Category Archives: Columns

Sticky, Sweaty, Sleepless, Sublime Nights

by Woody

Woody’s award-winning debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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In the summertime, in my boyhood, in Ohio, humid nights sometimes refused to cool down much from the sunburned daytime making falling asleep next to impossible.

Pop, despite Mom’s pleas, refused to get air conditioning. He also refused to buy electric fans, despite the whining of us four kids, because he was convinced at least one of us would poke a finger through the wire cage guard into the whirling blade and he would have to rush us to the E.R. and personally sew the tip back on.

On the muggiest nights, when our pajamas clung to us like we had the flu and 102-degree temperatures, my siblings and I – and sometimes Mom, but never Pop who apparently could have fallen asleep in a steamy tropical rainforest – would peel off our PJs down to our BVDs and migrate downstairs to the dining room because it had floor-length windows that let in the softest whispers of a breeze. Lying next to the open windows we camped restlessly atop open sleeping bags.

As miserable as those sweltering sweaty sticky sleepless nights were, it’s funny how they are among my cherished memories – “marble-in-a-jar” remembrances, to borrow from last week’s column. In my mind’s eye and ears, I can still see and hear my two older brothers, bookended on either side of me, telling ghost stories and cracking jokes until our little sister would decide the jungle heat upstairs was preferable and left us alone to our tomfoolery. Eventually, of course, our laughter became snoring.

I was reminded of these miserably marble-ous memories after a similarly sleepless sultry night recently at my daughter’s home in the Bay Area. The guestroom, on the first floor and east facing, is generally so comfortably cool I cannot recall ever not needing a blanket even in summertime.

Not this time.

Opening the sliding glass door would have solved the problem for while the day had been hot, the evening cooled down very pleasantly. Alas, the house security alarm was turned on and I did not wish to wake my daughter or son-in-law to deactivate it; they had long earlier gone to bed, as is demanded when you have two young kids who rise and shine before the sun does.

Remarkably, my warmhearted Much Better Half, who favors a thermostat setting of “Igloo,” fell fast asleep in the sweat lodge-like heat as if sprinkled with fairy’s dream dust.

Unremarkably, in the wee hours I had to go to the bathroom – which proved to be a big relief in two ways, because in the hallway I was greeted by temperatures as cool as a TikTok influencer. Returning to bed, I left the guestroom door ajar to let the wintermint air drift in and said hello to dreamland.

Not so fast.

Moonlight now also sliced in through door crack, bright enough to be bothersome. No matter, I turned facing away and shut my eyes tight and…

…tick-tock Tick-Tock TICK-TOCK!

A wall clock in the nearby family room, unnoticeable during the noisy busyness of daytime, in the lonely quiet hours echoed like a pickleball match. It was water torture to the ears, and then…

…snore Snore SNORE!

It would be kind to describe it as a soft humming lullaby, but in truth the snoring was as loud and unmelodious as three young brothers cracking jokes on a hot summer’s night.

I was about to nudge Sleeping Beauty awake when it struck me that she was drowning out the far more annoying clock. Suddenly, I appreciated her snoring as a familiar lullaby indeed and drifted happily to sleep.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Summertime is Marble in a Jar Time

by Woody

My debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Today, June 20, is the first day of summer so this column from my Star archives seems fitting…

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This may come as a surprise to readers of this space, but I am not losing my marbles. To the contrary, I am gaining them.

For this I owe my great gratitude to a teacher who interrupted his discussion of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” one long-ago spring afternoon and shared a personal story.

A philosophy, really.

Mr. Hawkins explained he kept a large pickle jar on his dresser and every time something wonderful happened in his life he dropped a marble inside. Smooth pebbles, sea glass, or shiny pennies would also suffice, he noted. His goal was to fill the jar, and hopefully a few more, during his lifetime. The marbles themselves were not the real treasure, however – the act of noticing each special moment was.

All these years later, I can quote by memory only two lines from that Shakespeare play – “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” and “Though she be but little, she is fierce” – but I still collect a rising tide of sea glass and marbles. In doing so, I have come to notice something: summertime is marble time.

As my wise fifth-grade teacher importantly emphasized, something need not be a monumental pinch-me event – hitting a home run, stealing a first kiss, earning a diploma, winning an award – to merit a marble. In fact, oftentimes the simple pleasures are much deserving.

Simple summer pleasures such as…

Gazing at the stars that always seem brighter on a warm midsummer’s night.

A sweet summer romance.

Catching fireflies, catching frogs, catching “running” grunion in the midnight moonlight.

Running in the sprinklers, running your first marathon or fastest 5K, running after an ice cream truck.

Enjoying a Popsicle or ice cream cone that tastes better – and colder – on your tongue on a hot summer afternoon.

Sleeping in a tent, be it in the backyard for a slumber party or on a camping trip.

Visiting any National Park – or ballpark, be it Major League or Little League.

Hiking in Yosemite Valley or the trails of Ventura’s Harmon Canyon.

Climbing Mount Whitney or climbing a tree more lovely than a poem.

Writing a poem about a marble moment.

Skinny dipping in a pond for the first time – or most recent time.

Wine tasting, pub crawling, beach walking.

Spending an afternoon wading in the tide pools, collecting seashells and sea glass, building a sandcastle.

Visiting one of the Channel Islands.

Watching – really watching – a Pacific sunset more beautiful than anything in the Louvre.

Going fishing, even if you bring home nothing more than a sunburn, a smile, and a tall tale about the one that got away.

Teaching your son or daughter to ride a two-wheeler – doesn’t this always happen during the summertime?

Daydreaming while gazing off the Ventura Pier.

Spending a week at your grandparents’ home and hearing stories about what your dad (or mom) was like as a young boy (or girl).

Flying a kite with your grandchild.

Attending your high school reunion or revisiting old memories with a college friend.

A backyard barbecue with friends is always better in the summertime.

Playing outside until one of your parents hollers, for the third time, for you to come inside for the night.

An evening walk hand-in-hand with your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend/child – or hand-in-leash with your dog.

Riding a merry-go-round or Ferris wheel at the fair with your child/girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse.

Watching Fourth of July fireworks.

A picnic with your favorite person in the world.

Be you 6 or 96, don’t be a mortal fool: make a point this summer to recognize – and savor – as many new marble moments as possible.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Dadvice for Father’s Day

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Father’s Day cards will be opened two days hence, so it seems apropos to share a Hallmark-worthy thought from Mark Twain who famously observed: “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”

More recently, classical pianist Charles Wadworth, who died two weeks ago at age 96, once expanded on Twain’s quip: “By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.”

Or daughter.

Barry Kibrick, an Emmy-winning TV host on PBS, once insightfully told me of raising his two sons: “I never worried about over-praising them and building up their self-esteem too much because there are plenty of people in the world who will try to tear them down.”

Author Jan Hutchins had a similarly wise dad, sharing: “When I was a kid, my father told me every day, ‘You’re the most wonderful boy in the world, and you can do anything you want to.’ ”

Clarence Budington Kelland, a 20th century novelist who once described himself as “the best second-rate writer in America,” made a first-rate compliment about his own father: “He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”

Best-selling essayist Robert Fulghum put it this way: “Don’t worry that your children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.”

American inventor Charles Kettering likewise advised, “Every father should remember: one day his son will follow his example, not his advice.”

With attribution unknown comes this pearl: “One night a father overheard his son pray: ‘Dear God, Make me the kind of man my Daddy is.’ Later that night, the father prayed, ‘Dear God, Make me the kind of man my son wants me to be.’ ”

The rock band Yellowcard offers this lovely lyric about the power of a dad as a role model: “Father I will always be / that same boy who stood by the sea / and watched you tower over me / now I’m older I wanna be the same as you.”

Hall of Fame baseball player Harmon Killebrew apparently had a Hall-of-Fame Dad, the son recalling: “My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard. Mother would come out and say, ‘You’re tearing up the grass.’ Dad would reply, ‘We’re not raising grass – we’re raising boys.’ ”

A great attitude for Girl Dads as well, naturally.

Speaking of little girls, John Mayer strikes the perfect chord with these lyrics: “Fathers, be good to your daughters. You are the god and the weight of her world.”

Getting further to the heart of the matter, John Wooden, who believed “love” is the most important word in the English language, opined: “The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”

From another basketball coach, the late Jim Valvano: “My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person – he believed in me.”

Wayne Bryan, father of doubles legends Mike and Bob who are even better people than they are tennis players, advises parents: “Shout your praise to the rooftops and if you must criticize, drop it like a dandelion. On second thought, don’t criticize at all.”

In closing, this home-run thought from Hall of Fame singles hitter Wade Boggs: “Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Lovely ‘Poem’ Turned Into Woodchips

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

From Woody’s column archives, spring 2013, evoked by recently seeing a fallen tree…

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A century and change ago, Joyce Kilmer penned “Trees” with one of the most widely familiar opening couplets in America poetry:

I think that I shall never see / A poem lovely as a tree.

The other morning I gazed out my window and across the street as a lovely “poem” got sawed down, cut up, turned into woodchips, and trucked away. It was like witnessing a theatrical street version of Shel Silverstein’s classic children’s book “The Giving Tree” starring two workmen in white hardhats and optic-yellow vests.

Actually, this story was even sadder for this tree’s limbs would not be used to build a house for the grown boy; its trunk not crafted into a boat to sail the seas. When the workmen’s work was finished, there remained not even a stump to sit and rest upon.

This tree had soared majestically, perhaps 70 feet into the clouds, tall and leafy, with a trunk too thick to reach one’s arms around. Alas, it had become a botanical Leaning Tower of Pisa, cracking and raising a section of sidewalk and in danger of falling across a busy street.

And so at 9 a.m. on a May gray day, a whining chainsaw made the morning more leaden. Standing in the basket of a gargantuan cherry-picker, a workman amputated the large branches one by one by one as he hydraulically rose higher Higher HIGHER.

Far below, the felled branches were cut into manageable lengths and fed into a woodchipper roaring loud as a jet engine. Lines of a lovely “poem” went in, lousy mulch came out.

Lastly, the towering tall barren trunk came down, made not into long lumber for a home or boat, but into short logs to be burned in fireplaces. This was not a heartwarming thought.

Start to finish, what had taken many decades of the four seasons to become living poetry was erased in a less than four hours. It was tree-mendously sad.

Kilmer again: A tree that may in summer wear / A nest of robins in her hair.

No more birds will nest in the lovely tree I used to admire out my kitchen window, looking east, the sun lifting above it in the late mornings of springtime.

The melancholy event gave me pause to think about a handful of memorable trees from my life: the evergreen beside the driveway of my earliest boyhood home that my two older brothers and I attempted blind shots over while playing H-O-R-S-E; the sturdy buckeye, near a swimming pond, with a hanging rope we swung on like Tarzan; the apple tree I picked snacks from on a shortcut home from grade school; the orange tree my two then-young kids and I planted; the giant redwoods we saw, in awe, as a family; and on and on.

I think “poems” fill our lives more than we often realize. We draw trees in kindergarten and as older kids climb trees and hopefully one day we plant a tree in deference to this Greek proverb: “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

Kilmer once more: Poems are made by fools like me, / But only God can make a tree.

Afterwards, this curious fool sought to determine how old the tree had been by counting its rings, but the stump was cut off below ground level and covered with dirt.

I may be overestimating by half, but I like to imagine this poetic tree had sprouted in 1913 – the same year “Trees” came into the world.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Dear New Graduates, Be ‘Stonecatchers’

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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With graduation season upon us, I would like to share with the Classes of 2025 an excerpt from my novel “The Butterfly Tree.”

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“Where’re we going, Grandpa?”

“It’s a surprise,” Tavis told his nine-old twin grandsons riding in the backseat.

“Give us a hint,” Moswen pleaded.

“What’re we gonna do when we get there?” Lemuel joined in.

“Catch stones,” Tavis said, sunshine in his voice. “You’re gonna be Stonecatchers.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Lem said warily.

“And fun!” Mos animatedly added.

Tavis glanced in the rearview mirror at the boys; their smiles contagiously jumped to his lips.

“Grandpa, are you a Stonecatcher?”

“I try to be,” Tavis said.

“Do you catch the stones with a baseball mitt?”

“We didn’t bring our mitts.”

“You won’t need your baseball gloves,” Tavis assured.

“Who throws the stones?”

“Do they throw ’em hard?”

“Are the rocks big?”

The questions came like pitches in an automated batting cage with too little time between for answers.

“Time out, time out!” Tavis interrupted. “Listen up and I’ll tell you all about the mysteries of being a Stonecatcher.”

Mos and Lem leaned forward against the restraint of seatbelts, eager to hear a magical tale.

“Stonecatchers don’t actually catch stones,” their grandpa began. “Well, I suppose a long, long time ago they did and that’s where the name comes from. When someone hurled a stone at a person who was unable to defend him or herself, the Stonecatcher jumped in and caught the flying rock.

“But nowadays a Stonecatcher is someone who helps another person who is defenseless or in need – like protecting them from a bully, or buying a homeless person a meal, or donating blood to save someone who’s ill. You can think of a Stonecatcher as a Good Samaritan.

“Lem – Mos – you boys come from a long proud heritage of Stonecatchers.”

“We do?” they said in stereo.

“Oh, yes,” Tavis resumed. “Your many greats-great-grandfather, Dr. Lemuel Jamison, was a Stonecatcher who adopted identical twins when they lost their mother and father. He had actually saved the twins’ lives when they were born and thus they were named Jamis and Lemuel – your namesake, Lem – in his honor.

“Those twins’ real father, Tamás – that’s where your middle name comes from, Mos – was a Stonecatcher by helping your five-times-great-grandfather, Sawney Jordan, escape from slavery on the Underground Railroad. Sawney, in turn, was a fearless Stonecatcher because he swam into bullet fire trying to rescue Tamás who had been shot.

“Yes, the Jamisons and Jordans have been filled with Stonecatchers. Your Grandpa Flynn was a Stonecatcher for America in the Vietnam War. And Grandma Love was a Stonecatcher for your daddy when he was young and lost and needed a roof over his head – and, most of all, needed some love.

“I’m definitely proud of the Stonecatchers your parents are. They’re always helping others in big ways and little ways – sometimes it’s the small acts that turn out to be the biggest ones.

“For example, it’s hard to imagine a simple Hello, how’re you doing today? being important. But to someone who’s having a bad day, that small gesture can mean the world.

“I read a story about a boy who was planning to run away from home because he had no friends. That very day at school, during lunch, a classmate saw him sitting off by himself and went over and ate with him. They had a nice conversation and the dejected boy changed his mind because he no longer felt so lonesome. You see, being a Stonecatcher doesn’t always require bravery – sometimes kindness is all that’s needed.

“Mos – Lem – I expect you boys to be Stonecatchers. I want you to go sit with the person who’s all alone. I want you to cheer for the teammate who rarely gets off the bench. I want you to stand up to the bully who picks on others.

“And right now, I want you to help me paint the kitchen for a lovely elderly lady. Her name is Jewell. That’s how we’ll be Stonecatchers today.”

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Dear newly minted graduates, as you venture out into the world and pursue your dreams, please be Stonecatchers along the way.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Beautiful Mosaic of Memorial Rocks

by Woody

Woody’s award-winning novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Some people have rocks in their head.

Others have hearts of stone.

And then there is a recent visitor to Ventura, a man of Baby Boomer age and reportedly from New York, who was caught on video proving he suffers from both sedimentary maladies.

Imagine a vandal toppling gravestones in a cemetery and you get an idea of what this king of jerks from Queens did at the memorial rock garden that graces a raised cement planter along our beach promenade.

Specifically, The Jerk ruthlessly threw into the ocean some of the beautiful rocks decorated to honor lost loved ones. Watching the detestable act, posted widely on social media, made my heart feel like it had been stung by a hundred jellyfish.

If you have never visited this special garden of stones, you are missing out. It is one of the loveliest little jewels of a place you can image, affording a view of the ocean and the music of breaking waves and this sunny greeting on a tiny sign: “Welcome to Haole’s Memorial Rock Garden / Please leave memorial rocks for all to enjoy!”

Haole was a dog, a Yellow Lab albeit with white fur, who was famous because he surfed. Indeed, Haole once appeared on “Good Morning America” and also stars in a book, “Ride the Wave: Love Sofia and Haole the Surf Dog,” which is the true story of how he helped teach a little girl with Down syndrome to “walk on water.”

After Haole died five summers past, the memorial garden was planted with its first rock and today blooms with many hundreds, if not a thousand or more. The mini-markers come in many sizes and shapes, although most are round or oval, and more than a few are heart-shaped. Almost all are pleasingly smooth as if selected with great care.

What makes these stones true gems is they are hand-painted with flowers and hearts, sunsets and rainbows, paw prints and palm trees, angel wings and crosses, with R.I.P. wishes and other heartwarming messages along with the names of loved ones – pets, yes, but also human moms and dads and spouses and siblings and friends. Many are true works of art and all are works from the heart.

Together, this colorful avalanche creates a mosaic worthy of comparison to a stained glass window in a church, which is fitting because this comely corner of the seaside seems like an outdoor temple. As such, it is common to see people – pedestrians and cyclists and rollerbladers; alone and in couples and small groups – stop and visit, pause and ponder, remember and pray. Some search for the rocks they have previously left here while others leave new stones now.

One rock in Haole’s memorial garden is especially dear to me because I know its honoree as well as the artist, my 6-year-old granddaughter, who lovingly decorated it. When Maya learned that my good friend Nick’s dog recently crossed the rainbow bridge, she found a stream-polished rock, palm-sized and oval; cleaned it and painted on swirls of deep blue and sea-glass green, and added white stars; then, in her neatest kindergarten printing, in black marker wrote: “Henry.”

Coincidentally, Henry’s rock was placed at the southernmost tip of Haole’s garden, precisely where The Jerk committed his briny desecration. I went to check and was relieved to find “Henry” still resting in peace in view of the Ventura Pier. I hope the memorial stones that were tossed into the ocean can be, or have been, retrieved at low tide.

One Jerk cannot wipe out Haole’s four-legged legacy.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Charlotte’s web proves mesmerizing

by Woody

Woody’s bebut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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On the French Riviera, in little Villefranche-Sur-Mer, which is a short train ride from Nice, there is a seaside bar – or brasserie – appropriately named “The Good Mood” because how could one not have some helium in their heart while enjoying a glass of wine or pint of beer at an outdoor two-top table overlooking a postcard bay filled with sailboats aplenty and a few swimmers, with gentle waves rolling onto a picturesque beach populated by frolickers and sunbathers.

And so, were I asked to describe the café or pub or brasserie with the most-beautiful view I have ever experienced, I would be strongly tempted to answer The Good Mood or else a good-mood-inducing bar on the beach in Kona, Hawaii…

…but, at the risk of seeming overly provincial, I would ignore these temptations and offer forth MadeWest Brewing Company’s location atop the iconic Ventura Pier with its sweeping panoramic view of the ocean and Channel Islands afar, and near shore surfers doing their water dancing and beachgoers strolling and kids building sandcastles and teens tossing Frisbees and adults playing volleyball and on and on. And, oh yes, a sunset on the French Riviera is, in my experience, a pale imitation of the painter’s palette of colors routinely brushed across our coastal sky with Anacapa and Santa Cruz islands turning purple in the background.

In a good mood myself recently as I savored this masterpiece scenery and sipped an award-winning Hazy IPA, my focus unexpectedly narrowed and nature’s beauty became lost on me like someone turning a blind eye to a museum’s showing of Monet masterpieces.

What stole my attention was Charlotte. Now, I do not know if that is really her name, but I imagined it to be. I do know that I stared at her for the longest time, rudely long, long enough to have a second pint largely as an excuse to keep from taking my eyes off her.

Oh, I should mention that Charlotte was a spider. She was on the other side of the window directly before me, as close to my eyes as my computer screen is as I write this, and was building a new web. She began by rappelling from an eave, like an expert rock climber, while spinning a bridge line to serve as the anchor.

Charlotte proceeded to move up and down, and back and forth, adding thread after thread in all directions. She did this seemingly with the innate calculations of an MIT engineer, even accounting for the salty breeze to swing her sideways; with the skill of a Chiricahua basket weaver; with the grace and pace of Picasso filling a canvas.

The easy onshore winds, while adding difficulty to her chore, might also prove advantageous by helping guide flies into the finished death trap. The location was further ideal because, come evening’s darkness, the lights inside the window might attract moths.

I do not know what Charlotte dined on that night, but I did stay long enough to see her delicate tapestry woven to masterful completion. In the span of barely more than an hour, the central hub grew from the size of a beer coaster to big as my splayed hand to larger than a dinner plate.

And here is the most amazing thing about this Charlotte’s web; just as author E. B. White’s famous Charlotte wove the messages “Terrific”, “Radiant”, “Humble”, and “Some Pig” into her web, my happy hour buddy spun into hers “Better View Than The French Riviera” and “Some IPA.”

Admittedly, my vision was by now a little Hazy.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Advice for Easter Egg Hiders, Seekers

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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From Woody’s column archives, April of 2011…

Word to the wise from someone who learned the hard way: always, always, always triple count the Easter eggs before hiding them. An errant tally can result in the belief that all of the dyed eggs have been found only to discover, thanks to your complaining nose, one overlooked-too-well-hidden rotten hardboiled egg a few months later.

My second piece of advice for this coming Easter Sunday festivities is aimed not for adult egg hiders, but rather for little egg hunters. It is wisdom shared with me more than half-a-century ago by my two older brothers.

Growing up in the 1960s most everything my big bros did I wanted to do. I idolized them even more than I did Batman and Superman, no small thing considering I used to wear a bath towel pinned around my neck like a superhero cape to kindergarten.

In many ways, Jimmy and Doug were father figures to me. How to hold the laces just right and throw a football spiral, they taught me. How to shoot a basketball with backspin and block out for rebounds using your butt and elbows, they taught me.

How to ride a two-wheeler, they taught me that, too, taking turns running beside me holding the seat to help me balance until after a while—and without me realizing it—I was wobbling on my own down the sidewalk as they watched and cheered me on.

Around the block I continued, solo, but when I triumphantly came back around, Jimmy and Doug were gone. Mom had called us all inside for dinner. Unfortunately, my brothers had neglected to give me instructions on how to use the coaster brakes and stop. So around the block I went a second time, and a third, and still no one was waiting to help me safely stop without falling.

Falling, of course, is how I eventually braked and, knee scraped, broke into tears. It was not the first, nor last, time my brothers played a role in my waterworks. One memorable time was when they convinced me I had “upside-down ears.” My anguish was magnified because their description was pretty much on target. They even stuck ears wrong-side-up into Mr. Potato Head and declared it my new twin.

While Jimmy and Doug picked on me at times, they would not let anyone else get away with dong so. Indeed, I always knew they had my back in big ways and small. An example of the latter was the annual Easter Egg Hunt at our elementary school where the huge playground field was awash with Styrofoam eggs in rainbow colors plus a few rare golden ones that earned a special prize.

As you can imagine, when the whistle blew there was a mad dash and instant mayhem 20 strides from the starting line as youngsters greedily swarmed to gather up the first eggs they came to.

I would have joined this early feeding frenzy had Jimmy and Doug not coached me to race straight to the far fence, a hundred yards away, as fast as my 6-year-old legs would carry me because they knew from experience that was where the prize-winning eggs always lay. Sure enough, while other kids filled their baskets with way more bounty, I triumphantly—and annually—came back with a coveted Willy Wonka Golden Ticket egg.

So, kids, listen to my big brothers and sprint to the far end of your Easter egg hunts. The young me was certainly glad I didn’t let this sage advice go in one of my “upside-down ears” and out the other.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Column Reader Is A Real Clown

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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To extend the metaphor from this space a week ago, my email inbox spilled over with responses about my column headlined “Having a laugh over spilled milk.”

Before proceeding with one note in particular that tickled my funny bone, let me backtrack and quote that column’s meandering opening sentence to set the stage for what will then follow:

“Imagine a tiny car in a circus where clown after clown after clown climbs out, a veritable boxcar’s worth of clowns emerging in all, and you get an idea of what happened when I carelessly knocked over a tall drinking glass while reaching for the breakfast menu and a tsunami of iced tea, a gallon wave impossibly squeezed inside a 16-ounce plastic tumbler, washed over the entire tabletop before cascading onto my lap and vinyl booth seats and tile floor.”

Tim Torkildson, who lives in Provo, Utah, came across my words after Googling the keyword “circus” as he routinely does, and kindly responded: “Dear Mr. Woodburn, I congratulate you on your colorful and whimsical comparison of a clown car with a tall glass of cascading iced tea. It summons up a fetching image that I enjoyed. So thanks for that.”

Here is where his letter, and fine storytelling, made my cup runneth over with mirth…

“As a garrulous retired professional circus clown I cannot help sharing the briefest of memories with you of the real clown car. The one I was stuffed, crammed, and pummeled into at Ringling Brothers some fifty years ago.

“It was a Gremlin hatchback, and after stripping the interior we managed to fit fifteen clowns into it. As one of the tallest buffoons in clown alley, I was assigned the very bottom-most tier. With fourteen other bodies piled on top of me.

“It was a mobile Black Hole of Calcutta. Those above me wriggled, sweated, belched, and farted. Since I was the first one in, I was naturally the last one out. And believe me, when my turn came at last I shot out of that benighted Gremlin like a bat out of purgatory. Gasping and panting, I was knocked on the head with a foam rubber truncheon by the whiteface constable and then smacked in the kisser with a shaving cream pie.

“It was a cramped and messy entr’acte, repeated twice a day and three times on Saturday. The day I left Ringling Brothers to join an international pantomime troupe in Mexico I hooted out loud like a maniac loon at the thought of no more buttocks thrust willy-nilly into my mug.

“And now, a half-century later, with bad knees and a bad back, as I recline in my Barcalounger, I kinda miss it…”

I further learned that Torkildson, aka Dusty the Clown, is the son of a bartender; grew up in Minneapolis; and in high school, during his senior year, was accepted to Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College.

After his Ringling Brothers heyday and Mexico nights, Dusty says he performed as a “merry andrew”—a person who amuses others by ridiculous behavior—at countless venues, from schools and prisons to Disneyland and even played Ronald McDonald, “to keep bread on the table and the wolf from getting too far inside the door.”

Just as the happier image of a Gremlin door forced shut with 15 big-shoed clowns shoehorned inside made me laugh, Dusty’s lovely closing to his note made my heart spill over with nostalgia as I felt 8 years old again and under the Big Top for the first time: “May all your days be circus days.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Laughing, Not Crying, Over Spilled Milk

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Imagine a tiny car in a circus where clown after clown after clown climbs out, a veritable boxcar’s worth of clowns emerging in all, and you get an idea of what happened when I carelessly knocked over a tall drinking glass while reaching for the breakfast menu and a tsunami of iced tea, a gallon wave impossibly squeezed inside a 16-ounce plastic tumbler, washed over the entire tabletop before cascading onto my lap and vinyl booth seats and tile floor.

And yet—here is the surprise twist—the blunder actually enhanced a most wonderful morning of a day that was a masterpiece by noon.

Already, you see, I had been to the dermatologist because my pale and troublesome Irish complexion requires frequent precautionary screenings.

“Nothing in life is so exhilarating,” Winston Churchill quipped, “as to be shot at without result.” Personally, I think the man nicknamed “The British Bulldog” was barking up the wrong tree—nothing in my life is so exhilarating as to have a history of various skin cancers and then get a checkup without result.

This examination worthy of celebration was capped off when, as I was leaving the office building, a teenage boy a few strides ahead of me went out the glass front doors, suddenly stopped and spun 180-degrees like a basketball star making a swift and graceful pivot move, and came back to hold the door open for me—a small nicety, to be sure, but also a welcome one that is too rare.

Onward next to brunch at a gem of a café I had never before been to, to meet a dear friend who was in town briefly from across the country. Arriving early because my dermatology appointment went so well, and so quickly, I had time to cause the ice-tea waterfall. In two ways this mishap added to, not subtracted from, the goodness of my morning.

First, this mishap sent my thoughts back in a flash to a lunch when my daughter was 5 years old, possibly 6, and for the second “Daddy Daughter Date” in a row she toppled a towering glass of lemonade while coloring the kids’ menu. Sensing her rising chagrin and embarrassment, I reactively—and purposely—knocked over my own drink and fairly sang, “Oh, silly me! I made a bigger mess than you did!”

The only tears over our spilled milk, so to speak, were from us both laughing so fully.

I did not spill a second glass at Café 126, I am happy to share. I am happy to share, too, that my server could not have been kinder in downplaying the extra work my clumsiness created for him. Instead, he promised it would not be the last such accident of the day while cheerfully mopping up the mess.

Enter my friend to a welcoming hug and a clean and dry booth, never the wiser of my goof; followed by good food and a gooder (not a word, but should be) visit that flew by much too quickly; and, goodest (again, should be standard usage) of all, was when her eyes misted up while telling me how deeply she enjoyed my novel “The Butterfly Tree.” She being an author of acclaim, her praise was birdsong to my soul.

As I finish writing this I will soon be heading off to a happy hour with my goodest friend, by coincidence he is also a gifted writer, and it seems like the perfect bookend to a masterpiece day would be if I accidentally—or accidentally with a wink—spilled my first pint.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.