tell me: Are you a robot, Mr. Woodstone?”

Me: “No.”

Rep: “A nonstop train leaves Chicago for Philadelphia traveling 60 mph. Another train leaves Philadelphia heading to Chicago at 40 mph. In what city will they pass each other?

Me: “I have no idea.”

Rep: “Perfect, Mr. Woodberry. If you’d gotten that right I’d know you were an AI bot.”

(The remainder of the transcript is cross-my-heart true)

Me: “Can I please cash out my CD?”

Rep: “Not yet, Mr. Woodburn. One final question. I need to send you a text with a security code – is blah-blah-blah your phone number?”

Me: “No, that’s a landline we no longer have. My cell number is blah-blah-blah.”

Rep: “That’s not the number we have listed.”

Me: “I understand that, so please change it to…”

Rep: “As I said, Mr. Woodsworth, I can’t do that without texting you the security code.”

Me: “But you can’t text it to a landline. Use this number I’m calling your from.”

Rep: “Mr. Woodshed, I can only send a text to the number we have on file.”

Me: “How about you email the code to me.”

Rep: “I’m not authorized to do that.”

Me (frustration rising like a home run off Mookie Betts’ bat): “Will you please transfer me to your supervisor?”

Rep: “It’s been a pleasure to help you today, Mr. Woodpile. I’ll transfer you right now…”

The line went dead.

A second phone call was placed, summer turned to autumn while I was on hold, and when my at-bat finally came I swung for the fences: “I’d like to update my phone number.”

Rep: “No problem, Mr. Woodburn.”

Me (happy dancing while the change is successfully made): “Since I have you here, I’d like to cash out my CD.”

Rep: “Of course, Mr. Woodchuck. For security reasons, if two nonstop trains leave Los Angeles and New York…”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.