Tag Archives: fun

Advice for Easter Egg Hiders and 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.

Run Turns Into Schoolyard Recess

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Distance Run Turns Into

Schoolyard Recess

            “Hi!” a girl, perhaps entering third grade when the new school year begins, called out enthusiastically.

I was circling a half-mile loop around soccer fields during my daily run on a recent weekday afternoon while a youth summer camp was in full swing. About three-dozen kids were enjoying recess-like activities including tag, jump rope and various games with balls.

“Hi!” the same girl repeated, now waving, on my next loop as if seeing me for the first time. A couple of her friends joined in: “Hi” and “Hey Running Man!”

“Hello!” I replied, adding quickly as I passed, “are you having a fun summer?”

“Yessss!” they sang in chorus.

In fits and starts, as I passed by I continued a conversation with what was now five girls sitting in a circle on the grass having snacks: “When does school start?”

Gleeful again: “Next week!”

Next lap: “Are you excited for school?”

“Yessss!” again in song.

I do not like to stop during a run, but on the next lap I did so briefly to ask the five girls, “What grades are you going to be in this year?”

The answers, one by one around the circle, all accompanied by smiles: “Third, fourth, fourth, second, third.”

Off I resumed, my stride feeling as light as Hermes with his winged feet.

Next time around, I was greeted by a boy holding his palm up to give me a high-five; the following loop, a line of kids did so.

It is my experience that the best runs transform themselves from effort into play. In other words, they become recess. For the better part of the 22 laps of this 11-mile run, I was a fifth-grader lost in recess fun.

I say fifth-grader specifically because my teacher that year, Mr. Hawkins, used to join us on the playground and grass field. Some days he would shoot baskets with us; other times we would run pass patterns and he would throw football spirals to us; too, he was pitcher for both teams in softball games.

On this day, I became Mr. Hawkins – albeit in Nikes and T-shirt instead of wingtips and his familiar square-ended knitted necktie. On one loop, a boy camper handed me a football and ran out for a pass. Slowing, but still on the run, I threw wildly.

Half of a mile later, I took another handoff but this time I stopped, planted my feet, and threw a touchdown spiral to make Rams quarterback Jared Goff – or Mr. Hawkins – proud.

Another loop around, a girl tossed me a foam Frisbee. I caught it, but my return toss sailed off-target in a side breeze and she giggled. I retrieved the errant disc and this time made an accurate throw that was rewarded with a happy young smile.

There was more fun. On a couple laps, I found myself with running companions for about 100 meters and was reminded of the races we had with Mr. Hawkins to the far fence on the playground grass.

The order of events this day is beyond my recall, but they included jumping rope until I missed; playing dodge ball when a basketball-sized fuzzy tennis ball was rolled at my feet – “Good jump, Mister!”; and being asked by a girl to spray sunscreen on her back.

This day, I did not care what pace my GPS running watch showed.

This day, I recalled the words of golfing legend Walter Hagen: “Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. You’re only here for a short visit. So don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.”

This day, I stopped to play.

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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” …