Category Archives: Columns

Sharing a Collection of Last Lines

by Woody

A while back, while browsing a second-hand bookshop, specifically our local treasure Bank of Books – by the way, is any perfume more lovely than the musty-woodsy-vanilla-fresh-rain scent that wafts up from the open pages of an old book?—I came upon a copy of “Anna Karenina.”

I have long meant to tackle this classic tome by Mr. Tolstoy, long being the operative word for it is pushing 600 pages, and on this encounter I simply read the opening sentence—“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”—and then flipped to the ending: “My life now, my whole life, regardless of all that may happen to me, every minute of it, is not only not meaningless, as it was before, but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my power to put into it!”

And so began my habit of wandering through bookstores and partaking of the first and last lines, or paragraphs, of novels—ones I have already read and also those I wish to one day do so in full.

Just for fun, and to give myself the day off from writing my own last line for this column, here are some endings I have jotted down in my collection…

From “Where the Wild Things Are,” the first book I remember checking out of the library as a kid, the last page reads: “and it was still hot.”

“Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”: “The scar had not pained Harry for 19 years. All was well.”

“The Catcher in the Rye”: “It’s funny. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

“A Prayer for Owen Meany”: “Oh God—please give him back! I shall keep asking You.”

“Beloved” concludes powerfully and unforgettably with simply the novel’s title: “Beloved.”

Two more succinct endings are “I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep” from “Gilead” and “Are there any questions?” from “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“To Kill a Mockingbird” closes: “He turned out the light and went into Jem’s room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.”

“The Great Gatsby” famously ends: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

No title is needed to identify this couplet finale: “For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

From “The Road” comes this poetic prose: “In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”

“The Green Mile” ends: “We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.”

Death, the narrator of “The Book Thief,” concludes: “A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR. I am haunted by humans.”

“Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”: “I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I been there before.”

“The Sun Also Rises”: “ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it pretty to think so?’ ”

“The Grapes of Wrath” closes with this indelible image: “She looked up across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.”

“Travels with Charley”: “And that’s how the traveler came home again.”

And in “brown girl dreaming” Jacqueline Woodson ends with this verse: “gather into one world / called You / where You decide / what each world / each story / and each ending / will finally be.”

*   *   *

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.

Friendships Reign in the Rain

by Woody

The harder the recent rains fell, the greater became the flood of phone calls and voicemails and text messages from friends, far and farther, asking how I was doing on account of our coastal paradise making the national news.

I bet you had friends do likewise—or maybe you were one.

The atmospheric river may have been Man Bites Dog worthy news, but friends checking in on friends is as common as Dog Wags Tail. And yet such acts of friendship, and family-ship too, are worth acknowledging—no, worth celebrating!—and not taking for granted.

A week ago in this space I chronicled how a Good Samaritan took 20 minutes out of her day, and drove quite a few miles out of her way, to personally deliver a package that had mistakenly landed in her mailbox.

If a kind stranger will go to such lengths, one can only imagine the distances our friends and loved ones will travel. I didn’t have to imagine the other day when, as the deluge hit full force, I received the following text from a relatively new friend, but already a dear one for some friendships are as fast and hearty as instant oatmeal, who lives in Northern California:

“Hey Pal, just checkin’ in to see if you’re ok. I’m just hearing and reading horrific stuff, and they start talking about Montecito, SB, and Ventura. I think the worst is over for us up here, but if there’s anything I can do, it’s only a four-hour drive. There’s nothing on my plate that can’t be postponed. Let me know. Stay dry, my friend – dj”

Only a four-hour drive! That, in a nutshell, is friendship, where distance and time are no obstacles. As Abdu’l-Bahá eloquently put it: “Where there is love, nothing is too much trouble, and there is always time.”

This quote often makes me think of my friend Scott and his now-grown son, Justin. A ballpark figure for how many youth baseball games Justin played in is 1,500, but father and son can both tell you the exact the number Scott missed: three—two of them because of emergency surgery.

Another sporting example of love being blind to trouble and always finding time is my longtime, and now long-distance, friend Randy who checked in on me from New York during the heavy rainstorm. In turn, I asked how his son Charlie’s tennis season at Merrimack College is going.

In a word, and befitting rising floodwaters, swimmingly! As a junior, Charlie is a team co-captain playing No. 1 doubles and No. 3 singles. And here’s the Abdu’l-Bahá-like best part of the update: Randy and his wife Debby, despite an eight-hour roundtrip drive to home matches, have attended 80 percent of them, plus most road contests too.

One final vignette of love and friendship, which are one and the same, ignoring distance. Not long ago, my college buddy Mikey was in Italy, in the coastal paradise of Sorrento, in a marketplace alleyway where he saw a man sitting with a typewriter. Knowing my affection for QWERTY machines, Mikey investigated, learned Paolo Grasso was a street poet for hire and requested one honoring my 20-year consecutive day running streak.

Titled “The Runner,” the custom creation is typed in Italian on one side, translated into English on the other, and is lovely. Even lovelier, however, is that Mikey thought of me some 6,000 miles away.

The poem includes this beautiful stanza: “This continuous running / towards a goal / makes the moment precious.”

Friends, shine or rain, make the moment precious as well.

*   *   *

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.

Two Stories of Delivered Kindness

by Woody

The scene seemed so perfectly choreographed as to belong on a movie screen, not on a real city street.

A teenager, male and perhaps pushing age 20, was pedaling a bike while being pursued at a dead sprint by a young boy, no older than seven or eight, who in turn was being chased—flip-flop, flip-flop, flip-flop—by a woman in sandals.

A bicycle theft in progress was my first reaction, but in a flash I realized the bike was far too big to be the boy’s. No, the teenager must have stolen something else belonging to the boy, who surely belonged to the woman for she was calling out a name as a loving mother would. The boy, meanwhile, kept running and kept yelling “stop! Stop! STOP!”

Surprisingly, the thief hit the breaks and turned around…

…and turned out not to be a thief at all. Rather, he had dropped his hair pick and the boy had picked it up and raced him down to return it. I wish you could have seen the tall teen’s warm smile and the small boy’s big grin, and mine as well for having witnessed this feel-good deed.

Another good-hearted stranger gave me a broad smile the other day, except this time I was on the receiving end of the kindness. This tale begins with me sending a Priority Mail package to a dear friend. Alas, the advance copy of my soon-to-be-released novel “The Butterfly Tree” (more on this in a few weeks) flitted into the wrong mailbox.

Marcela Pearson, the unintended recipient, initially considered writing “Wrong address / Return to sender” on the front but instead decided to take matters into her own hands and fingers with a Google search.

“The picture of the typewriter on the return address label was a clue and it matched the graphics on your website,” Marcela explained as to how she found my email address and surmised I was the right Woody Woodburn to contact. She further asked for the correct mailing address so she could personally drop off the package.

I assumed my Good Samaritan would merely have to walk a few houses up or down her street, but this proved to greatly underestimate how far the mailing had missed its mark.

“Dear Woody, I just dropped off your package,” Marcela emailed me later the same day, and like an Amazon delivery driver even attached a digital photo of the parcel on the “Welcome” mat. “It was only 10 minutes from where I live, so no big deal. I guess (1234 Something Drive) somehow morphed into (234 Different Avenue). Have an awesome day, Marcela.”

No big deal? Far from it. It was an eight-mile round-trip out of her way, and 20-minute out of her day, big deal.

After I thanked her most sincerely, yet still inadequately, Marcela replied: “I am super happy I was able to help. It is really no big deal to drive 10 minutes to a very nice neighborhood; go to a place I have not seen yet. Sounds good to me. Life is about exploring.”

Her note concluded: “Just last week I met some really good people in Colorado. Finding good people sometimes feels like looking for a needle in a haystack—but they live and I keep searching.”

On the topic of good people, Coach John Wooden liked to say, “You can’t live a perfect day until you do something for someone who will never be able to repay you.”

In my book, Marcela and the bike-chasing young boy each recently lived a perfect day.

*   *   *

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.

Tears and Smiles Share Same Date

by Woody

Today’s calendar page, January 26, plays Ping Pong with my emotions—tears doink-plunk! smile doink-plunk! heartbreak doink–plunk! joy.

Indeed, this date, more than any other of the year, in my family holds a story seemingly written in the stars and typed by the fingers of Fate. Coincidence alone seems overmatched in explaining it.

Coincidence, defined as “the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to have some connection,” is my sharing a birth date with my wife’s grandfather or my son and my daughter’s youngest daughter sharing their birthday. The odds are only 1-in-366 against these horoscopic connections.

Coincidence, mixed with healing serendipity, was my first grandchild being born on the one-year anniversary of the night, nearly the very hour, that the Thomas Fire razed my childhood home. For my father especially, who had still lived in the house, a date of gloom was turned into one of bloom in celebrating the birth of his newest great-granddaughter.

Multiple memorable events and coincidental anniversaries happen every day of the year, of course, which is why The Star and most newspapers run daily “On This Date In History” summaries. A January 26th coincidence, for example, is Michigan becoming a state (1837), Louisiana seceding from the Union (1861), and Virginia rejoining the Union (1870).

January 26, however, has surpassed coincidence for my loved ones and me.

Shuffling the chronological order, let me begin with “On This Date” in 2003 when a drunk driver speeding down a city street at 70 mph rear-ended me as I was stopped at a red light. My life, fast as a finger snap, was forever changed as I suffered a ruptured disc in my neck causing permanent nerve damage in my left arm, hand and fingers.

Still, it was not fully a tragedy. Fate, after cruelly cursing me, then smiled sympathetically and let me somehow walk away from a hunk of twisted steel and shattered glass that had seconds earlier been a Honda Civic. Indeed, two police officers at the scene told me they could not believe I survived.

The 26th of January 2015 offered no such blessed fortune for one of my daughter’s dearest friends. In India for a wedding, Celiné and her younger brother were passengers in a taxi when it was broadsided by a city bus. The brother walked away, the big sister did not, her 26-year-old life extinguished in a blink’s instant.

Two crashes on the same date can be brushed off as tearful coincidence. But there are three smiles, too. On January 26, five years before my car crash, my lovely niece Arianna was born; ten years ago, exactly one year before Celiné’s deathly accident, my daughter met her husband; and five years ago, another January 26th love story, when Holly, a college roommate and third “sister” with my daughter and Celiné, received a marriage proposal.

Holly’s fiancé, now her husband for she enthusiastically said “yes!” when he got down on bended knee, says he did not purposely choose the date for its significance in an effort to magically metamorphose an anniversary of sorrow into one with a measure of joy.

And yet it is possible that Justin’s subconscious helped guide him to the fateful date. Or, perhaps, January 26 magically chose the couple that is now a happy family of three.

I like to think the latter. As Mr. Hemingway wrote in the closing line of dialogue in his novel “The Sun Also Rises,” spoken in—oh, Celiné—a taxi:

“ ‘Isn’t it pretty to think so?’ ”

Yes, it is.

*   *   *

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.

Two Love Stories Sweet as Jelly

by Woody

February is just around the corner, and with it Valentine’s Day, which made me think of “The Shop Around the Corner,” the 1940 romantic comedy starring Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullavan, which of course brought to mind “You’ve Got Mail,” the 1998 remake with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, which also reminded me of meet cutes.

Like baseball cards in my boyhood, I now collect stories from couples of how they met. Here are two recent additions, the first prompted when my friend Wayne Kempton mentioned he and his bride were going to celebrate their wedding anniversary with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

PB&J? Not caviar and lobster and local strawberries dipped in gourmet chocolate? There had to be a story, and a good one, so I asked and Wayne answered thusly…

“Shari and I eloped with a deep love, but very little earthly wealth. We had her ’59 Mercury convertible, one suitcase and two tennis rackets. And very little money. So, we economized en route, buying a loaf a bread, a jar of peanut butter and some cheese puffs that served as meals—many picnics, actually—on our way from Iowa to California.

“Each year since, we have celebrated August 29th with a feast of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cheese puffs. And champagne—we were not only broke, but also too young for wine then!”

Instead of in a bookstore around the corner, they had met in a grocery store where they both worked.

“It was in September 1966,” Wayne says, reaching back. “We were beginning our senior year, and I was the new guy at school. We became high school sweethearts and got engaged a year later on our first day of college. Our plan was to get married after finishing college, but we eloped a year later. We eloped because both sets of parents were dead set against us even seeing each other.”

Their parents proved as wrong as pickles on a PB&J sandwich, for Wayne and Shari have now gone through, at 26 slices in an typical loaf of bread, more than four loaves and quite a few jars of jelly and peanut butter with 55 anniversary feasts to date.

Earlier this month my friend Rick Estberg shared his own “Shop Around the Corner” love story in screenplay form…

“On this exact date, 44 years ago, a young man sat next to a young woman in a very attractive green dress. It was their first day on new jobs at their Agency. Soon they dated. And then they became lovers. And eventually they got married. For years they would joke about that accidental first meeting and the dress, which perhaps magically brought them together on Day One.

“About 40 years later the young woman, now not so young anymore, grew very ill. The young man, now not so young anymore, was beside himself, being unable to make things right again.

“Then, a year ago, the old woman died. And the old man cried himself to sleep. That night he had a dream. A dream about a wonderful and lovely young woman in a very attractive green dress. And for as long as that dream lasted the old man was happy once again, reveling in the magic that she brought to him. And the world. Which leads to the following mythical exchange:

“ ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ said a young man one day, very self-assuredly.

“The old man, with a small tear in his eye, replied thoughtfully, ‘Ah, but you will one day—when you finally meet her.’ ”

*   *   *

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.

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.

*   *   *

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.

*   *   *

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.”

*   *   *

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.

*   *   *

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…”

*   *   *

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.