Rooting for “Howaboutthat!” Super Bowl

February 8, 2022 by Woody

Who are you rooting for in Super Bowl LVI/56?

It is a coin toss for me, not of indifference but rather different reasons of passion for the Los Angeles Rams and Cincinnati Bengals.

Let me begin with the Bengals because my rooting roots to them reach back to their very beginning as an expansion franchise in the American Football League in 1968. They were crummy that first season, losing 11 of 14 games, but something really “Crummy” happened the next year that made me pull for them nearly as dearly as I did my beloved Cleveland Browns.

Jimmy Crum, affectionately called Jim Crummy by us school kids, was a popular local TV news sportscaster famous for his trademark plaid sports coats and one-word catchphrase “Howaboutthat!”

As good luck would have it – mine, not Crum’s – he suffered a gallbladder attack or appendicitis or something else that required surgery and my dad performed it. As a thank you, Crum arranged for Pops to bring my two older brothers and me – ages 14, 12 and 9 – to the Bengals training camp at Wilmington College about 70 miles from our home in Columbus.

It was a “howaboutthat!” kind of day. Not only did we get to watch practice from the sidelines, we also ate lunch shoulder-to-hulking-shoulders with the players. Our seatmates included hotshot rookie quarterback Greg Cook; star running back Paul Robinson, who the previous season finished second in the MVP voting to Joe Namath; and menacing middle linebacker Bill Bergey.

While I remain a die-hard disappointed Browns fan, the Bengals were always my second-favorite team…

… until the Rams leapfrogged them two decades later.

While “no cheering in the press box” is an unwritten rule for sportswriters, I nonetheless rooted silently for the Rams while covering them from 1987 to 1994. After all, a winning team is a lot more fun to write about than a bungling one.

My favorite memory from those days happened during the 1989 season, during halftime of a game against the Atlanta Falcons, when legendary columnist Jim Murray asked me if he could sit next to me at lunch in the Anaheim Stadium press box.

“Y-y-yes, of course, M-M-Mr. Murray,” I stammered.

“Please, call me Jim,” my writing idol said and a friendship was born, although I never could bring myself to call him Jim.

Rams quarterback Jim Everett, who had thrown 31 touchdown passes the previous season and had not slowed down now, threw two TD spirals in the first half against the Falcons. In response to my gushing comments about Everett, Murray smiled wryly and knowingly and said in a don’t-get-carried-way tone: “He’s not Bob Waterfield yet.”

Waterfield, it should be noted, led the Rams to two NFL championships on his way to the Hall of Fame. Everett, it shortly turned out, was on his way to being a flash in the pan. It was a lesson, one of many from Murray, I have never forgotten.

Indeed, this season I have said more than once of the Bengals’ young star quarterback Joe Burrow: “He’s not Ken Anderson yet.” Anderson was the league MVP while leading the Bengals to their first Super Bowl victory in 1981.

Since I will not be in the press box at SoFi Stadium on Super Bowl Sunday, I will be openly rooting for the Rams…

…but, in my heart of hearts, I think I will be rooting a little louder for the Bengals; rooting like a 9-year-old kid; rooting for a “howaboutthat!” game where Joe Burrow may not be Bob Waterfield yet, but is Ken Anderson already.

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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.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Ode To The Junk Drawer

February 4, 2022 by Woody

The other day, after a minor mishap slicing a bagel, you might I think I cursed all the way to the bathroom medicine cabinet to get a Band-Aid.

Nope. I simply took two steps and opened the kitchen’s junk drawer.

Perhaps you call yours the “everything drawer” or “stuff drawer,” but by any name every household has one. It’s usually the drawer nearest the phone and for good reason.

Indeed, it is a little known fact that moments after Alexander Graham Bell completed his historic first telephone call – “Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you” – on March 10, 1876, he invented the junk drawer knowing he now needed a handy place to keep dozens of pencils (most with broken lead tips) and pens (good luck finding one that is not dried up) and paper (countless pads from realtors and plumbers) for taking down phone messages.

This junk drawer is even more packed than mine!

Likely, Mr. Bell also foresaw the black-hole-of-a-drawer storing a world tour of menus (Italian, Chinese, Thai, Mexican, Irish Pub…) for ordering takeout. Menus and pens, however, are only the tip of the iceberg.

A good junk drawer – even Martha Stewart’s or Felix Unger’s, I am certain – looks like a small town after a tornado strike. It is the Swiss Army Knife of drawers and in all likelihood has such a knife buried beneath the haphazard takeout menus. Suffice to say, with the contents of a junk drawer McGyver could escape any calamity.

Imagine a rabbit being pulled out of a magician’s hat and you get an idea of a junk drawer. Indeed, I actually found a rabbit’s foot in mine, dyed blue, probably a prize one of my kids won at the Ventura County Fair eons ago.

Actually, a good junk drawer is more like Mary Poppins’ magic carpetbag from which she miraculously unpacks a mirror, apron, packet of hairpins, throat lozenges, bottle of scent, larger bottle of medicine, heeled shoes, seven flannel nightgowns, measuring tape (for “taking measure” of one’s character), small folding armchair, large potted plant, tall floor lamp and taller hat stand.

For fun, lets look inside my own magic carpetbag. Take a deep breath, for commas are about the only thing I did not find although there were two children’s brightly colored (red and yellow) alphabet letters (Q and S) refrigerator magnets. The rest of the inventory includes…

…rubber bands paper clips three spools of thread blue white green sewing needles loose buttons loose postage stamps loose Band-Aids loose batteries (AA 9-volt AAA D – it’s a lottery if they still have juice or are dead) a handful of postcards received two scissors one shoelace nail clippers deck of playing cards one red checker loose birthday candles loose balloons Scotch tape packing tape near-empty roll of duct tape Elmer’s glue sunglasses old reading glasses ear buds iPod shuffle (thought to be lost) calculator (dead) James Taylor CD extra charger cord for cellphone…

…myriad single-serve packets of ketchup Sweet’N Low taco sauce soy sauce one set of takeout plastic cutlery jackknife for opening mail and packages enough pens to stock a shelf at Staples staples stapler pencils pencil sharpener with the plastic bulb fallen off and wood-and-lead shavings everywhere a few loose crayons countless expired coupons one Phillips head screwdriver two slotted head screwdrivers hammer pliers 12-inch ruler four keys to who knows what tape measure combination lock with unknown combo small flashlight and enough loose change to have a large pizza delivered.

I’ll wager all of those coins, with bank coin wrappers to roll them in, that your own junk drawer is a similarly supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Readers Awash With Own Memories

January 28, 2022 by Woody

Chuck Thomas, my mentor and great predecessor in this space, believed a writer should sometimes (when he wants the day off) turn things over to his readers. Who am I to argue?

My column about musical rain and the ocean’s lullaby brought a wave of responses, including this from William Goldie: “I grew up in Redlands where a rare rainy day was wonderful. Walking through the eucalyptus grove in the rain would produce wonderful sounds and smells and sensations that remain in my memory.

“I had a special place in our attic to sit and dream while listening to the sounds of rain on the roof. Splashing through puddles and watching the water rush down the zanja was another thrill that lingers in my memory.”

“Lovely column today!” wrote Kent Brinkmeyer, who actually had much lovelier things on his mind. “The sounds you described so eloquently soothed me – particularly ‘the whispered breathing of someone next to you’ since today is my wife’s and my 34th anniversary.”

“You took me back to Solimar Beach through your words,” shared Kirsten Haight-Ziober. “Our feelings are quite mutual – the music of the waves will always be my favorite lullaby, my ultimate serenity, my greatest nostalgia.”

“Your column brought back memories of the combination of a rainstorm, mood music, and the sounds of a steam train all rolled into one,” Larry Smith reminisced. “It’s like a LP by the Mystic Moods Orchestra titled ‘One Stormy Night.’ It came out in 1966. The storm sounds were recorded during a thunderstorm in LA.

“I first heard it on one of the ‘beautiful music’ stations (oh for the good old days!) shortly after I came to Ventura County, also in 1966. Not having a turntable, I never bought a copy for myself but bought one for my aunt who lived in Beverly Hills her entire career as an English teacher. She and I loved good music. Fast forward to the mid-2010s when I discovered almost anything recorded is on YouTube. There it is!

“And the sounds of surf! From spring 1956 through 1965 (age 15 to 25) I lived in Del Mar with my folks and sister overlooking old 101 just before the turnoff to the race track. We were approximately 1,500 feet, per Google, from the beach at an elevation of about 1,500 feet. At night when the surf was high and the bedroom window open you could go to sleep to the sound of breaking waves.”

“One of my Christmas presents was a notebook for my collection of your clipped-out columns,” Mickey Harris wrote in the kindest of compliments. “Now I hear we will not be receiving the printed paper on Saturdays! Is it true that your column will only be available online?!”

Don’t worry, Mickey. Come mid-March, readers will still be able to wrap dead fish in newsprint featuring my face and words as my column will be moving to Fridays.

Lastly, in a note sent belatedly in response to my column about the passing of John Wooden’s daughter, Nan, Katherine Anderson shared this gem: “I rode an elevator with Coach and Nan and her husband years ago at the UCLA Medical office building.

“I was so excited to see Coach when he stepped in and I told him how great he looked! His reply: ‘This is my daughter, Nan, and her husband. Don’t you think they look great, too?’ Warm memories…”

I can just hear the playful warmth in Coach’s voice, as pleasant as nearby crashing waves while rainfall dances on the roof.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Sailboat Pic Sets Memories Afloat

January 20, 2022January 22, 2022 by Woody

Just as I savor listening to the ocean’s waves as a nighttime lullaby, so too do I love gazing out to sea under the light of day. Such was I doing recently, playing hooky from all responsibilities, when my phone pinged with a text.

Tempted to ignore it, I was glad I did not for it was from my son. He had sent me a photo, taken just then 70 miles south of Ventura, that was a matching bookend to the postcard scene I was simultaneously enjoying, except for one small addition: a sailboat in the distance.

This was extra special because “sailboat” has long been a cipher between the two of us that means “I love you.” He came up with it, for reasons unknown even by him, at age 5 or 6. All these years later, whenever either of us sees a sailboat – on the water, in a painting, on bookshelf, et cetera – we text the other a photo, no words necessary.

This small sailboat in my son’s texted photo gave me a very big smile.

As always, the tiny picture on my phone screen gave me a big smile. As sometimes, it also sent my mind sailing over the deep waters of past ocean memories.

First, I mentally returned to the gorgeous waters of Peggy’s Cove, a quaint fishing village in Halifax, Nova Scotia, where my wife and I traveled a few years ago. In addition to seeing myriad sailboats, we saw “The Titanic Grave Site” where 121 victims of the infamous sea disaster are interred. They found their final resting places there because two ships based in Halifax – the Mackay-Bennett and the Minia – assisted the search for bodies.

Later on our same trip we visited Plymouth Rock and I could only marvel at how the Mayflower, a wooden ship that was far less “unsinkable” than the great inch-thick-steel-plated Titanic, had survived its perilous journey. I marveled anew at this now, which led to another thought…

… how the sea gods, or perhaps just old-fashioned good luck, smiled on a very sinkable wooden ship that set sail from Ireland in 1792 for the faraway shores of America. Had that sailing vessel suffered a Titanic-like fate I would never have been for my great-great-great-grandfather James Dallas, then only 14 and traveling alone, was onboard.

I imagine James was fleeing famine or other hardship. His voyage must have been far more difficult and dangerous, and his bravery greater, than I can even imagine.

Heritage is a funny thing. I feel proudly lifted by James’s steely mettle as if it is magically my inheritance, yet had he been a thief or murderer I would not cling to that as an anchor pulling me down.

Buoyed by my roots, in my mind’s ear I have often heard my distant forefather inspiring me to be braver, take chances, pursue my dreams even if rough seas must be sailed. Such feelings have seemed amplified when I am at the Ventura Pier or beach, touring the lighthouse at Peggy’s Cove or two dozen similar beacons I have traveled to see, on a cruise ship or sailboat.

By coincidence, or perhaps by godwink, the very morning I sat down to write this column the front page of The Star featured a story and photograph of a replica 19th-century wooden tall ship. The Mystic Whaler, an 83-foot-long schooner with twin 110-foot tall masts, had arrived at its new home in Channel Islands Harbor.

You can be sure I am going to visit this “floating museum” upon its official opening and let my imagination set sail. And, naturally, I will text a photo to my son.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Music to a Beach Boy’s Ears

January 13, 2022 by Woody

Ask a hundred people to name their favorite piece of music and you are likely to get a different answer from each, from the Beatles to Beethoven, from country to classical, from Amadeus to Zeppelin.

This question came to mind the other night as a much-needed Southern California rainstorm was drumming madly on my rooftop and rat-a-tat-tatting against my bedroom windowpanes. Buddy Rich and Keith Moon never played more magnificently.

Rain is the best lullaby of all, I thought while lying in my warm dry bed, but before drifting asleep I considered the subject further.

Reaching back in time, back to my youth in Ohio, back to humid summer weekends at our family’s modest cabin with a nearby pond and a not-far-away lake, I conjured up another magical melody: the chirping of crickets; joined occasionally by bullfrogs croaking their basso notes a short walk away; and in the distance, much less frequently, the eerie-but-beautiful lonesome howls of coyotes.

Moreover, instead of counting sheep to fall asleep one could count a cricket’s chirps for 15 seconds, add 40 to that number, and arrive at an approximation of the outside temperature in degrees Fahrenheit.

Winter nights, where winters are truly winters, have their own soundtrack for inducing slumber. If you listen closely with eyes shut, I swear you can hear snow falling. Rather, I suppose, one actually hears an absence of noise as the snow muffles out all but the loudest of sounds. All the same, it is a beautiful lullaby indeed for as Mozart noted: “The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.”

Nearly as hushed as snowfall and softer than tap-dancing rain, with a cadence slower and more soothing than a cicada’s summer song, is to fall asleep to the whispered breathing of someone next to you. Here, too, the music is in the silence between notes, between inhalations and exhalations.

And yet, pressed to choose just one song to fall asleep to, I will opt for a percussion performance of waves crashing on the beach. Even in daylight, this is my favorite music, but at nighttime the ocean’s song is tenfold more mesmerizing.

One of the magical properties of music is that it is a time machine. Hearing a specific song can instantly transport us back to where we were – and who we were – when we first heard it and listened to it frequently.

Such was the case for my wife’s recent birthday when our family, all seven of us, rented a beach house in Avila Beach – or “Vanilla Beach,” as three-year granddaughter Maya renamed it. It was a long weekend of paradise.

During the daytime, the cymbal-like crashing waves were largely drowned out by talking and laughing and all other goings on of life. But at night, after the moon rose and “Goodnight Moon” had been read to Maya and we had all likewise gone to bed, the surf raised its volume pleasantly. Again, the music was as much the silence – the sea rising into a gentle swell, rising into a wave, rising into a vibrating crest – between oceanic muffled thunderclaps.

And again I was transported back in time, back to 1972, back to when I was 12 and spent the entire summer at Solimar Beach with my godparents. For a kid from the Midwest who had never before seen an ocean, falling asleep to the Pacific’s pacifying cadence was even better than listening to a rooftop symphony of rain or concert of cicadas and coyotes and bullfrogs.

All these years later, the surf’s song remains my favorite lullaby.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Cold Day Warmed By Friendship

January 7, 2022January 13, 2022 by Woody

“The coldest winter I ever spent,” Mark Twain is credited with quipping, “was a summer in San Francisco.”

The great writer apparently never spent an autumn day at a Cleveland Indians (now Guardians) game, in the old Municipal Stadium, with an arctic-like wind whipping in off Lake Erie. Nine innings at nine-below-zero is how I recall an abominable day when I was eight.

I have long forgotten whom the Tribe was even playing, but I remember rushing to the men’s room more frequently than an elderly man with a troubled prostrate – not to use the urinal, but because there were electric heaters on the ceiling.

It was my first time to a Major League Baseball game and since you can’t watch a home run from the men’s room, when the Indians came to bat I would trek back to my seat like Robert Peary braving the elements on the way to the North Pole.

By the bottom of fifth inning, I was rooting for the Indians to go down 1-2-3 so I could seek warm refuge again.

By the seventh-inning stretch-and-shiver, I had stuffed crumpled pages from the game program inside my sweatshirt for insulation like a homeless person using a newspaper as a blanket on a Twain-ian summer night in San Francisco.

“Hey, Mom,” I mumbled from blue lips when I got home. “Check out the souvenir I got.”

Mom, excitedly: “You caught a foul ball?”
Me, with teeth chattering: “N-n-n-no, I caught frostbite!”

In the half century since, I have never felt colder. And yet the other day, in our Pacific paradise, my mind flashed Erie-ily back to Cleveland’s “Mistake on the Lake” Stadium.

A friend and I had planned to get together at a local brewery. However, with coronavirus surging we decided – despite both of us being fully vaccinated and boosted – to instead meet up outdoors at a park.

Rain threatened our new picnic-table plan. Indeed, I got soaked and chilled to the bones on my daily run beforehand. Then the clouds suddenly parted and our happy hour was happily back on.

I thought I was bundled up sufficiently in my cozy “Ol’ Green” Patagonia wool pullover – that, coincidentally, my friend’s wife expertly darned a hole – over a long-sleeved shirt. Alas, as the Lake Erie-like coastal breeze began to pick up, and the temperature fell into the 40s, I began to shiver.

“You’re freezing,” my friend said. “We should go.”

“N-n-n-no, I’m fine,” I replied stubbornly, not wanting to cut our visit short. I was reminded of when my son was 5 or thereabouts. At his favorite buffet restaurant he always filled a bowl with a Matterhorn of vanilla soft-serve frozen yogurt and before even half-finishing his teeth would start chattering, his body shivered in the air conditioning, but he kept on devouring the treat.

That is how I felt now. I wanted to keep eating up our conversation even as my shivers persisted. As great a storyteller as my friend is, and supreme listener as well, here is an example of what makes him a friend of friends: with a summer-bright smile he offered me his winter coat …

… and when I politely declined he took it off nonetheless and wrapped me in it.

I am not exaggerating when I say it is The Warmest Coat that I have ever worn. Putting it on was like easing into a steamy bath. I think it must be stuffed with polar bear fur and penguin feathers and infused with the hot-chocolate breath of unicorns.

Warmer than any coat, of course, is a great friendship.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

New Year’s Resolutions for 2022

December 30, 2021 by Woody

“New Year’s is a harmless annual institution,” wrote Mark Twain, “of no particular use to anybody save as a scapegoat for promiscuous drunks, and friendly calls, and humbug resolutions, and we wish you to enjoy it with a looseness suited to the greatness of the occasion.”

Let me use this great occasion to wish you a happy New Year and share some humbug resolutions for 2022. Feel free to borrow as you wish and, like me, break at your own pace.

I resolve to…

Keep in mind the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, who wrote: “Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety.”

Own my day.

Try to live up to the wisdom of these lines by Rudyard Kipling: “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster / And treat those two imposters just the same.”

Try also to treat Fret and Anxiety like the imposters they are.

Conserve, conserve, conserve water and energy.

Pass up the nearest open parking spot in order to leave it for someone, perhaps an elderly person, who might find it difficult to walk very far.

Give compliments 10 times more frequently than unsolicited advice. Make that 100 times more frequently.

Try to, as Eleanor Roosevelt advised, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” Or, at least, challenges me.

Try to be as excited about learning new things as my 3-year-old granddaughter Maya always is.

As my lodestar Coach John Wooden preached and practiced, “Make friendship a fine art.”

Heed Henry David Thoreau’s wisdom, “The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it,” and try not to exchange foolishly.

Unplug, unplug, unplug.

Read deeply from good books – and shallowly from fun books, too.

Keep in mind this wisdom from my Grandpa Ansel: “The only way to travel life’s road is to cross one bridge at a time.”

When travelling, the ongoing pandemic willing, follow my friend Ken’s sage advice: “Be sure to turn down a hidden alleyway, or go inside a quiet doorway off the beaten path, because that’s where you’ll find some of the most memorable experiences.”

Find memorable experiences in my everyday life.

Buy two of anything a kid under age 10 is selling.

Check my email inbox less frequently and write more snail-mail letters.

Shop at local small businesses first, local chains second, and buy online as a last resort.

Be quicker to forgive and slower to criticize – including of myself.

Keep a coffee-chain gift card in my wallet for when I come across someone down-on-their-luck.

Stop to smell the roses – and daydream at the clouds, savor pastel sunsets, marvel at starry night skies, and appreciate all of nature’s art.

Similarly, heed John Muir’s call to “Keep close to nature’s heart and break clear away, once in a while, and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean.”

Sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen.

Pick up litter – and not just on Beach Clean Up Days.

Play hooky more often and go to the beach to wash my spirit clean with salt water.

Give flowers out of the blue and not just to mark special occasions.

Keep in mind the words of Wayne Bryan: “If you don’t make an effort to help others less fortunate than you, then you’re just wasting your time on Earth.”

Lastly, again as Coach Wooden advised, I resolve in 2022 to try to “Make each day a masterpiece.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody Woodburn 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.

Balls Rolled In In Record Numbers

December 24, 2021 by Woody

Words fall short in fully expressing my gratitude to everyone who generously participated in “Woody’s 2021 Holiday Ball Drive.” The best I can come up with is this: whether you gave one ball, or many, you filled my heart with birdsong.

And no music was sweeter than that offered by Teagan McAllister, whose grandfather, Chuck Spence, shared this: “My 9-year-old granddaughter expressed how she wanted to help kids that were not as fortunate as herself. She has been, for quite some time, very sensitive to ‘fairness.’ ” And so it was that Teagan, with the help of her “P’Pa,” gave four soccer balls, four basketballs and two footballs.

More musical notes of kindness…

Walt Oliver and his grandsons, Brandon and Tommy Kendlinger and Elijah Ontiveros, dropped off 13 assorted balls in memory of their brother/cousin Michael Kendlinger who “supported the Ball Drive the past several years and recently passed away.”

Some of the gifts for kids!

Randi and Scott Harris donated six balls; Shelly and Steve Brown passed in four balls; and Connie and Stephen Halpern donated one ball.

“Because our nine grandkids have enough!” Max and Sherry Stovall donated 28 assorted balls.

In memory of local coaching legend Bob Tuttle, five basketballs were donated by 99-year-old Arlys Tuttle and her children Gary Tuttle, Gayle Tuttle Camalich, Trudy Tuttle Arriaga and Toni Tuttle Santana.

Legendary coaches Mickey Perry and Joe Vaughan and their Perry-Vaughan Basketball Camp donated 10 basketballs.

“In loving memory” of his father, Coach Harold McFadden, Steve McFadden gave three basketballs, one volleyball, one soccer ball “and, of course, a football.”

Christine Weidenheimer donated six balls; Bob Vrtis gave four balls; and Anna and Tom McBreen kicked in one soccer ball.

Bob and Bev Millhouse donated three balls “to add some Christmas spirit to kids in memory of our son, Michael Obradovich, a USAF and Fresno firefighter, who left this world too early and is loved and remembered daily.”

Audrey, Julie and Chris Hein donated 10 soccer balls; neighbors Irma Paramo and Kay Handlin added five balls; and Lauren Siegel gave three balls.

Audrey Rubin donated two balls “in gratitude for the blessings of my two amazing grandkids who are masterpieces in my life” while Jim and Sandie Arthur similarly donated three balls – “one for each of our stellar grandchildren.”

Jim Barrick donated a dozen balls; Fran and Kate Larsen gave four balls; and Katherine and Frank Anderson gave three balls.

Carol and Laurie Fredericks gave 10 balls; Nancy and Eric Reynolds passed in two balls; and Brad and Mia Ditto donated 10 balls.

A Santa’s Samaritan, who wished to remain anonymous, organized a team of first-name only all-stars who together donated 150 soccer balls and 50 basketballs. They are: Juan, Alma and Alma, Rick, Achilles, Jace, Rose, Deb, Pam, Shaun, Will, Maddie, Mike, Lane, Ruth, Michael, Rachel, Dave, John, Lee, Michelle, Steve and a trio of friends from the St. John’s Bosco Class of 1973: Phil, Mike and Steve.

“There’s no better feeling than to be able to help a child in need,” said David Willson, who donated six basketballs while Leslie De Los Santos also donated six basketballs in remembrance of her father, Arthur Seifert.

Draza Mrvichin passed in eight balls; Sheila and Vivienne Raives donated six balls; and Rebecca Fox gave one ball “in memory of Jim Cowan, my first boss.”

Chuck and Ann Elliott donated five basketballs “in honor of former Ventura College-and-NBA star Cedric Ceballos and his successful COVID fight, as it was his generosity that helped inspire the Ball Drive.”

Cristina Kildee donated four balls in memory of her “fur baby, Bear” who she “recently had to say a sad goodbye to.”

Doris Brown donated three soccer balls, noting: “We can’t all be shining stars, but we can all twinkle a little” while Mike and Bob Bryan twinkled a lot by donating 20 of each: basketballs, soccer balls and footballs.

Maya McAuley gave five basketballs, as did Kym King.

Special thanks to my Santa’s helpers and sleigh drivers: Denelle Rutherford, Lisa Barilone, Josh Spiker, Clint Garman, and Lisa Woodburn.

And now, the final tally for 2021 is … drumroll, please … a whopping 891 gift sports balls, surpassing last year’s previous record by nearly 100 children’s smiles!

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A Stack of Books to ‘Yes, Read!’

December 18, 2021 by Woody

While I sometimes fall short in my quest to read a book a week for the calendar year, in 2021 I reached the goal with two weeks to spare.

This year’s 52-and-counting tally doesn’t include the approximately 502 books I read to my 3-year-old granddaughter, including these recommendations from Maya: “Change Sings: A Children’s Anthem” by Amanda Gorman; “The Boy Who Spoke to the Earth” by Chris Burkard; “Grumpy Monkey” by Suzanne Lang; and “No, David!” by David Shannon.

As for my favorites, here is a tall stack of “Yes, Read!”

“One Long River Of Song,” a posthumous collection of short essays by Brian Doyle, is a gem that next had me picking up one of his novels. “The Plover” is such a spellbinding seafaring tale that I will soon be visiting his backlist further.

Colson Whitehead, a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, once again displays his storytelling mastery in his new 1960’s era “Harlem Shuffle” about thievery, and humanity, while Bryce Courtenay’s “The Potato Factory” is a terrific tale about a likeable London con artist in the 19th Century.

I dare say one need but be a runner to be captivated by “The Slummer: Quarters Till Death” by Geoffrey Simpson. Taking place in 2083, athletics – and society – has been divided into genetically designed “elites” and “slummers” who were born the old-fashioned way.

“The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry” by Gabrielle Zevin is a charming story that takes place in a bookstore. Meanwhile, I owe my thanks to Ventura’s charming “Timbre Books” for tipping me off to the engaging, funny and sometimes heartbreaking “The Last Taxi Driver” by Lee Durkee.

“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” by Betty Smith is a young girl’s coming-of-age story that is slow-paced in the very best of ways. Also taking place in Brooklyn is “Snow In August,” a touching tale about an unlikely friendship by Pete Hamill.

Fans of “chick lit” will surely love “Writers & Lovers” by Lily King because even though the genre isn’t my cup of tea I greatly enjoyed this novel.

Even at nearly 600 pages, Amor Towles’ “The Lincoln Highway” will have you wishing this 1954 road trip of memorable characters would travel along a little further.

Meanwhile, “The Busker” by Brooks Rexroat is thin at 153 pages, but thick on entertainment. This Grand Prize Winner of “The Great Novella Contest” (whatever that is) is an underdog, hard-luck tale about a guitar-playing teen.

Stephen King’s “Billy Summers” is a flat-out, fast-paced, page-turner, road-trip story about a hitman you’ll find yourself rooting for and “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry” by Rachel Joyce is about another road trip, albeit taken by foot, that you will want to tag along on.

Speaking – rather, reading – of road trips, somehow I had never before buckled in with Jack Kerouac’s classic “On The Road” but I am glad I finally did.

“One More For The Road” by the late, great Ray Bradbury is a marvelous collection of short fiction while “The Sun is a Compass: A 4,000 Mile Journey into the Alaskan Wilds” by Caroline Van Hemert chronicles a remarkable nonfiction off-the-road trip.

If you twisted my arm to name my favorite book I read this year, I would cry “uncle” and give you a toss up between these three novels: “The Midnight Library” by Matt Haig; “The Four Winds” by Kirstin Hannah; and “City of Thieves” by David Benioff.

In closing, a thought from Groucho Marx: “Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read.”

For that, I recommend a backlit e-reader.

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Gift of Giving Balls Bounces Back

December 10, 2021December 10, 2021 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.”

Star readers who have given to “Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive” for local disadvantaged youth are experiencing the unfailing truth of the above sentiment. As Sally and Tom Reeder shared: “We had the most glorious day yesterday buying a total of 16 various balls to donate for Christmas – and none of them need batteries!”

Alan and Kathy Hammerand, who donated three each basketballs, soccer balls and footballs, noted similarly: “Being able to assist kids in having sports balls available for their enjoyment is a great way to get the holiday season started on a very positive note.”

Ben Coats, after dishing out a baker’s dozen of basketballs, said without any sugar coating: “I hate the idea of kids having a lousy Christmas.”

A mountain of gifts from “Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive.”

Here are some more generous Star readers who have replaced lousy lumps of coal with new sports balls…

Lucie and Rick Estberg donated two basketballs and two soccer balls.

Allison Johnson donated a basketball in honor of her brother Michael Demeter.

Bob Wisma gave kids a high-five in the form of two footballs, two basketballs and one soccer ball.

Howard Reich passed in an assortment of 15 balls and Lynne and Don Steensma donated eight more.

Jeff Barks gave two each basketballs and soccer balls; Joey Siddens donated one soccer ball and one basketball; and Steven and Theresa Yamamoto passed in one volleyball and one basketball.

Dan and Judy Dugan donated eight basketballs and Mickey and Lynne Harris donated four basketballs.

Susan Adamich gave one basketball and one wish: “To make a happy Christmas for a child out there.”

Wendy Spasiano donated an assortment of 21 balls and Thomas and Karyne Roweton passed in three balls.

Kay Morgan and her husband donated 20 softball-and-mitt sets.

Bobbie and Dave Williams donated two soccer balls and two basketballs and Diane Hunn did likewise.

Tim and Cindy Hansen donated a mesh bag as big as Santa’s toy sack filled with 10 balls.

Jerry and Linda Mendelsohn, and their numerous grandchildren, made it a family affair by teaming up to “lovingly provide” 10 basketballs and 10 soccer balls.

Sharon Martin kicked in two footballs and three basketballs while Rick and Mary Whiting gave two each soccer balls and basketballs.

Charis Werner was a triple triple-threat donating three each basketballs, soccer balls and footballs.

“I can imagine all the kids enjoying their gift balls,” noted an anonymous donor who gave a dozen baseballs in honor of his dad and 10 basketballs in remembrance of Jim Cowan.

Judy Magee-Windle dished out four basketballs and Steve and Bobbin Yarbrough gave two basketballs.

Kay Giles and Michael Mariani kicked in six soccer balls while Lucie and Charles Estberg gave one volleyball, football, soccer ball and basketball.

Glen Sittel, who gave three balls, echoed Walt Whitman’s opening quote by noting: “Knowing so many kids will receive these ideal gifts makes the gift of giving so worthwhile.”

There is still time to give holiday smiles by dropping off new sports balls at a local Boys & Girls Club, YMCA, house of worship, youth group – or to Jensen Design & Survey at 1672 Donlon St. in Ventura, 93003 (9 a.m. to 5 p.m. through Dec. 17) and I’ll take it from there. Online orders can be shipped to the same address.

Also, please email me about your gift woodywriter@gmail.com so I can thank you in this space and add your generosity to this year’s final tally that will be shared here on Christmas Day.

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WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

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