Tag Archives: friendship

Making Friendship A Fine Art

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Making Friendship

A Fine Art

My friend Kurt phoned out of the blue the other morning for no other reason than to say “hi” and catch up. His timing was perfect as I was in need of a little pick-me-up. By the time he said “ciao” my socks were filled with helium.

After hanging up, my mind drifted to Coach John Wooden – whose birth date, coincidentally, is this coming Wednesday – and some lessons on friendship he taught me during the two decades I knew him.

The first time I joined Coach on his daily four-mile morning walk some 30 years ago, he gave me a laminated card featuring his father’s “Seven-Point Creed” that includes “Make friendship a fine art.”

In an effort to be such an artist, the next time I visited Coach I brought along a small gift. Knowing his love of poetry, I selected a hardback collection by Rumi. Shortly thereafter, I received a handwritten thank-you note and a copy of a poem authored by Coach titled On Friendship:

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

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

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

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

More prized than the signed poem is that over the ensuing years Coach turned those stanzas into curing words, and deeds, when my spirits fell – particularly after my mom passed away and later when I was nearly killed by a drunk driver.

Coach also had a gift for raising my spirits when they were already high. For example, when I next visited him he recited a poem from the gift Rumi book. I must confess I did not know who he was quoting until he told me. Fittingly, the selection was titled “Love” which Coach insisted was the most important word in the English language.

The poem recital was a thoughtful gesture of rare grace and a lesson through example that saying “thank you” is nice, but to show thanks is far better. In other words, wear a new sweater or necklace the next time you see the person who gave it to you; put a gift vase on proud display before the giver visits; memorize a poem or line from a book given to you.

Another life lesson put into practice was how Coach always gave his full attention on the phone and never seemed in a hurry to hang up. Indeed, if he was too busy to talk he would simply not answer in the first place rather than risk the prospect of having to be in a rude rush.

I fondly remember visiting Coach once when the phone rang and he let the call go through to his answering machine. It was his way of telling me I was his guest and merited full attention. This unspoken kindness became even more meaningful seconds later after the “Beep!” when a very familiar voice could be heard leaving a message.

“That’s Bill Walton!” I said, excitedly. “You’d better answer it!”

Coach Wooden did not reach for the phone and instead told me with a devilish smile: “Heavens no! Bill calls me all the time. If I pick up he’ll talk my ear off for half an hour and then you and I won’t get to visit. I’ll talk with him later.”

I’m glad I did not have a visitor when Kurt phoned the other day while making friendship a fine art.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Friendship Turns Back Calendar

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Familiar Laugh is

a Time Machine

H. G. Wells knocked on my front door Sunday morning and when I opened it the pages of the calendar flipped backward, months, years, four decades in all, in an instant.

Greeting me was my college roommate from freshman year. In 2019, I was 18 again.

Fingerprint analysis could not have been more accurate in identifying Matt than the proof provided by his smile. Father Time may have stolen his bushy, dark curls and added lines of wisdom to his countenance, but his grin was as broad and radiant and familiar as ever.

In the only photograph I have of Matt, for there were no ubiquitous cell phone cameras always at the ready in 1978, he is flashing his trademark electric grin as sun-bleached-mop-haired me goofily flashes a peace sign of rabbit ears behind his head.

Goofing it up as UCSB freshmen with my roommate Matt Bell.

In my mind’s eye – rather, mind’s ear – there is something even more identifying than Matt’s smile: his laugh. DNA profiling could not be more precise for identification. It is a hall-of-fame laugh, part cackle, part music.

Matt freely played that music again Sunday morning and it was more wonderful than Cheap Trick and Tom Petty and Pink Floyd making our dorm widows rattle on a Friday night.

Words of hello being insufficient after so long apart, we promptly embraced on the front doorstep – perhaps for the first time ever because college roommates in the ’70s didn’t generally hug.

The next two hours passed like two minutes as we played catch-up on our lives, our long marriages, his three children and my two plus a granddaughter, our jobs – he’s a high school principal in Northern California – and on and on. The eggs and pancakes and coffee grew cold half-untouched because the air was so warm with conversation and memories and laughter.

It’s funny sometimes what memories pop to mind. Matt was on UC Santa Barbara’s gymnastic team and while I recall him being dizzying good on the rings and pommel horse, my favorite feat of his was when he walked the entire length of our dorm hallway on his hands while the rest of us cheered as though it was the Olympics.

Matt remembered stories I had forgotten and vice-versa. Most of them I dare not share in this space, but here’s one more that I will. I had sophomorically sabotaged his toothbrush with soap and Matt retaliated ingeniously by somehow putting a small measure of sunscreen inside my tube of Crest.

As I spit and rinsed, rinsed, rinsed, Matt guffawed. I squeezed away a third of the tube to get rid of the contaminated portion and started brushing again. Again, I gagged. This happened a third time as well.

By now Matty sounded like Muttley the cartoon dog. I believe it was the only time either of us got even halfway upset at the other – in truth, I think I was mad at myself for falling for the well-played prank over and over.

Now I’m mad at myself for falling out of touch with Matt after graduation. More so, however, I’m thankful for the miracle of social media that allowed us to reconnect after 37 years.

To give you one more snapshot of what a masterpiece reunion we had, and to further encourage you to reach out to a friend you may have lost contact with, Matt and I were so busy enjoying ourselves that we forgot to take a picture together. We plan to remedy that soon.

It has been said that it takes a long time to grow an old friend, but it can also happen over breakfast.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Masterpiece Friends Elevate Us

by Woody

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Masterpiece Friends Elevate

Us To The Clouds

“A friend,” Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, and wisely, “may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.”

One such masterpiece in my life celebrates a milestone birthday today, having completed 60 voyages around the sun. Thinking of My Masterpiece Friend brings also to mind my first best friend throughout childhood.

Dan and my relationship got off to an odd start a year before starting kindergarten together when our moms, who were in the same bowling league, set up an introductory play date.

When Mrs. Means – parents did not have first names in the 1960s – called out for Dan to come into the family room to meet me, he did not appear. She tried again, slightly louder. Again, Dan did not show up or answer. Not one to yell, Mrs. Means directed me down the hallway to the last door on the right.

I found Dan’s room, but not Dan. From beneath the bed, however, came a soft rustling noise. I crept over, dropped to my hands and knees, and lifted the hanging bedspread. Hiding like a fox in a den, Dan was playing with G.I. Joes.

Dan gave me a Cold War reception, like I was G.I. Vladimir, and refused to come out. Meanwhile, I dared not crawl into G.I. Dan’s foxhole. Instead, my mental Kodachrome footage shows the strangest thing: I started doing pushups, counting aloud, “One, two, three … ten!”

Why in the world would I act like a mini-Jack LaLanne? I have no idea other than I was trying to impress Dan in the same manner I sometimes reacted when my two older brothers told me I was too puny to join their activities.

Dan eventually Army-crawled out from his under-the-bed bunker and we played G.I. Joes. Next, we fed his two pet gerbils – “Bruce” and “Wayne” in honor of Batman’s true identity – and then headed to the basement to play with Hot Wheels.

Murray was a four-legged masterpiece friend.

Dan and I were fast friends indeed, literally so at a go-kart speedway once. More accurately, that day I was his fast-and-reckless friend. On the opening lap I bumped his wheels while trying to pass and sent us both spinning into the grass infield. We were instantly expelled from the track. Instead of being ticked off at me, Dan laughed like Muttley the cartoon dog having a loud asthma attack.

Fast forward four decades. I met My Masterpiece Friend in similar fashion to how I met Dan. Instead of two matchmaking moms, a shared acquaintance set up a play date of sorts to introduce us. This time, I did not do any impromptu calisthenics.

“Make friendship a fine art,” John Wooden advised and in this vein My Masterpiece Friend is a modern Rembrandt. One example may serve as well as 100. Recently, our nearly 13-year-old boxer grew gravely ill with cancer. The day arrived when the only humane recourse was to have a veterinarian come to our home to relieve Murray’s suffering through euthanasia.

The vet, who had the couch-side manner of an angel, needed help lifting Murray onto the stretcher afterward. I risked aggravating a recent injury, although that pain would be preferable to having my distraught wife do the morose task.

Not to worry because My Masterpiece Friend dropped everything and rushed over. What is even more, I knew he would.

“What wealth is it to have such friends that we cannot think of them without elevation!” wrote Emerson’s great friend, Henry David Thoreau. I can still envision Dan and me kicking the clouds with our toes while soaring on the playground swings, but My Masterpiece Friend elevates me higher still.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Friend in Deed is Friend Indeed

by Woody

1StrawberriesCoverWooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upFor a Personalized Autographed copy of “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME” or “WOODEN & ME” use the PayPal link on my home page or mail a check for $25 to:

Woody Woodburn

400 Roosevelt Court

Ventura, CA 93003

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Friend in Deed is Friend Indeed

In an ironic turn of events, our microwave oven had its goose cooked the other day.

Finding a replacement of similar dimensions for the built-in spot proved to be a wild-goose chase. Four local stores, and an on-line search, all came up short – or, more accurately, came up too wide or too tall.

Unlike Goldilocks’ napping beds, none of the microwaves was “just right.” The best solution was to get a smaller model and add a shelf to position it suitably.

Alas, my last foray into woodworking was making a skateboard in eighth-grade shop class. I got at best a C-plus on the assignment – and a D-minus while on the skateboard.

Indeed, I’m a wordsmith, not a woodsmith (which isn’t a word, but should be). I can use a hammer and screwdriver and duct tape, but that’s about the extent of my This Old House-like skills. For me to invest in additional tools would make as much sense as buying surgical instruments. I’m handy only with my typing fingers.

Therefore, even for a simple shelf, I reached out for help. My first thought was to ask my friend, Mike Pederson, because he has the skills of Noah and MacGyver combined. I believe he fully remodeled his kitchen during halftime of an NFL game. More recently, he started rebuilding his mother’s garage that burned down in the Thomas Fire and will probably complete it before I finish writing this column.

Mike with wheelchair athlete and friend Alvin.

The reason I didn’t ask Mike, however, is because I embarrassingly still owe him a couple pints at a local micro brewery in payment for the last fix-it job he did for me.

Instead, I asked my Facebook friends if anyone could help me out with a piece of plywood measuring 23-1/4 inches by 15 inches. I promised that All-Thumbs Me could sand and paint it.

Two days later, my posted request far from mind, I was out for my daily run at Kimball Community Park. Rounding a corner on my familiar loop, I spotted a familiar Paul Bunyan-esque figure ahead, then a familiar face, finally a familiar smile.

I stopped to say “hi” and Mike greeted me by revealing from behind his back a shelf. Not a slab of plywood cut to needed size, mind you, but rather a finely sanded shelf complete with decorative front rail. It is so handsome that no painting by me was required. My old woodshop teacher would have graded it “A-plus.”

John Wooden would have loved Mike because he “makes friendship a fine art.” Mike also creates a lot of such “art.” As example, Mike has twice escorted our mutual friend Alvin Matthews, a wheelchair athlete, in the Los Angeles Marathon.

“As busy as he is with his own life and family’s, he always seems to find time for me,” Alvin says, noting further that Mike frequently drives him to training outings and assists him in and out of his missile-like racing chair; researched a beach-access wheelchair; and has been by his side in the hospital. “He’s top-notch as a friend!”

Given Mike’s giving nature, it seems fully appropriate he was born on Christmas Day. To be sure, he brings to mind the poem “On Friendship” penned by Coach Wooden:

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

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

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

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

Or, in Mike’s case, a kind deed.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden & Me Kickstarter Front PhotoCheck out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Column: Stranger Becomes a Friend

by Woody

My new memoir WOODEN & ME is available here at Amazon

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Downside of ‘Hello’ is ‘Goodbye’

“A stranger,” Will Rogers said, “is just a friend I haven’t met yet.”

Three years ago, Jongsoo was a stranger to me.

And then we met, crossing paths at the Ventura Aquatic Center community park. I was on my daily run going one direction around the soccer fields and he walked, aided by a cane, in the opposite. “Hi,” I said as we passed.

My joyful friend, Jongsoo, and me before saying goodbye.

My joyful friend, Jongsoo, and me before saying goodbye.

“HELL-OHHH!” Jongsoo replied in all capital letters with the “o” drawn out and punctuated with an exclamation mark.

Jongsoo not only greeted me with “HELL-OHHH!” whenever I saw him in the days and months that followed, often a few times a week, he would sing it with the same enthusiasm on each ensuing loop, sometimes a dozen times in one afternoon, as if every encounter was the first.

Soon we were exchanging a hug with the day’s first “HELL-OHHH” and high-fives thereafter. Jongsoo’s carbonated joy always added a lightness to my stride and heart.

Too, he made me laugh. For one thing, Jongsoo often walked with a transistor radio, sans earphones, blaring loud enough to scare away birds. Moreover, he sometimes did a few dance steps for my amusement.

The sight of Jongsoo and me trying to converse had to amuse all who saw us, an odd couple to be sure: he two decades older than me; me a foot taller; and neither of us understanding much of what the other was saying despite our pantomimes.

One day early on, Jongsoo was limping more than usual and through gestures I asked about his leg. He answered by displaying a scar that looked like a great white shark had taken a bite out of his hip and thigh. Through charades it became clear the shark had been a car.

Last week, Jongsoo gave me a note, in English, explaining he was leaving in five days and would not return for at least a year.

“Thanks for cheering me up whenever I see you at the park,” it also read. “Thank you for being my friend.”

The following afternoon I handed Jongsoo a return note of thanks with some questions about him. One, two, three days passed and I did not see him at the park. I feared I would not get to say goodbye to my friend.

Why had I not realized sooner that Jongsoo must be living with someone who could translate for us? Mad at myself, I recalled what sports writer Frank Graham once wrote about Bob Meusel, a gruff outfielder with the New York Yankees who in his fading playing days warmed up slightly: “He’s learning to say hello when it’s time to say goodbye.”

On the final day before Jongsoo would fly back to South Korea, as I was nearing the end of my run and about to leave the park, a VW Beetle honked and pulled into the parking lot. Jongsoo had insisted his daughter, Kim, drive him over one last time in hopes of catching me.

“HELL-OHHH!” Jongsoo sang.

“An nyoung!” I said back, after asking Kim for the Korean translation.

From Kim I learned that her father is 76 years old, has three children and his arranged marriage is closing in on its golden anniversary. He has been staying in Ventura with Kim, who came to American in 1994 to earn a doctoral degree in Special Education and remained here to teach, and her husband Cory, a software engineer.

I also learned that a taxi had struck Jongsoo five years ago in Seoul; his hip socket and part of his shattered femur needed to be replaced. How he now walks for one to two hours daily is remarkable and inspiring. Surgery and chemotherapy for colon cancer also did not slow him down for long.

After giving my friend a hug, I asked Kim how to say goodbye in Korean.

“An nyoung!” I said again, for the salutation she explained is the same going as arriving.

I learned to say hello when it was time to say goodbye – but now I’ll be ready to say hello when goodbye ends and Jungsoo and I meet again at the park.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Pooh Bear and Heartbreak

by Woody

My new memoir WOODEN & ME is also available here at Amazon

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Pooh Bear No Match For These Tears

When my daughter was very young and in daycare, I would frequently pick her up and take her out on a lunch “date.” We always had a wonderful time, but when I would drop her off again so I could go back to work, she always cried.

And cried and cried, so much so that her grandmotherly caregiver eventually suggested it might be best to stop these noontime excursions.

Celine and Dallas lighting up Paris with their smiles.

Celine and Dallas lighting up Paris with their smiles.

The next time I dropped Dallas off after a lunch outing, I tried something crazy and gave her one of her favorite stuffed animals to remind her of me, and our bedtime reading ritual, as she went down for her afternoon nap.

Winnie the Pooh worked like a charm. The tears stopped and our dates continued.

Fast forward just over a dozen years. After hugging Dallas goodbye on move-in day her freshman year in college, I handed her a small stuffed Winnie the Pooh. Through her tears came a smile.

I needn’t have worried, of course. Minutes after we left, Dallas’ very first new college friend walked into her dorm room. This human Winnie the Pooh’s name was Celine. She lived across the hallway and came bearing an extra Popsicle.

Instant friends, they became roommates the following three years, and lasting friends who after graduation visited each other around the globe from Los Angeles and San Francisco to London and Paris, the latter where Celine moved to pursue a career in fashion.

Early Monday morning my daughter called me, heartbreak like I’ve never heard in her voice: “Celine is dead, Daddy.”

Celine was in India for a friend’s wedding and while riding in a taxi was hit by a bus. Twenty-six is far too young to lose your life and 27 is far too young to lose a best friend.

Talking to Dallas on the phone numerous times daily since – in truth, mostly listening to her because really a parent is hopelessly impotent to help in any other way in such a tragic time – I have been reminded of those long ago nights reading to her about another friendship, from A.A. Milne’s classic “Winnie the Pooh,” and specifically the passage where Christopher Robin tells Pooh Bear:

“If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

Celine, in a way, gave this same gift to Dallas, who recalls: “Freshman year of college, when I broke up with my first real boyfriend, I remember fleeing to her room, sobbing, and she hugged me as I cried.

“Another time, when I was feeling down on myself because ‘no boys were ever going to like me, ever!’ she played me the song ‘Somebody’s Baby’ by Phantom Planet, saying it made her think of me because I was ‘so awesome that guys probably just assume you’re already taken.’ I still smile and think of her when I hear that song. Celine saw the very best in me, even when I didn’t see it in myself.”

The last time my daughter saw Celine was before Dallas’ birthday this past May. They caught up for brunch before Celine caught her flight back to Paris.

“I had a cold and I remember wondering whether I should cancel,” Dallas remembers. “I didn’t want to spread my germs to Celine, or to anyone else my path would cross on my commute into the city. But we were able to see each other so rarely that I thought, ‘To hell with it, I’m going!’ And I’m so grateful I did. We had a lovely visit, chatting in the sunshine over hot coffee and tea and scones, and before we hugged goodbye in the BART station I remembered to snap a photo.”

One could not wish to see two happier faces in a final selfie together.

Here is what Christopher Robin also tells Pooh Bear: “But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart . . . I’ll always be with you.”

He should have added, “Here, Pooh, have a Popsicle.”

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Friendship Trumps All

by Woody

My new memoir WOODEN & ME is also available here at Amazon

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Friendship Trumps Time and Separation

Tennessee Williams was spot-on when he observed, “Time doesn’t take away from friendship, nor does separation.”

Rarely has this been more clear personally than earlier this week when I met up with a boyhood friend I had not seen in a dozen years, if not more. Before that, it had been nearly as long again between reunions.

Jimmy and me: a poor picture of a rich friendship!

Jimmy and me: a poor picture of a rich friendship!

Prior to these long lapses, however, during our “Wonder Years,” Jimmy and I were thick as thieves, or scamps, or Tom and Huck. He was, in fact, my first friend upon moving to Ventura from Ohio at age 12.

Jimmy, four months my junior, wasn’t my friend so much as my “cousin” of which I have not a single biological one. Had he lived in Ventura, or I in Pasadena, we would have been “brothers.”

We first met because Jimmy’s aunt and uncle were my godparents. Each summer he stayed two weeks at their Solimar beach home and upon arriving here in 1972 I joined him. It became a yearly rendezvous through our teens.

Those beach days and nights were boyhood bliss. We stayed up late shooting pool and watching TV, slept in long, then spent the remaining sunlight in the waves and exploring tide pools, looking for seashells and ocean glass, playing basketball and talking about girls.

Too, I would annually stay a week with Jimmy and his mom – his father died when Jimmy was 4 and his only sibling, a sister, was 10 years older and already out of the house – in Pasadena. Summer at the beach is an idyllic playground that is hard to equal, but these vacations came close.

Jimmy was a California beach boy straight from Central Casting, with a toothpaste-ad smile, longish platinum hair, and a tan the color of an old penny. But his most striking feature, it always seemed to me, was his laugh.

Even at age 12, his laugh sounded like it came from an old man with emphysema – imagine Billy Crystal doing an out-of-breath character in a Brooklyn deli. Better yet, recall the wonderful hearty snicker of Muttley, the Hanna-Barbera cartoon dog. That was Jimmy’s laugh and he used it readily.

Separation of 70 miles – Jimmy still lives near Pasadena – is no excuse for the years of severance we allowed to pass.

Our last time together was when we saw John Wooden give a talk at the historic Pasadena Civic Center. Jimmy and I shared many similarities growing up and near top of the list was our idolization of the Wizard of Westwood. Indeed, we both went to Coach Wooden’s summer basketball camp and memorized every block in the Pyramid of Success.

Too bad we neglected Wooden’s preaching to “make friendship a fine art” – at least with each other. Annually our Christmas cards echoed sentiments to rekindle our friendship in the New Year, but we kept failing to keep the promise.

Taking the “Initiative” – a block in Wooden’s Pyramid – Jimmy’s 2014 holiday card included wishes of “Peace, Love & Joy” and a specific date in January to meet. When I walked into Brendan’s Irish Pub & Restaurant in Agoura Hills – a midway drive for both of us – the sight of my old friend was a time machine making me young again.

Our 15-year separation might as well have been five minutes. We picked up as if we had just been in the middle of a conversation before one of us left to go to the bathroom – the latter happening a number of times on this evening, causing Jimmy to say, “I guess we are in our fifties and not teenagers anymore.”

An anticipated hour visit lasted nearly four as we reminisced and caught up on wives and kids, work and play, and raised our glasses to the shared loved ones we have lost – his cousin and my second “sister”; his aunt and my godmother; his mom and my mom.

Bidding goodbye, Jimmy and I made plans for another hello very soon, and these words of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow came to mind: “Ah, how good it feels! The hand of an old friend.”

And the hug and the Muttley laugh, too.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden-&-Me-cover-mock-upCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

 

Column: Amazing Grace (and Duane)

by Woody

A Fast Friendship Out of the Blue

KaBOOM! KaBOOM! KaBOOM!

The racket sounded like a judge frantically trying to restore order in his courtroom.

Instead of a gavel, however, this ruckus was the pounding of 11 small, wooden mallets upon two tabletops. Specifically, two dining tables covered with butcher paper taped down at the corners.

A bushel of Maryland Blue Crabs seasoned by the gods!

A full bushel of steaming Maryland Blue Crabs seasoned by the gods!

And the butcher paper was covered with mountainous piles of Callinectes sapidus: Maryland Blue Crabs, fresh from the Chesapeake Bay.

There are a handful of meals over one’s lifetime that stand out above all others and this dinner two weeks past makes my honor roll. Beyond the delicious food, this was due to the fine company. Oh, and the messy fun that made me feel like a kindergartener in need of an art smock.

Indeed, when I arrived my hosts, the aptly named Grace and her husband Duane, apologized for not warning me to wear an old shirt.

Since I was a blue crab virgin, Grace’s father, Ray, gave me a cracking tutorial. He began by showing me how to locate the crab’s apron – a male’s looks like the nearby Washington Monument while the female’s resembles the Capitol dome – and then breaking it off.

Ray lost me somewhere between removing the top shell and cleaning the gills, but I latched onto the most important step: Pound the crab with the mallet and then pick out and eat the sweet meat.

What I lacked in skill, I made up for with enthusiasm. Half-a-dozen crabs into the feast, I needed a clean shirt; after dozen, a shower; still I kept going.

This was Thanksgiving in August. Instead of an oversized turkey, Grace served up a full bushel of steaming blue crabs seasoned by the gods. Half as many would have been a challenge to finish, but the 11 of us did our mighty best.

“You learn a lot about someone when you share a meal together,” Anthony Bourdain, chef and TV personality, has said.

I learned that Ray was in the CIA during the Cold War and I learned much of Grace’s charm comes from her mother, Anne.

I learned that in just about any endeavor, Duane would be my top draft pick. A Southern California beach boy, he was a discus thrower on scholarship in college and now does triathlons; he is a masterful furniture maker and also built entirely by himself their gorgeous house that merits being featured in Better Homes and Gardens.

Duane and Grace with Greg and me.

Duane and Grace with Greg and me.

Too, he is an involved dad of two terrific teenage sons; a wonderful storyteller; modest as a monk; and generous beyond belief.

Actually, the last thing I already knew about Duane and Grace. You see, when my son accepted a 10-week summer internship in Washington, D.C., with KaBOOM!, a national non-profit dedicated to promoting active play for kids, he needed a place to stay.

I have a dear Venturan friend who grew up in Virginia and I asked him for recommendations where to look for housing. Ken in turn emailed a childhood friend for suggestions; Grace instantly phoned back saying they would take the stranger in.

“Who does that?” my wife, a remarkably kind person herself, said in happy wonderment, her sleepless nights of worrying where our son would stay now cured.

Amazing Grace, Duane, Robbie and Scott, and charismatic collie-mix Hobie, made Greg feel so welcome that when I showed up for the crab feast only I was a visitor. Instead of a lonely rented room, Greg came home each night to a family. If he was running late, they held dinner. If he needed a ride, they drove him or gave him the car keys. When they went to parties and barbecues, Greg was included.

“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed,” Ray Bradbury wrote. “As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.”

Grace and Duane proved Bradbury wrong, for they filled the vessel to overflowing even more quickly than 11 hungry souls emptied a bushel of delicious Maryland Blue Crabs.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Column: Wooden and Friendship

by Woody

Wooden Made Friendship a Fine Art

 

Monday – October 14 – would have been John Wooden’s 103rd birthday. Below, excerpted from my new memoir Wooden & Me: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” (signed copies available at WoodyWoodburn.com and unsigned paperbacks at Amazon.com), is an example of how he walked his talk.

 

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The next time I joined Coach John Wooden for a brisk morning walk, I did something I embarrassingly neglected to do in all my excitement the first time: I brought a gift of thanks for his hospitality.

 

Coach with two very happy young visitors in his home: my son Greg and daughter Dallas.

 

Coach thanked me for the book while insisting a gift was completely unnecessary. Shortly thereafter I received a handwritten thank-you note; included within was a postcard-sized printed poem authored by Wooden titled “On Friendship”:

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

More prized than the signed poem is that over the ensuing years Coach would turn the words into deed when my spirits fell – particularly when my mom passed away in 1992 and when I was severely injured by a speeding drunk driver in 2003.

 

Even when my spirits were already high, Coach had a gift for raising them further. For example, when I next visited him he recited a poem from the Rumi volume I had given him. I must confess I did not know whom Coach was quoting until he told me. It was not surprising, however, that his selection was titled “Love” since Coach always insisted it was the most important word in the English language.

 

What a thoughtful and eloquent gesture, what rare grace. It was a simple reminder that saying “thank you” is nice, but to show thanks is far better. Write a note of thanks, certainly, but also wear a new sweater or necklace the next time you see the person who gave it to you; put a gift vase on proud display before the giver visits; memorize a poem or line from a book given to you. Time and again in ways big and small, Coach put into practice the fifth rule printed on his father’s seven-point creed: “Make friendship a fine art.”

 

One of Coach’s many exceptional qualities was how he made people feel special by giving each individual he was interacting with his undivided attention. For example, he was perhaps the slowest, and the most gracious, autograph-signer in history because he made a conscious effort to engage each fan in a brief conversation.

 

Similarly, Coach always gave his full attention on the phone and never seemed in a hurry to hang up. Indeed, if he was too busy to talk he would simply not answer the phone in the first place rather than risk the prospect of having to be in a rude rush.

 

I fondly remember visiting Coach when the phone rang and he let the call go through to his answering machine. The message conveyed was that I was his guest and thus merited his complete focus. This unspoken kindness became even greater seconds later after the “Beep!” when a very familiar voice could be heard leaving a message.

 

“That’s Bill Walton!” I said, excitedly. “You’d better answer it!”

 

Coach did not move towards the phone and instead replied with a devilish smile: “Heavens no! Bill calls me all the time. If I pick up he’ll talk my ear off for half an hour and then you and I won’t get to visit. I’ll talk with him later.”

 

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for the Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. WOODEN & ME is available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com and Amazon.com.

 

 

 

 

 

Column: The Music of Friendship

by Woody

Rekindling the Music of Friendship

 

            The memory hadn’t flashed across my mind’s eye in three decades, yet here it was in sharp focus and brilliant Kodachrome color.

 

The year was 1975 and the yellow VW Bug was already old and the summer was hot and here’s the thing I most remember all these years later: There was no way to turn off the heater in my friend Jim’s car.

 

            Even with the windows rolled down we simmered like astronauts inside an Apollo capsule during re-entry with the heat shield glowing red-hot.

 

JamesBoz

The James Broz. Band — J.D., right, with son James.

 

            You remember funny things, like this: getting ice cream cones after a practice session and coming out to find Jim had locked the keys in the VW. We borrowed a coat hanger from the nearby dry cleaners and, as the ice cream melted, took turns trying to break in.

 

The next time it happened, which it did, we ate our ice cream first.

 

I can’t tell you what songs played on Jim’s car radio that summer, but my guess is they included Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Lodi” and “Motherless Child” by Eric Clapton and “Blue Sky” by The Allman Brothers Band and Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles” and “Can’t You See” by The Marshall Tucker Band.

 

I say this because those were all on the play list by The James Broz. Band on a recent August night inside a Ventura Harbor venue not much roomier than Jim’s VW Bug, although thankfully, much cooler.

 

The James Broz. Band is not brothers but rather a father and son – Jim and James Wolff. Actually, Jim goes by J.D. now, which keeps tripping me up.

 

Until last weekend, I believe I had seen Jim – I mean, J.D. – only twice in the past quarter-century. Both times he was playing drums in bands at large charity gatherings so we were unable to catch up.

 

(J.D. will join The Bryan Bros. Band for a few songs at Mike and Bob Bryan’s annual All-Star Tennis Festival fundraiser on Sept. 27 at Spanish Hills Country Club. Visit www.bbtennisfest.com for information.)

 

One of the great things about social media is its ability to reconnect lost friends. Through Facebook, I learned about the two-man James Gang’s small gig and showed up. I am so glad I did.

 

J.D. is as talented with guitar strings as he was with strings in a tennis racket and his son is no less musically gifted. Between songs J.D. kindly gave me a shout-out, although in the intimate gathering shouting was not required.

 

“I want to thank my ol’ friend Greg for coming out,” Jim said, using my given name before quickly adding: “I mean, Woody.”

 

There was no need for the correction – he’s grandfathered in.

 

JDphotos

Further evidence of J.D.’s talents!

Between sets we got to visit and it was like a time portal. Jim’s laugh is as unchanged as his fingerprints and I was reminded of a quote by the writer E.B. White: “I’ve never been able to shed the mental image I have of myself – a lad of about nineteen.”

 

For me, make that about 15.

 

Now in our 50s but both of us dressed like teens in jeans and flip-flops, Jim and I learned our sons have been to Africa on humanitarian sojourns and we each have a remarkable daughter and an amazing wife. I wanted to know more about his music; he wanted to talk about my new memoir.

 

We promised to get together, and soon, and we will.

 

Moments earlier Jim had sung Bob Dylan’s “My Back Pages” with the quintessential lyric, “Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.”

 

Ah, we were so much younger then in that VW sauna, but that’s all right because it takes a long time to grow an old friend.

 

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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.