Column: Glory Days

July 27, 2013 by Woody

Looking at Life in the Rear-View Mirror

Bruce Springsteen’s classic “Glory Days” played on the radio the other day and it got me thinking about athletes who spend their post-playing days looking — and living — in the rearview mirror.

Such as New York Jets quarterback Joe Namath who coolly guaranteed, and more coolly delivered, victory in Super Bowl III against the heavily favored Baltimore Colts in 1969. Three decades later, Namath told me: “It was the pinnacle of my life. It was a high I haven’t felt or equaled since. If I could be any age again, I would want to stay 25.”

And, yet, staying forever 25 would mean he would have missed out later on having his two daughters.

Another Hall of Famer, Bill Bradley, once wrote of retiring from the NBA: “What’s left? To live one’s days never able to recapture the feeling of those few years of intensified youth.”

In other words, even being a U.S. senator was a letdown from being a young shooting star with the New York Knicks.

“What’s left?” How sad to ask this at age 25 — or even 35, dotage for most pro athletes.

In “Glory Days” Springsteen sings: “I hope when I get old, I don’t sit around thinking about it / But I probably will / Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture / A little of the glory of, well time slips away / And leaves you with nothing, mister / But boring stories of glory days.”

Fifteen years after his glory days as an All-American high school quarterback, Neely Crenshaw, a character in John Grisham’s novel “Bleachers,” returns to his small hometown to visit his old coach who is dying.

Crenshaw suffered a career-ending knee injury in college and tells his former teammates: “When you’re famous at 18, you spend the rest of your life fading away. You dream of the glory days, but you know they’re gone forever. I wish I’d never seen a football.”

How tragic. Can you imagine a gifted teacher wishing she’d never seen a chalkboard; an astronomer lamenting ever touching a telescope; a concert pianist ruing a keyboard?

The night he lost his heavyweight title to Rocky Marciano, Joe Louis was asked whether Rocky punched harder than Max Schmeling had 15 years earlier, the only other time Louis had been stopped.

“The kid,” Louis said of Marciano, “knocked me out with what — two punches? Schmeling knocked me out with — musta been a hundred punches. But I was 22 years old then. You can take more then than later on.”

“Later on” comes far sooner for athletes. A writer, teacher or architect may not reach the zenith of his or her powers until age 50 or 80. Physicians, too, for as Benjamin Franklin noted: “Beware the young doctor.”

My dad is not a young doctor. Now 86, he is still enjoying his glory days saving lives by assisting on cases in the operating room.

“I feel I’ve always kept improving as a surgeon,” Pop shares. “My hands are as steady as ever. What I’ve lost is the stamina to do long cases. I used to be able to operate all day long, get called back into the hospital that night to do an emergency operation, get two hours of sleep and come back and do it all again the next day. Not anymore. My eyesight is still there, my technical skills are still there, but I don’t have a young man’s stamina.

“On the other hand, I have continued to gain knowledge so my decision-making is always improving. Maybe when you are younger, you are more aggressive — sometimes too aggressive. So I think as an older doctor, I’m also a wiser doctor.”

John Updike, a highly successful author right up to his death at age 76, once noted, “We all, in a way, peak at 18.”

My dad disagrees. “I don’t think I peaked at 18 or 25 at all,” he allows. “I couldn’t chose one favorite age I’d want to be because I wouldn’t want to have missed everything that came after it. At the time I’ve lived it, every age has been the best.”

That’s a glorious attitude.

Woody Woodburn is a columnist for the Ventura County Star.

Column: Overrated and underrated

July 20, 2013 by Woody

These Opinions Might Be Overrated

Before seeing the summer action movie “Man of Steel” I figured it had to be underrated with a published review of 1.5 out of 4 stars. After seeing it, however, 1.5 stars made it overrated.

Speaking of “Superman,” Dwight Howard has been overrated his entire career.

Adam West remains underrated as Batman.

Americans gave Congress a 15-pecent approval rating in the most recent Gallup poll. In other words, Congress remains overrated.

Teachers are underrated and CEOs are overrated.

Streaking (running every day) is underrated; streaking (running naked) is overrated.

Twinkies were slightly underrated until they recently became extinct and were suddenly wildly overrated. Now Twinkies are back, at a slimmed-down 135 calories per cake instead of 150 calories, and their rating has rightly shrunk again.

Farmer’s markets are underrated.

Donald Trump may be the most overrated person on earth. His hair cannot possibly be underrated.

Watermelon is overrated and bananas are underrated.

The dangers firefighters and police face are underrated by most of us.

In-N-Out Burger is overrated by its fans (guilty as charged) but underrated by everyone else who favors any other hamburger-fries-and-shakes fast-food chain.

The U.S. Postal Service is underrated.

Handwritten letters and cards cannot be overrated.

Post-it Notes are underrated.

Everything about Florida is overrated – except, it pains me to admit, LeBron James.

Florida’s juries, courts and judges cannot be underrated.

The iPhone is overrated as a phone, but underrated as a computer (as are all smartphones) when you consider these hand-held devices are said to be thousands of times faster and more powerful than the Apollo guidance system that landed men on the moon.

Everything about Apollo 11 was underrated.

Prosecutors in high-profile murder cases tend to come out looking overrated after the verdict.

The importance of a jury selection cannot be overrated.

Butterflies and birds are underrated.

Having a good mechanic, plumber or handyman is underrated.

Newspapers are underrated.

The value of having music and art education in our schools is underrated.

The long lines and hassles of airport security screening is overrated while the speed and relative ease – and general affordability – of traveling anywhere in the United States in a few hours is underrated.

Comfortable shoes are underrated until you are wearing vises on your feet.

Before one sees the Grand Canyon in person it cannot help but be overrated; standing on its rim, however, it is impossible to underrate its awe-inspiring grandeur and breathtaking beauty.

Yosemite Valley is probably underrated.

The Channel Islands are definitely underrated.

Taking hundreds of pictures and hours of video on vacation is overrated, even at the Grand Canyon, Channel Islands and Yosemite Valley.

Twitter is overrated.

Facebook is overrated . . . until you locate a long-lost friend or make some new ones you never would have otherwise.

The importance that race plays in America is underrated by too many, including on the U.S. Supreme Court.

Novacaine cannot be overrated if you are sitting in a dentist’s chair getting a filling.

Local microbrews and wines are underrated.

Dogs are underrated even by people who overrate everything.

Even if you try to fully appreciate it, good health is underrated until you are ill or injured.

Teenagers overrate the calamity of having a few pimples.

Older people overrate the calamity a few gray hairs.

Local charities that humbly do tremendous work – such as Project Understanding, Casa Pacifica and Caregivers Assisting the Elderly to name just three very worthy ones – are underrated.

The Royal Baby Watch is overrated.

The “good ol’ days” are overrated and today’s youth are too often underrated by those who were youths back in the “good ol’ days.”

John Steinbeck’s novel “Sweet Thursday” is underrated.

* The Great Gatsby is overrated. (* the movie, not the book)

* To Kill A Mockingbird is underrated (* movie and book)

Intelligence is often overrated but the importance of education is underrated.

Common sense is underrated.

Public libraries are underrated.

A good friendship cannot be overrated.

A friendly smile is underrated by the person sharing it with someone else.

Pizza is underrated. Period.

Chocolate, too. Period.

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com or through his website www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: Honoring 19 Fallen Heroes

July 13, 2013 by Woody

Heroic Idea Sparked by Oxnard Native

“We can’t all be heroes,” Will Rogers once observed, “because somebody has to sit on the curb and clap as they go by.”

This Saturday past, at a small-town parade in Arizona, Rogers had it a little wrong: nobody was sitting on the curb clapping for the heroes.

At the Prescott Frontier Days Parade the spectators all stood to applaud and honor the 19 elite Granite Mountain Hotshots who perished on June 30 while fighting an out-of-control inferno.

The parade route on July 6 looked like it could have been the Fourth of July on any Main Street, USA. Indeed, little imagination is needed to picture the parade going through downtown Ventura or Fillmore or Oxnard.

In fact, Oxnard played a key role in the Prescott Frontier Days Parade for it was a local native son who had the idea to honor the fallen heroes with a riderless horse.

Brian Besser graduated from Oxnard High in 1971, two years behind his brother John. They well know that what happened to the Hotshots could happen here when the Santa Ana winds howl.

The “Besser Boys” also know about horses. In fact, they may have an equestrian gene. When their mother Barbara was in high school in the late 1930s, she frequently rode with Carmelita Fitzgerald, the granddaughter of Adolfo Camarillo. As an adult Barbara rode the famed Camarillo White Horses – specifically the feisty “Paisano” – in the Hollywood Christmas Parade, among others.

“Throughout this period Brian seemed to develop an interest in the horses,” shares about his “kid brother,” adding: “I was more interested in one of Carmelita’s daughters.”

Fast forward. John is retired and living in Laguna Niguel while Brian has moved with his wife to Arizona near Prescott.

Prescott proudly claims to be Home of the World’s Oldest Rodeo, a weeklong extravaganza held annually over the Fourth of July period. The tragic deaths of the Hotshots hit the local community with a vengeance. It would be hard to throw a rope without lassoing someone who either personally knew one of the young firefighters or knows someone who did. Indeed, the brother of Brian’s neighbor was one of the 19.

In past years, Brian has assembled an equestrian unit to represent the popular establishment Matt’s Saloon in the annual parade along celebrated Whiskey Row. As mentioned, this year he decided to honor the firefighters for their ultimate sacrifice with a single riderless horse.

Just as a deadly raging fire starts with a single spark, a small idea can grow significant given the right conditions. Thirty-six hours before the parade, Brian shared his plan with a neighbor and the kindle took flame with this reply: “Why not use NINETEEN riderless horses?”

This seemed impossible given such short notice, even in a cowboy community. Understand, seemingly every horse within three ZIP Codes had either already been entered in the rodeo or was committed elsewhere in the parade.

Just as the Hotshots were a unified crew, so is Prescott. Brian’s neighbor provided the name of a woman involved with the rodeo who might be able to help. She did. Some cowboys overheard and said, “We’re in!” Word quickly spread like, yes, wildfire, and just like that a Kentucky Derby field was assembled.

Led by Brian and seven other riders each carrying an American flag at the front, with two more riders carrying Matt’s Saloon flags at the rear, the parade entry had 29 horses in all. But it was the 19 horses in the heart of the procession that caused throats to grow tight and tear ducts to loosen and made the spectators sitting on the curb stand up and clap.

The 19 horses were riderless, but not nameless – hanging on each saddle, in purple letters on a black background bringing to mind a Purple Heart medal, was the identity of a fire warrior. Too, resting on each saddle horn was a fire helmet, the majority of them classic red or yellow but a few are black or white. And in the stirrups, reversed, are empty work boots.

So solemn, so powerful. It is no wonder that the winner of the Chairman’s Award was no contest.

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. His new memoir WOODEN & ME is available for pre-order at: www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: Story Behind ‘The Streak’

July 6, 2013 by Woody

Streaking Forward While Looking Back

Later this afternoon I will celebrate a happy anniversary.

Too, I will mark a polar one.

Freud would surely argue the two are related. And while this did not occur to me for quite some time, it now seems obvious if not undeniable.

First, the celebratory anniversary. Or, as the United States Running Streak Association – yes, there is such a thing – terms it, “streakiversary.” Today my consecutive-day streak of running a minimum of three miles (with an average of 8.6 miles daily over the span) will reach 10 years – or 3,653 days in a row thanks to three leap years.

If this strikes you as silly or insane or stupid, you are probably right on all counts. However, there are no less than 152 runners who are certifiably (according to the USRSA) crazier than me – including eight Americans with streaks surpassing 40 years!

I did not set out to become a “streaker.” As a person caught red-handed in a love affair or addiction – and a running streak is no doubt a little of both – might guiltily explain: “It just happened.”

It happened in response to a life-changing event. Early on I believed the tragic catalyst was my being rear-ended at a stoplight by a drunk driver speeding 65 mph. The result was a ruptured disk in my neck requiring surgery to fuse two vertebrae.

The result also was permanent nerve damage and chronic pain that stole my recreational passions of tennis and basketball. So when my gifted neurosurgeon Dr. Moustapha Abou-Samra, a fellow marathoner, finally gave me the go-ahead to resume distance running I grabbed hold as if it were a life preserver in a choppy ocean. Each run gave me a daily dose of empowerment over my physical losses from the car crash.

Like a U.S. postal worker, I have not been detoured by rain nor sleet nor snow. I have run through injury and illness and at insane hours to accommodate family plans, work, time zones. Hopping off a plane in London, I kept The Streak alive by running three miles in the airport terminal at 11 p.m., causing one Englishman to holler: “Hey, bloke! You must be a Yank cause you’re bloody crazy.”

Perhaps, although psychoanalysis might reveal something different at play. Indeed, while I did not realize it for two years, it now seems beyond coincidence that my streak began on July 7, 2003. That was the due date of my wife’s and my third child.

A baby lost to miscarriage. Was the streak’s birth a subconscious response to death?

The pregnancy was a surprise, a wonderful one, and because my wife was 44, of high-risk. After she made it safely into the second trimester we finally exhaled, allowing ourselves to get fully excited.

Then the heartbreak of no heartbeat.

It is likely a self-protective mechanism to try to rationalize a miscarriage as “being for the best because something was terribly wrong.” Doctors, family and friends offer similar solace. And maybe the mind buys into this, but the heart does not.

We had chosen not to know the gender, perhaps another grasp at self-protection. Again, the heart has its own mind. A few years later my wife had a powerful dream in which she watched a child on a playground swing. The girl, the same age our child would have then been, was happy. Rather than being overwhelmed with renewed grief, my wife felt comforted.

I had no similar night vision.

However, I have had many a daydream on runs while looking at kids – girls and boys – who are about the same age as my streak and thinking: That’s how old our child would now be.

Last week, I had a sleep dream. Surely it was influenced by my wife’s from six years past, as well as by the approach of my 10-year streakiversary – and hence the 2003 summer birthday that never was. In the dream I am running on the San Buenaventura beach bike path, one of my very favorite routes, alongside a child of about age 10.

SHE is smiling and happy.

I will think of her as I extend my streak today, my eyes likely salty as the sea.

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. His new memoir WOODEN & ME is available for pre-order at: www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: Capturing Time

June 29, 2013June 29, 2013 by Woody

Old Shoebox Is A Time Machine

While the Great Pyramid of Giza served as arguably history’s earliest time capsule dating back to 2584 BC, the Crypt of Civilization – a stainless steel vault welded shut in 1940 in a basement at Oglethorpe University in Georgia – is considered the first official one in modern times.

An estimated 15,000 registered time capsules have since been created, including in Tulsa where in 1957 a brand new Plymouth Belvedere (filled with other artifacts of the day) was buried to be opened down future’s road.

Closer to home, in 1966 the City of San Buenaventura marked its Centennial with a time capsule buried by City Hall’s front steps and in 1976 a second vessel was added commemorating the U.S. Bicentennial, both to be opened a century thereafter.

Inside my home is a newer time capsule. Specifically, in my son’s bedroom closet, top shelf, back corner, where a Nike shoebox has gathered more than a decade’s dust. The box is painted orange, his favorite color as a boy, with black spots to make it look like a cheetah. The lid reads: TIME CAPSULE 2000.

The 10-year-old boy has grown into a young man and together we open it for the first time in 13 years. The time capsule in truth is a time machine. I can imagine no single assignment led by his fourth-grade teacher Therese Yasukochi – “Miss Y” to her students – that could have proved a worthier keepsake.

Inside, on top of all the other items, is a size-5 orange-and-black Nike racing shoe. This is fitting because competitive running was already then his passion – and remains so to this day.

Also prophetically are 30 index cards with color-pencil drawings for the cover and each chapter of the book “Island of the Blue Dolphins.” He obviously included these because this was far more than an assignment, but rather a calling that would see him minor in Painting in college.

Too, there is a Nike wrist sweatband – of significance because the boy wore one every single day, sunup to sundown, through the end of middle school. A basketball card for the “2000 VYBA Bulls” reveals the vital stats of “Point Guard Greg Woodburn – Age 10; 4 Feet 9 Inches; 70 Pounds; Favorite Player Kobe Bryant.”

Also within: a snapshot of his new puppy, a cute boxer puppy named Gar; a hand-drawn family tree; a short essay written in excellent script, if not spelling to match, about a field trip to the Olivas Adobe ranchero (“We took a toor of the house. After that we made adobe briks and got reel muddy!); an origami crane made with orange (of course) paper; and Lego Star Wars.

“My 4th Grade Album” is a time capsule within the time capsule. “The first day of school” wrote “Miss Y” on the first page below a picture of the boy, sitting at his desk and smiling like it is Christmas morning. Other photos are of fun and friends and field trips, including the “reel muddy” fun mess at Olivas Adobe.

I bring this up, and went looking in my son’s closet in the first place, because Ventura’s City Hall is filling a time capsule to commemorate its Centennial. The airtight 14-inch steel cube, scheduled to remain sealed until 2113, will join the previous two beneath the landmark building’s front steps.

“Help us capture time,” invites Richard Newsham. “It’s a perfect way to write yourself and your family into history and make a connection with future generations.”

The deadline for the public to donate artifacts (to Room 206 at City Hall) is July 10. Items already collected include yearbooks and original artwork, poetry and personal letters, scans of historic documents and, of course, an iPhone. You can also email suggestions of what you think should be included to Newsham at rnewsham@ci.ventura.ca.us.

Obviously, I think a newsprint (which might be extinct by 2113) copy of The Star is a must – and, selfishly at that, a Saturday edition when my column runs. There is no question that this time capsule, like all time capsules, is a wonderful undertaking. My only quibble is that they should not be sealed for 100 years before opening.

I think 13 years is about perfect.

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. His new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” is available for pre-order at: www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: Murphy’s (& Woody’s) Law

June 22, 2013 by Woody

What hath Murphy’s Law wrought?

Seven years ago, after a successful 150-year run, Western Union sent the last telegram in U.S. history. The first telegram, sent by Samuel Morse famously read: “What hath God wrought?”

On July 14, India’s state-owned telecom company Bharat Sanchar Nigam Limited will send the world’s last telegram. I don’t know what it will say, but “God hath wrought text messaging” is my suggestion.

Or, perhaps, Murphy’s Law: “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. STOP.”

Woody’s Law, meanwhile – one of them, anyway – states that when something expensive breaks it will occur a few weeks after the warranty expired.

Perhaps even more frustrating, and more frequent, is when something still under warranty breaks I will have lost the warranty form, sales receipt, original packaging or whatever else the company in question demands in order to honor its contract.

Such was the case a couple days ago when a seven-year-old mattress guaranteed for 20 years suddenly turned as soggy as mashed potatoes. Couldn’t the company at least pay for my visit to the chiropractor to have my wrenched back adjusted?

Other people had worse encounters this week with Mr. Murphy. Marissa Powell, for example.

Asked a question about women in America earning less pay than men for equal work, Miss Utah USA’s train of thought derailed like an Amtrak in a hurricane; her eyes seemed to spin like the colored pinwheel when a computer freezes; and when her mind finally rebooted her response included: “We need to see how to . . . (panicked pause) . . . create education better.”

Not the most stellar answer in pageant history, but Rick Perry, for one, better not be laughing at her expense. I mean at least she was running for Miss USA and not President USA.

Mr. Woodburn certainly is not laughing at Miss Utah. I have the luxury of reading over, re-writing and editing my words before they go to print for public scrutiny and still I often seem to need “education better.”

Speaking of spinning rainbow pinwheels, another of Woody’s Laws is that your computer will freeze up right before you decide to save two hours worth of work.

Sometimes, thankfully, Murphy’s Law takes a punch on the nose.

Ventura College gets many things wrong, from cutting popular classes to locking the running track from public use, but it got it totally right and set a lofty example for all California community colleges – in fact, all universities – by recently inducting Beck Santillan Hull into the VC Athletic Hall of Fame. She became the first in her position ever honored by a California school. Let’s hope she is not the last.

Hull did not make headlines by swinging a tennis racket or golf club or swishing 3-pointers. Rather, she was an athletic-specific counselor who made sure Pirate athletes hit the books as hard as the weights and excelled in the classroom so they would be eligible for the playing fields and courts.

The life lessons Hull instilled over her 28-year career at VC will have a positive impact on the lives of student-athletes – “my kids” she affectionately called them – long after their newspaper sports clippings have yellowed with age.

The CIF-Southern Section, meanwhile, suffered brain-freeze when it named Rio Mesa/Thousand Oaks high product Marion Jones to its “100 Greatest Athletes” list.

Including the disgraced sprinter who was stripped of her Olympic medals for using performance-enhancing drugs is shameful. If she cheated on the world stage, why should we believe she ran clean in high school?

Sometimes I get the last laugh on Woody’s Laws. Such as midweek when our three-year-old hot-water tank burst.

Sure, it happened at nighttime when a plumber would charge extra to come out – but it didn’t happen while we were gone so that the garage would have become a Great Lake instead of merely a pond before being discovered.

And, of course, I couldn’t find the 10-year warranty – but our plumber had it on file so no worries!

Well, one: the manufacturer has since “improved” the model and hit us with an “upgrade fee.”

Murphy’s Law gets the last laugh. STOP.

Column: Readers & Trees

June 17, 2013 by Woody

Readers Branch Off With Tree Memories

A great many readers responded to my recent column about a majestic old tree I saw get cut down, including Jim O’Grady quoting my great predecessor in this space:

“In 2006 Chuck Thomas wrote a column titled: ‘County’s most endangered
species’ bemoaning the replacement of so many trees for condos,” O’Grady wrote. “He ends his piece with the following parody of Joyce Kilmer’s poem ‘Trees’:

I think that we shall never see, / A condo as lovely as a tree; / And when each orchard is a mall, / We may never see a tree at all.

Figures Chuck would outshine my 700 words in just one stanza.

“I think ‘Trees’ should be required reading for everyone,” echoed Virginia Scotland. “At breakfast I asked my adult son did he remember a favorite tree?

“He said when he was a small lad he remembered an almond tree we had in our back yard when we were living in Lindsey, Calif. and all the orange trees surrounding us and walking on all the fallen blossoms like walking in the snow.

“I am 86 years old and I still remember climbing up pepper trees so full of ants and think this is where the term ‘ants in your pants’ started.”

Scotland concluded, and so very rightly: “We are so fortunate to live in Ventura, a little slice of heaven with ocean and agriculture on all sides and plenty of trees.”

Ed Campbell of Ventura also had a grove of tree memories to share:

“I recall all the many, many trees that have influenced my life. The first tree that comes to mind is a Jacaranda. A young boy in 1946, age 7, fell from this tree, then about 20-feet tall, now some 70 years later 35-plus-feet tall, and very much alive. I ended up with a neck injury and now fused vertebrae – and a broken bit of pride as when I fell, I hit my wagon wheel below and broke it off.

“Most memorable tree during my youth was a five-crown walnut tree in our back yard. It so loved me when I climbed on its long flexible braches and shook of the ripe walnuts in the fall.”

Campbell’s love of trees continued into adulthood.

“Around 1985 I planted two white pine trees on our side yard in CT with my two little girls,” he shared. “When I last ‘Goggled’ the old homestead they were about 30-feet, and doing fine, and I am sure home to may birds.”

More recently, he planted a pair of Red Leaf Forest Phoebes at his Ventura home. “Some 10 years later and about 20-feet tall, they are the pride of the block,” he says. “They are an eastern tree, therefore the leaves turn brown from blood red in the fall; come mid-February, tiny pink flowers pop open, to be followed by tiny heart shape leaves of red, the full glory by May 1, with lots of shade.”

“Your column about the ancient tree that was felled brought back many
happy memories, including camping in the Redwoods as a child with my family,” wrote Joy Hamlat of Camarillo.

“My mother will turn 100 soon. I am in the process of going through things
at what has been the Oxnard family home since 1954. In the yard at the old family home is a large Jacaranda tree with a rugged trunk that I couldn’t begin to reach around. I have a photo of my younger brother, Jeff, and me beside the tree almost 60 years ago when the tree was only a skinny twig!

“Each morning, I deliver breakfast to many hungry sparrows and doves who

flock to the bird feeder hanging from the tree.”

Joy concluded with a story about a different tree – her Family Tree. Last month she celebrated the addition of two new branches: the birth of a grandson to her daughter and a grandson to her son.

“It amazes me,” Joy writes, “that almost exactly a century spans the difference
in age between my mom, born June 12, 1913, and the two new little ones in May 2013.”

Talk about a beautiful growing tree.

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Woody’s new book, WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” is available at: www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: Dads, Sons and Daughters

June 15, 2013 by Woody

Ignorance, Bliss, Dads, Sons and Daughters

Father’s Day arrives tomorrow, so it seems apropos to begin today with a hallmark quote from yesteryear. Actually nearly 140 yesteryears ago when Mark Twain 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.”

Charles Wadworth expanded on Twain’s thought, noting: “By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.”

Dallas and Greg, who make being a dad so great!

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.”

Similarly, from Mario Cuomo: “I watched a small man with thick calluses on both hands work fifteen and sixteen hours a day. I saw him once literally bleed from the bottoms of his feet, a man who came here uneducated, alone, unable to speak the language, who taught me all I needed to know about faith and hard work by the simple eloquence of his example.”

From attribution unknown comes this eloquent 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.”

PBS book talk show host Barry Kibrick 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.’ ”

Or, as my good friend, author and coach Wayne Bryan 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.”

Hall of Fame baseball player Harmon Killebrew apparently had a Hall of Fame Dad, the son recalling this: “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.’

“ ‘We’re not raising grass,’ Dad would reply. ‘We’re raising boys.’ ”

A great attitude for dads of daughters, too.

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

As for fathers and sons, 19th century French poet Marceline Desbordes-Valmore asked rhetorically: “Are we not like two volumes of one book?” German poet Johann Schiller knew these two “volumes” need not share similar DNA, noting: “It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons.”

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

Another basketball coach, Jim Valvano, shared one of the secrets to his success when he noted: “My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person – he believed in me.”

On the topic of “gifts,” a Jewish Proverb states: “When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.”

Here’s some good advice from Bill Cosby when it comes time to open a gift Sunday: “Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope.”

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Woody’s new book, WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” is available for pre-order at: www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: Legacy Left in Artwork

May 25, 2013 by Woody

A Legacy Left in Indelible Ink (and Paint)

“The happiest paintbrushes are the worn-through ones.”

These are the words of a young man who, long before earning a university minor in Painting, took a summer art class at age 12 from Chris Martinez.

Teaching my son drawing skills, and more importantly doing so in an encouraging manner, was not the first time Chris entered my life.

That moment occurred in a previous writing life for me, so long ago The Star was still The Star-Free Press and I was in the sports department. It was 1987 and as a staff rookie I was taking a beating in the letters to the editor from Ventura High fans claiming my columns were pro-Buena; and Bulldog backers complaining I favored the Cougars.

Into the newsroom one day walked a visitor, a bearded stranger to me but wearing the warm smile of an old friend. It was, as you have guessed, Chris. For no reason other than because he was such a kind man, he gave me the most heartfelt gift an artist can bestow: one of his artworks.

It was a 12-by-15-inch black ink drawing, featuring a caricature of me wearing a Los Angeles Rams jersey, a Dodgers cap, and baggy Lakers shorts. A hockey puck is balanced on my right shoulder pad and my hockey-gloved right hand grips a hockey stick. On my left hand I am spinning a basketball, a feat all the more impressive considering the baseball mitt. Scattered around my sneakered feet are a soccer ball, volleyball, bowling ball, baseball, softball, football, tennis ball and two golf balls.

Also, an angry-looking Buena Bulldog looks up at me, as does Ventura High’s Cougar mascot.

A handwritten inscription on the masterpiece reads: “Woody – Sticking your neck out and taking chances are prerequisites for creativity . . . Keep up the good work. – Chris Martinez.”

How dearly did I appreciate Chris’ creativity and skill – his talent was so great he was at one time a Disney illustrator – and above all, kindness? The cherished drawing hangs on a wall by my writing desk alongside a “Pyramid of Success” signed to me by Coach John Wooden.

On a nearby bookshelf is another personal reminder of Chris’s artistic virtuosity: He did the illustrations for the book “Raising Your Child to be a Champion in Athletics, Arts, and Academics” that I co-authored with Wayne Bryan in 2004. To this day, Wayne uses the biography caricature Chris drew of him using a tennis racket as a guitar for his sign-off signature in e-mails.

Three weeks ago today, the music died. So did the artwork. Chris passed away, and far too soon; he would have turned but 67 in July.

Chris made his mark in Ventura in indelible ink. It would surely be quicker to take a roll call of Venturans who do not own a personal caricature drawn by Chris than those who do.

He also made his mark in paint.

As iconic landmarks go, Ventura is blessed with a handful: the Pier and Two Trees and the Mission, to name three.

Here are three more: the portrait of Bob Tuttle that graces Ventura High’s gym named in the legendary coach’s honor; the Dragon mascot mural at Foothill Technology High School; and the huge mural of the school mascot Lion holding a poinsettia on the front of Poinsettia Elementary. All three created by Chris.

There are numerous other Martinez Murals across the county, landmarks each that make locals smile daily.

Yes, Ventura was Chris’s canvas – his canvas just happened quite often to be the outdoor stucco walls of schools. And the smooth walls inside gymnasiums. And basketball hardwood center courts where he painted school logos. Also, each holiday season, dozens of storefront windows were his canvas as well.

Too, his canvas included the students he instructed, the young sports writer he encouraged, the countless others who enjoyed the beauty of his artwork.

Indeed, it is fair to say that the legacy Chris Martinez leaves behind includes the happiest one possible for an artist: a myriad worn-through paintbrushes.

– Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star. You can contact Woody at WoodyWriter@gmail.com or www.WoodyWoodburn.com

Column: FB rides to boy’s rescue

May 18, 2013 by Woody

Facebook rides to boy’s rescue

This is a love story.

It stars a boy and his grandfather, a thief and a school principal, Facebook and a village of caring people.

Tony, a fourth-grader at Mound Elementary in Ventura, had his bike stolen after leaving it at school overnight.

Happy Tony with his bike and Mound Principal Todd Tyner.

His misfortune mounted. Riding double on the crossbar of his grandfather’s bike for the two-mile trip home from school shortly thereafter, Tony’s foot caught in the spokes and he flew head over handlebars.

Todd Tyner, Mound’s principal, had not known about the bike theft or the dangerous double-rides to and from school. When Tony showed up on crutches the next day, Tyner asked and learned and cared.

“I knew we needed to get Tony a replacement bike as soon as he was well enough to ride again,” Tyner recalls thinking.

At 11:18 a.m. that very day, Tyner posted on his Facebook page a brief summary of Tony’s predicament. Shining the Bat-Signal above Gotham City’s night skyline could not have elicited a speedier response of help.

Indeed, a mere two minutes later at 11:20 a.m. – sent from a mobile phone because the Good Samaritan did not want to delay until getting home – came this on-line reply: “I have a bike he can have. He can choose from 4 cuz my kids never ride them.”

Another offer came at 11:36 a.m. – “he can have my beach cruiser. it needs fresh tires but that should be easy to take care of.”

And another and another . . .

12:15 p.m. – “I got $10. If we all chip in we can buy a nice new one.”

12:21 p.m. – “I have a specialized BMX I could part with! Needs a new pedal.”

12:24 p.m. – “I have 2 new bikes in my garage. Need air in tires.”

2:24 p.m. – “We have a brand new boys bike that he can have.”

3:15 p.m. – “I want to help. Can I drop some money off at school?”

And on and on, more than 30 offers for bikes, helmets, locks and cash in a few hours. The problem of no bike turned into one of too many bikes. A nice problem to have. Tyner actually had to turn off the Bat-Signal.

Sitting in his office recalling the “It’s A Wonderful Life”-like event, Tyner is asked if he was surprised by the kind outpouring?

“No, not really,” he answers. “The Internet is a wonderful way to reach out to the community. I knew if I let people know about the need, someone would have an extra bike. This is a very caring community. I see it a lot.”

This time it was a bike, but other days Tyner has seen backpacks and school supplies donated to kids who are without.

And this past December some Mound teachers collected two large bags of clothes and shoes for a couple students in need. They asked Tyner to surreptitiously drop them off at the boys’ home before Christmas, which he did.

“We see them wearing the clothes,” Tyner shares. “That is a rewarding feeling.”

So, too, was the feeling of summoning Tony into the Principal’s Office after the boy was finally off crutches three weeks later.

“I said, ‘I know you need a bike,’ ” Tyner retells. “I told him about Facebook and that more than 40 people had offered to help him out. Tony thought it was pretty exciting that there were people out there who cared enough to give him a bike.”

Along with a new safety helmet and lock (care of Rob and Karri Button), Tony was given his choice of the two bikes that were ultimately donated – the other is being kept for a similar exigency down the road. He selected a shiny red BMX, good as new after Tyner cleaned it a little and pumped up the tires.

“Tony had a big smile when he rode home that day,” Tyner says, beaming at the recent memory he will surely carry into his old age – as will Tony.

As I said at the start, this is a love story. The name of the bike benefactor is Danielle Love. How perfect is that?