Author Archives: Woody

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…

*

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

*

“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!”

*

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.”

*

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

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.”

*

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.

*   *   *

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…”

*   *   *

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.

Shower Thoughts of Thoreau

by Woody

A cliché, overworn to threads, has it that something really boring is “like watching paint dry.”

While I have never felt obliged to test the truth of this adage, in my experience watching someone paint can be the diametric opposite of dull. An artist at work on a canvas, or a person painting a wall with a hand so steady he or she doesn’t need painter’s tape to protect the ceiling and baseboards, can be quite spellbinding.

Indeed, when admirable skill is involved, I can sit for a good long while watching a master at task in most any endeavor. I once watched, totally entranced for an hour, a bricklayer methodically and expertly erect a wall – tall and square and handsome.

Shortly thereafter, by coincidence or perhaps serendipity, I came across a passage by Henry David Thoreau that resonated beautifully. Thoreau has a way of doing that. This time it was in “Walden: or Life in the Woods,” specifically in Chapter 13 titled “House-Warming,” where he descriptively wrote in part:

“When I came to build my chimney I studied masonry. My bricks being second-hand ones required to be cleaned with a trowel, so that I learned more than usual of the qualities of bricks and trowels… I filled the spaces between the bricks about the fireplace with stones from the pond shore, and also made my mortar with the white sand from the same place… I was so pleased to see my work rising so square and solid by degrees, and reflected, that, if it proceeded slowly, it was calculated to endure a long time.”

“Casa Joyous Garde,” as our Woodburn abode has been nicknamed, is currently undergoing its own house-warming, to use Thoreau’s hyphenated spelling – or, rather, a modest house-remodeling. And so it is that I watched Thoreau build a chimney “rising to the heavens,” as he noted – or, rather, Adan build two glass-block walls rising to the ceiling for a walk-in shower.

Instead of second-hand bricks, Adan used brand-new blocks, each roughly 8 inches square by 4 inches thick. The blocks, it turns out, are not quite uniform in size, thus adding a degree of difficulty in making the walls flat and true with each horizontal row perfectly level.

Accomplishing this required deftly altering the spaces between – a little extra mortar when the blocks were a tad smaller than their neighbors; slightly less mortar when they were a smidgen larger; with the end work pleasingly rising so square and solid by degrees.

Even watching Adan mix his own stone-white mortar was to witness an artisan at his craft. Much like a baker kneading bread, alternately adding a touch more flour or a sprinkle of water, until achieving the ideal consistency and elasticity, here a texture was required smooth enough for spreading mortar – called “buttering” in mason-ese – onto the blocks, yet thick enough to hold form.

Like Thoreau’s chimney, the glass walls with an adjoining rounded corner proceeded slowly to rise, 84 blocks in all, until reaching a height of nine feet. It is now easy to reflect that it was calculated to endure a long time. Indeed, after the mortar hardened fully, Adan pounded on his handiwork with the heel of his fist – Thump! THUMP! – so hard as to echo loudly, then smiled widely and said proudly: “It’s very strong! Very, very solid!”

Thoreau also wrote, “Do not hire a man who does your work for money, but him who does it for the love of it.” Adan displayed such a love for his work. Likewise, I loved watching him at it.

*   *   *

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.

Some Very, Very Short Stories

by Woody

“Simplify, simplify,” advised Henry David Thoreau, to which Ralph Waldo Emerson wryly, and wisely, replied: “One ‘simplify’ would have sufficed.”

On a similar theme, Ernest Hemingway is said to have once accepted a bet that he couldn’t write a complete story in a mere six words. Papa triumphed with this mini-masterpiece: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

For fun, I challenged some friends to write their own six-word stories of fiction or memoir. Here are some of their tiny tales…

“She had me with her smile.” By Mitch Gold.

By Steve Grimm: “I asked her, she said yes!”

Conversely, and darkly, by Debby Holt Larkin, author of “A Lovely Girl” and the daughter of the late, great Bob Holt who chronicled this column space long ago: “Wife ran off … need your shovel.”

Even more darkly, a six-word historical novel by Chris Barney: “Rats had fleas. Millions died painfully.”

More happily, by Ethan Lubin: “Former students visited. Made my day.”

“Ignored warning signs, at great peril.” By Joe Garces.

“Caesar had the best,” noted John Yewell: “ ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Of course in Latin it’s only three words.”

“The light is darkness. Oh, Oppenheimer.” By Karen Lindell.

 “Today, tomorrow and whatever comes next,” wrote John Collet and Susie Merry offered: “Small things can bring big happiness.”

Less happily, by Patrick Burke: “Last man down the trail, alive.”

“ ‘You run everyday?’ They are confused.” A mini-memoir by Lauren Siegel, a “streaker” who has run 8,737 consecutive days.

 “I patted her pillow. It’s empty,” wrote James Barney, while Mary Eilleen Distin offered: “He left, and now I’m happy.”

“I moved to NYC at 71.” By Kris Young.

Jeff McElroy flipped the script on Hemingway’s heartbreaking micro-novella, turning it into a much happier one – and in only five words: “Free: Baby shoes, well-worn.”

Seeking even further simplicity, I posed a second challenge of brevity: Write a happy story in only four words…

“I love you, too,” wrote Chulwon Karma Park.

Kathy McAlpine and Betsy Chess both identically authored a classical super small storybook: “Lived happily ever after!” while Allyson McAuley added a slight twist: “They lived, happily, peacefully.”

“Peace love rock roll,” wrote Dick Birney while Carrie Wolfe offered: “Life is unexpected love.”

“The grandkids came over!” wrote Toni Tuttle-Santana and E.Wayne Kempton echoed: “Good to be Grampy!”

By Alison Smith Carlson: “Julie’s cancer was cured.”

In a sequel to his earlier six-word story, or perhaps a prequel, James Barney wrote: “She woke beside me.”

“The cruise is booked!” wrote Karen Biedebach-Berry and Julie Chrisman offered another tale of the sea: “Today I went Paddleboarding!”

Susie Merry wrote a sweet story, “I ate some chocolate,” and John Brooks served up a similar theme for readers’ consumption: “I ate some cannoli!”

“I got over it,” wrote Shaka Senghor and I, for one, want 1,000 more words.

Cindy Hansen wrote, “Hike trees bees breathe,” while Tom Koenig similarly offered: “Warm water beach sand.”

In an inspiring mini-memoir, Todd Kane wrote: “Been sober since 1976.”

“Because she was brave.” By Hannah McFadden.

“We are all together,” wrote Mike Weinberg-Lynn while Robin Harwin Satnick offered: “We happily adventured together.”

“9 o’clock starting time,” wrote Rodney Johnsen, Sr. in a story that may turn less happy by the third tee.

“Fireplace book cooking wine,” wrote Kathleen Koenig while Vicki Means offered: “Feeling safe and sound.”

“Autumn air smells earthy!” By Lisa Barreto.

Julie Hein wrote, “Gave birth; heart grew,” while Edie Marshall also offered a love story: “Found Chuck. Got married.”

Lastly, by yours truly: “Column written for me.”

*   *   *

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.

Harold & Kumar Go To The Animal Shelter

by Woody

The email began with a warm greeting, even buttered me up a little which is a familiar approach with favor requests, before getting to the main point of pitching a column topic.

The solicitor next mentioned her title, board president of the Humane Society of Ventura County, as if that would impress me and sway my keyboard into benevolence. Taking no chances, Sheila Kane McCollum tried to play on my emotions by introducing me to Kumar and Harold.

Unlike the movie “Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle” and its two sequels, this storyline is not a comedy (although it does feature a buddy road trip). Rather, it begins with a neglect case involving two adult dogs and a pair of puppies. The owners, when visited, agree to surrender the furry four-legged foursome to the HSVC in order to give them all a better opportunity for re-homing.

Shortly after their arrival at the shelter, the two puppies, dubbed Harold and Kumar by the caring staff, became lethargic with pale gums—symptoms of Parvovirus, a highly contagious disease that can prove fatal. Testing came back positive and because HSVC does not have a veterinarian on site around the clock, H & K were transferred to Horizon Veterinary animal hospital for the intensive care they required.

Following the diagnosis it was necessary for all HSVC personnel coming into contact with H & K to wear full Personal Protective Equipment, then sanitize and decontaminate afterwards, as if they were in the ICU treating COVID patients. Similar health safety protocol continued at the animal hospital where Harold remained for six days, and Kumar for more than two weeks, while receiving antibiotics and medication to treat the Parvovirus, as well as IVs for hydration and feeding before finally being able to take solid food.

Such medical attention is expensive, Shelia told me. All told, in fact, Harold and Kumar received more than $15,000 of care—all covered by the Humane Society of Ventura County. Located on four bucolic acres in Ojai, the non-profit organization relies on donors (go to HSVC.org to give) in order to live up to its mission of ensuring the welfare of local animals.

It is no small mission. The HSVC offers on-site shelter and adoption, low-cost spaying and neutering, vaccines, ID chips, emergency services that include animal rescue teams and disaster preparedness, even a free pet food pantry. Mobile vaccination clinics and pet food pantries are also offered. Furthermore, staff provides humane education through classroom visits during the school year and at youth camps in the summer.

Sheila wanted me to write about all this, and more, that the HSVC does. And then, with a final tug so hard as to snap a rock climber’s rope, much less a heartstring, she told me that because of the high cost and amount of woman- and manpower required, at many shelters Harold and Kumar might have been euthanized.

Thanks to the HSVC, however, “Harold & Kumar Go To The Shelter” has a happy ending. Indeed, both puppies now have a new lease—rather, leash—on lifewith adoption and new forever—rather, pardon a second pun, fur-ever—homes in their futures.

I was personally blessed long ago to have had two rescue doggies—Mac and Sammy—who were every bit as adorable and loving as Harold and Kumar. All the same, I regretfully had to tell Sheila I couldn’t help her.

After all, considering that the menagerie HSVC cares for includes horses, I simply cannot run the risk of my column turning into a dog and pony show.

*   *   *

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.

A Most Beautiful Last Wish

by Woody

“Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads,” Henry David Thoreau wrote in his masterstroke book, “Walden: Or, Life in the Woods.”

I am not sure if Boris Romanowsky, father of one of my daughter’s dearest childhood friends and thus became my friend as well, ever read “Walden” and yet I imagine he owned a well-loved dog-eared volume. Certainly he shared a kindred zest for nature with Thoreau, as evidenced by Boris’ recent obituary that concluded with the most beautiful last wish of his:

“In lieu of flowers, please spend an afternoon in nature on an ‘easy hike’ and help a friend in need.”

Beautiful Harmon Canyon Preserve … photo by Visit Ventura

So it was that I honored a big man with a bigger heart, who died at age 65 after a lengthy and brave battle with cancer, by going for long walk. Instead of retreating into the woods for a year, as H.D.T. famously did, to see if he “could not learn what it had to teach,” I ventured into the Harmon Canyon Preserve for a couple hours of Outdoor Ed.

The first thing Harmon Canyon had to teach me is it is a gem right here in our backyard, as ruggedly beautiful as Walden’s acres are serenely so. Looking up heavenward from my dusty shoes, the sky on this day was blue jay-blue and dotted with the kind of clouds kindergarteners see as a menagerie of fluffy animals.

No imagination was required to see a hawk in the sky, soaring and circling high overhead, floating with wide wings motionless on an updraft that also carried a faint fragrance worthy of being bottled as perfume.

The gorgeous day deserved to be painted and framed, so perhaps I should not have been surprised to encounter a grey-bearded gentleman who had lugged his oil paints, brushes, small canvases, and portable wooden easel more than a mile up into the hinterland for a plein-air session.

“Are you just getting started?” I asked curiously, and also hopefully, for maybe I could view his work in progress on my return down the path later. Alas, he had been here much of the morning and into the early afternoon and was packing up.

“Would you mind showing me what you painted?” I followed up.

He did not mind at all and retrieved a canvas, about the size of a hardcover book, sandwiched between wooden panels like two protective slices of wheat bread. He removed the rubber bands holding the sandwich together, then displayed a truly fine landscape featuring a grouping of oaks behind and above a dry rock bed stream; the afore-mentioned postcard sky; and three ant-sized hikers in the distance.

“I’m still learning and just try to get a little better each time,” he said with a modesty that underrated his considerable talent. The wisdom in his attitude was as beautiful as his brushstrokes, for shouldn’t we all try to get a little better at something each day?

“There is something in the mountain air,” Thoreau also wrote, “that feeds the spirit and inspires.” Resuming my walk, I was inspired to look around with the imitative eye of an artist and thereafter saw oak trees blackened by the Thomas Fire, testament to the strength revealed in our scars; saw the friendly smiles of fellow hikers, testament that nature’s outward beauty brings out our inner beauty; saw flitting butterflies resembling petals in the wind.

The latter, especially, fed my spirit – testament that in lieu of giving funeral flowers I was receiving the gift of seeing wildflowers thanks to the last wish of a very kind friend.

*   *   *

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.

Part 2: Easy Listening In Former Speakeasy

by Woody

The worst seat in the house inside “Bill’s Place,” a former Prohibition era speakeasy in Harlem that once again features live jazz, would be better than the best seat in most any other venue.

My son and I, you see, sat in the back row – which was also the front row. As mentioned here last week, the off-the-beaten-path step-down brownstone apartment-turned-revived-nightclub is so shotgun-narrow that a single row of 11 mismatched wooden chairs and stools are backed up against the wall opposite the three-inch-high stage. So close are the seats that when I straightened my legs my feet literally rested onstage.

Standing room allowed another dozen patrons to enjoy the intimate performance by Bill Saxton & The Harlem All-Stars. Saxton is fittingly named for he plays the sax. Moreover, he has done so over the past five decades with the likes of such luminaries as The Duke Ellington Orchestra and The Count Basie Orchestra.

Bill Saxton doing his magic…

“Welcome to Bill’s Place,” said Saxton, the venue’s owner and namesake, and then our memorable evening was underway. Between songs, he regaled the assemblage with tales of nights long foregone, including about legendary songstress Billie Holiday who was discovered right here at age 17 in 1933.

Not even halfway into the 90-minute set, my cane chair had become tortuously uncomfortable, but that and 20 dollars – cash only; no secret password was required, however – was the price of admission. Both costs were bargains for the jam session was so steamy it threatened to peel off the wallpaper.

The intimacy of the room surely made the music sound better, but an equal pleasure was to watch the musicians at such rare proximity and behold Saxton, beads of sweat visible on his forehead just below the brim of his porkpie hat, rhythmically tapping his left foot as he played, his fingers masterfully commanding the keys and pearl buttons of his saxophone, a ring on his right pinkie twinkling like starlight.

To audit even closer and see his fingers flex and release, quick, slow, liquidly; see his cheeks change shapes and color; see his eyes not just close at times, but squeeze tightly shut, lost in the music, was spellbinding.

Similarly, thanks to the upright piano being pressed up against the wall, stage left, the pianist played with his back to the audience thus affording listeners the opportunity to watch his fingers deftly dance and slide and tickle the ivories. Meanwhile, far right on the stage, the blurred, rhythmic hands of the drummer were equally arresting to focus in on.

But most mesmerizing of all, to my eyes, was watching the upright bass player’s fingers strum and pluck the strings; strings that from merely five feet away seemed as thick as bungee cords – or chords, should I say?

What strength in those fingers! What grace, too, as they nimbly moved up and down the neck massaging the fingerboard. His hands, the knuckles enlarged from a billion lifetime notes, are surely as strong as a bricklayer’s yet his calloused fingertips somehow maintain the sensitive touch of a master safecracker’s.

“Easy reading is (darn) hard writing,” Nathaniel Hawthorne said, and music is no different. Hunched over his instrument, the (darn) hard effort of the bassist’s work showed in growing perspiration stains, but the result was easy listening.

“Find a hidden doorway and go inside,” a wise friend often reminds me before I travel. “That’s where you’ll find the truly magical experiences.” He was right once again, for to borrow from a Billie Holiday song, finding the out-of-the-way doorway of Bill’s Place was like finding “Pennies From Heaven.”

*   *   *

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.

Part 1: Small Audiences, Big Enchantment

by Woody

Recalling a handful of my all-time favorite concerts in this space last week, I made the knee-jerk mistake of focusing on big venues – baseball stadiums, basketball arenas, outdoor bowls – and thus remembered The Who, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, and James Taylor while suffering temporary amnesia of two unforgettable musical gigs in small settings.

Small is actually a sizeable overstatement. My daughter and I saw award-winning songstress Amber Rubarth perform in a private “house concert” in Seattle, in a suburban living room, in front of 24 attendees filling one couch, a loveseat, an array of dining room and kitchen chairs, and some split-level stairs.

With no mic and amplifier required, Amber’s voice was twice as pleasant as on recordings and three times more so than in a big venue. Before songs, she shared personal stories behind the lyrics; after songs, she asked audience members about themselves. It wasn’t a concert so much as an intimate party.

Even more intimate was a night of music I enjoyed with my son in New York City, in Harlem specifically, more precisely in “Bill’s Place,” a former speakeasy in the 1920s and ’30s that features live jazz again since its revival nearly two decades ago.

“Bill’s Place” is off the beaten path, a fair hike from the nearest subway stop, eventually down a narrow block on West 133rd Street – long ago known as “Swing Street” because it was swinging and jamming on both sides with jazz, but is now so quiet you can hear birdsong.

Address number 148 is a brownstone apartment, shotgun narrow, with a step-down entrance guarded by a shoulder-high black wrought iron fence. Only a modest red awning featuring “Bill’s Place” in small white script lets you know you have arrived.

Closer inspection affords two more telltale signs: a plaque on the brick facade, just to the left of the black front door, reads “Harlem Swing Street / Jazz Singer / Billie Holiday / Discovered Here in 1933 / Bill’s Place Speakeasy” and above it is a framed black-and-white photo of the legendary singer.

Back in those days, during the Prohibition years, bathtub gin was served here in coffee cups so that when police raids came the cups served as decoys. Ironically, these days the bygone nightclub serves no alcohol – although patrons are welcome to bring their own spirits.

Back during my nights and days as a sports columnist, I sat courtside at Lakers games and saw Pete Sampras from the first row; sat two feet behind the out-of-bounds back stripe of the end zone in Candlestick Park for a 49ers-Rams playoff game and walked inside the ropes while following Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods; and on and on; but I have never been nearer to the action than I was at Bill’s Place.

My son and I sat in the front row, which was also the back row because the time-capsule room was so narrow there was only one row of seating – eleven mismatched cane chairs and wooden stools, all backed up against the wall opposite the stage, the seats shoehorned so closely together that patrons’ elbows rubbed and their rear ends bumped. Additionally, there was standing room only off to either side of the stage for a dozen people.

We were so close to the stage, which by the way was only three inches high, that if I, at six-foot-four, straightened my legs out my heels would rest on it, albeit at the risk of tripping the star saxophonist – and venue namesake – Bill Saxton should he roam two steps forward.

To be concluded next week…

*   *   *

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.

The Birds “play a song for me”

by Woody

“What’s the greatest concert you’ve ever been to?” came the question and I might as well have been asked which of my two children or soon-to-be-three grandkids is my all-time favorite.           

Truth is, all five have their own color in my I Love You Most Rainbow. Similarly, I had to answer with a handful of hues in my Rainbow Of Concerts: The Who, Paul McCartney, Fleetwood Mac, James Taylor, Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers…

… and The Birds — not to be confused with The Byrds — who performed outside my bedroom window the other morning as dawn and I yawned ourselves awake. This concert began as a solo act, although I could not see the performer because the shutters were shut and I was too comfortable beneath the covers to get up and open them. Instead, I was like an orchestra judge listening to blind tryouts taking place behind a screen.

Mixing tweets and trills, whistles and chirps, sometimes repeating short melodies and other times seemingly creating long jazzy patterns on the fly — on the perch, rather — she sang and I listened. I say she, but of course in equal likelihood it was a he singing to attract a mate or claim territory. However, so beautiful and upbeat was this birdsong, I imagined it came from a common “swift” family member — specifically, the uncommon Taylor Swift.

My friend Scott, who wrote a book titled “Raptor Quest” about his successful pursuit to photograph all 53 species of raptors that fly in American air space, can identify most feathered friends with his ear ever as deftly as with aid of binoculars. I, on the other hand, could not tell if my winged warbler was a common Ventura sparrow, St. Louis Cardinal, California thrasher, Atlanta Hawk, American robin, or Philadelphia Eagle.

Nor could I help but wonder about the lyrics. With the morning recital coming on a Friday, maybe she was a loyal reader of my column and was complimenting that day’s 600 words? More likely, she was singing, “Time to rise and shine!” Or, perhaps, she was crowing, “Guess which early riser caught a worm! Would you like half?”

“No worm for me, thank you,” I wanted to say while offering, “Would you like some coffee?” But I didn’t know how.

I do know this: It is nearly impossible to start your day in a foul mood when a fowl sings good morning to you in a voice bright as a kindergartener’s first-day smile.

After a short while, the opening act ended — probably she had run through her complete repertoire, or else had to wing-pool the kids to school — and a different bird, with a different pitch and different rhythms, took center stage in a different tree and her (or his) song was equally beautiful.

In turn, she (or he) yielded to another solo serenader, then three or four more joined in to make it a jam session, and now I was fully transported back to summer days of yore; of running barefooted in my backyard chasing butterflies and grasshoppers; of summer vacations at a lakeside cabin in Ohio when I was a boy; of fishing at a pond with my Grandpa; all while the surrounding trees were alive with birdsong.

Too, the birds on this morning made me think of The Byrds and their song “Mr. Tambourine Man” and its lyrics “…play a song for me / I’m not sleepy and there’s ain’t no place I’m goin’ to…”

Yes, I was no longer sleepy as I enjoyed a memorable morning concert with no better place to go.

*   *   *

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.

Friend Turns Floodwaters Into Sunshine

by Woody

What a difference a day makes.

More accurately, what a difference a friend can make on a day. Such it was on recent back-to-back afternoons that for me were as polar as sunshine and flooding rain, figuratively and almost literally.

Let me begin with the rainstorm. My Much Better Half and I are having our kitchen and downstairs guest bathroom remodeled. “Don’t expect smooth sailing,” we were forewarned. This proved a portentous metaphor because returning from my daily run I opened the front door and found myself in need of a boat.

While I was out, a worker clogged and broke the toilet – a toilet that was not to be used for it was covered by protective plastic during painting – and it runneth over continuously for an hour or more. Floodwaters overtook the entryway, dining room, family room, and most of our primary bedroom. The tide even surged into the kitchen and garage.

With hardwood floors ruined, carpet too, my spirits the following day were soggy as well. When I went on a run that afternoon, for a rare time during my running Streak of 7,341 consecutive days, I felt like cutting my intended miles shorter. But then…

“Hi, Woody!” came a voice from behind my left ear, so close and loud and unexpected that I flinched. Because I was wearing earbuds, the greeter’s volume was purposely turned up to be heard. However, because of a dead battery I was not listening to music. As a result, I may have yelped as if startled by the sight of a slithering rattlesnake two strides ahead.

Instead, it was a friendly face that I have seen from time to time at Kimball Park. Brody, a handsome young man with sharp features and a soft smile, grew up in Ventura and is a recent graduate from UC Santa Barbara, my alma mater, where he was in the ROTC. I learned all this, and more, on previous occasions he joined me for a few miles when our running paths crossed.

This go-round-and-round around the soccer fields he updated me about his enlistment as an officer in the Army (the Irish meaning of Brody is “protector,” perfectly fitting for someone safeguarding our country); that he is now married; and is stationed in Texas, which he said has been so Hades-hot lately that this 80-degree Ventura day felt chilly to him.

And just like that, like morning dew under August sunshine, my soggy mood over “The Great Woodburn Flood of ’23” quickly evaporated. My heavy feet that felt like I was slogging through a muddy boot-camp obstacle course suddenly had Hermes-like wings on their ankles and the next two miles breezed by. Brody’s pace was surely slower than he wanted, mine a tad too fast, for isn’t friendship sometimes a compromise?

The last time I had seen Brody was in a rainstorm, the showers so steady that the park’s fields then coincidentally resembled my downstairs floors only 24 hours earlier. On that rainy day we had laughed as we splish-splashed along; this day now, I suddenly felt winsome and recalled a poem titled “On Friendship” by John Wooden:

At times when I am feeling low, / I hear from a friend and then

My worries start to go away / And I am on the mend

No matter what the doctors say – /And their studies never end

The best cure of all, when spirits fall, / Is a kind word from a friend

Indeed, a kind word – better yet, a couple miles of friendly conversation – can turn rain into sunshine.

*   *   *

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.