Monthly Archives: February 2016

Strawberries Sweet in All Seasons

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Strawberries Sweet in All Seasons

Jim Murray, my writing hero, once told me he regretted his modesty in not doing a column about his memoir when it came out. This lesson, combined with numerous readers of this space asking me about the meaning behind the title of my new book of essays, “Strawberries in Wintertime,” leads me to shamelessly share the backstory.

In my boyhood, I fondly remember picking wild blackberries and raspberries on humid summer days at a weekend cabin in rural Ohio. My two older brothers, younger sister, and I filled pail after pail with ripe berries – and nearly as many berries went directly into our mouths as into the buckets.1berriesstand

So plentiful were the blackberries, especially, that my dad made wine with them. Once. Not only did the blackberry vino prove undrinkable, Mom’s pots and pans were stained purple beyond ruin in the process.

Still, wild blackberries and raspberries, and store-bought strawberries, in summertime were always a delicious treat. Too, an expected one.

Berries in the wintertime, in the Midwest, however, are something I cannot recall from my youth. I am sure they were available at the supermarket in the 1960s for a premium, but Mom never brought them home.

So it was a magical winter indeed when my family took a Christmas vacation to Ventura in 1971 and spent a week at the charming Solimar beach house of family friends. I had never before seen the ocean in person, much less bodysurfed and built sandcastles or explored tidal pools at low tide and chased a “grunion run” under a full moon’s high tide.

And here is something else magical: fresh strawberries in wintertime!1berriesflat

Instead of by the bucketful as with Ohio blackberries, we enjoyed Southern California strawberries by the “flat” topless box containing a dozen plastic pint baskets with a bonus pint piled atop.

I am guessing, but I imagine the price for the entire overflowing flat from a roadside farmer’s stand in Saticoy – for Ventura County was then, as it remains today, the nation’s leading producer of strawberries – wasn’t much more than the cost of a single pint basket in a Midwest grocery store in December.

The temptation during the drive from the farmer’s stand back to the beach house was too tempting to resist. In the car, en route, I ate crabapple-sized strawberries by the handful, by the mouthful, sweet red nectar dripping down my chin.

The following summer we moved from Columbus to Ventura and strawberries became a year-round fare. Still, in my mind they have remained a special treat in wintertime. Hence the title of my newest book, as I hope each offering will make the reader smile and want to devour another.

Indeed, over the years “Strawberries in Wintertime” to me has become a metaphor for an unexpected pleasure in any season. For example, meeting my wife at a college Christmas party was certainly a strawberry-in-wintertime event – and so was having John Wooden befriend me a few years later in springtime.

A surprise birthday party, even in summer, is a strawberry in wintertime – and so is a planned trip in autumn that proves to be magical at every turn.

The point, I suppose, is that by paying attention and having the right frame of mind, our own strawberries in wintertime can fill a “flat” to overflowing no matter what page the calendar shows.

Watching an elementary school play or a Broadway show, cheering at a youth track meet or an Olympic race, building a sandcastle or visiting a castle in Ireland, can all be strawberries in wintertime.

Bumping into an old classmate or finding an email in your inbox from a friend you haven’t heard from in years, these too are strawberries in wintertime.

When I think back to my first visit to Ventura, or in fact any time I stroll on the beach or dive into the surf, I am reminded of this advice from Ralph Waldo Emerson: “Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.”

In my mind, he should have added: “And eat strawberries in wintertime.”

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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”

Wedding Story With a Twist

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Wedding Love Story With a Twist

We felt like interlopers, nearly, in Agoura Hills last Saturday. But like the “Wedding Crashers” characters played by Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, my wife and I had an absolute blast.

To be honest, being invited was a surprise because the only person I knew was the groom.

Added honesty: the invitation made my heart sing, as did the tearful bear hug my tuxedoed friend greeted me with before the ceremony. You would have thought we went back two decades instead of only a couple years.

But, as one of the groomsmen noted in his dinner toast, that is the magic of Jon – he makes all his friends feel like they are his best one.

Jon has many more magical qualities, perhaps none more endearing than how he wears his heart on his sleeve. Actually, his heart seems to be tattooed on his wrist.

Jon and his dad

Jon and his dad

So it was no surprise that as each groomsman and bridesmaid walked down the aisle, Jon’s tears flowed. When the bride appeared, the trickle became Niagara Falls. His visible love was almost as beautiful as the bride herself.

After exchanging lovely vows and rings and a first kiss as wife and husband, Jon stomped on a glass and the gathering shouted “Mazel tov!” – Congratulations! – and the party was on.

Later, as the DJ earned his pay and the dance floor earned its rental fee, I spotted the father of the groom across the ballroom sitting alone at the head table. After introducing myself, the DNA source of Jon’s warmth was obvious.

I wanted to tell him about my first meeting with his son. As he had talked about his writing career, Jon lit up; discussing music and movies, he beamed more; and when he spoke about Natasha, whom he had only recently started dating, he fairly glowed.

But even this joy grew 100 watts brighter when Jon began sharing stories about his dad. This is what I shared, for while the dad certainly already knew about Jon’s love for him. it is always nice to hear such things.

In his toast, Jon’s dad had mentioned how his son phones him at midnight just to say “hi,” or to share this or that, or tell him to listen to a certain song. When Pavarotti died, Jon called in tears because he remembered listening to “The Three Tenors” with his “Pops.”

“How did you become such good friends with your son?” the father privately told me he is often asked. His answer: “I did the opposite of what my dad did.”

He explained that his own dad, a child of The Great Depression, felt his fatherhood duties began and ended with paying the mortgage and putting food on the table. And so he didn’t attend Little League games or Boy Scout gatherings. He gave reprimand, not praise, for report cards with even one B.

Jon’s father did the opposite. He went to every youth game and cheered for his son off the playing fields as well. He took young Jon to trading card shows far and near. He showed an interest in his son’s interests. He gave his time and offered praise and, no small thing, frequently told all his children he loved them.

In short, he was the dad he had not had.

When Jon was 8, his father shared with me proudly, Jon found a wallet containing $100 and on his own turned it into the police. This is not surprising after spending time with Jon’s role model.

Indeed, that private time off to the side of the ballroom, off the dance floor and away from the excitement, visiting with Jon’s dad was every bit as heartwarming as the wedding vows and cake-cutting ceremony and toasts recollecting how Natasha knew Jon was “the one” after their first date and how it wasn’t long before Jon proposed on bended knee in the aisle of a Southwest flight 30,000 feet in the sky.

I came to the wedding knowing Jon was a special man, but I left knowing why he chose his dad to serve as his “best man.”

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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”

“Old Glory,” Old Laundry

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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“Old Glory” Treated Like Old Laundry

Looking at the photograph while inside the warmth of my home gave me chills.

The photo was taken two weeks ago more than 2,700 miles away from Southern California in Virginia; taken during Winter Storm Jonas; taken as Arlington National Cemetery was being buried beneath two feet of snow.

Snapped at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the photo shows a proud member of the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment – also known as “The Old Guard” – keeping sentry during the blizzard.1foldflag

The Old Guard’s young guard is standing solemnly at attention, rifle resting on his left shoulder, both shoulders of his navy blue uniform coat dusted heavily with frozen dandruff.

His long vigil in the fierce conditions is more strikingly evidenced by two inches of snow that has piled up atop his dress cap like thick vanilla frosting on a fancy cupcake.

The chilly image gave me goose bumps of patriotic pride and a surge of gratitude for those who serve, and have served, in our military.

Another photograph, this one taken four days ago, taken in New Hampshire, taken late on primary night inside the campaign headquarters of Hillary Clinton, also made my spine shiver.

With sadness and with anger.

This photo was of an American flag crumpled on the floor in front of empty bleachers. Election night looked like laundry day.

Sadness. The warrior in The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier gave his life fighting for this flag. Anger. Our young men and women warriors sacrifice life and limb for it today.

These two photos, of The Old Guard on duty and Old Glory on the floor, reminded me of another image, this one recorded in my mind a few months past at the funeral of a local World War II veteran.

Charles Banker McConica, Navy veteran and family man and successful auto dealer and beloved friend and longtime admired member of the Ventura community, lived to be 94. The eulogies painted a beautiful and accurate portrait.

Son Jim spoke about how his dad was his biggest cheerleader. Son Charles recounted – one by one with examples of each – how his father exemplified the “Boy Scout Law” of being “Trustworthy, Loyal, Helpful, Friendly, Courteous, Kind, Obedient, Cheerful, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, and Reverent.”

And daughter Judy shared her parents’ cutest of cute meets, how her dad spilled salt in a USO dining hall in Belfast and her Ireland-born mom, seated nearby, suggested he superstitiously toss a pinch over his shoulder. The luck of the Irish ensued as their shared future held 69 years of marriage, three children, seven grandchildren and six great-grandkids.

The spoken words were poignant, but perhaps more so was the silent ceremonious folding of an American flag performed by two soldiers from Naval Base Ventura County.

Performed in slow motion, in full dress uniform, in a church so quiet you could hear your own heart beating, the speechless choreography of the two soldiers was as moving as witnessing a member of The Old Guard marching back and forth in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

After each lengthwise folding, the flag was pulled taught. Each fold was creased with care. Next came the triangular folds, each made with perfect corners, each creased with reverence, thirteen in all until the red-and-white striped portion of the flag met the blue field and white stars.

After the last corner was painstakingly tucked into an open edge, forming a triangle that represents a cocked hat to remind us of the soldiers who served under General George Washington, the two soldiers used their formal white gloves as though they were heated clothes irons and made the three edges crisp and sharp and perfect.

Hugging the folded flag to the chest as though it were as precious as a newborn baby, one solider then lovingly presented it to Charles’ widow, Rosena. Taps was played, more tears fell, and then the soldiers silently exited.

I wish the Clinton campaign staffer who ingloriously left Old Glory on the floor could have been at Charles McConica’s funeral. The New Hampshire photograph would have been different.

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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”

Rapunzel and “Grief Hair” Gift

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Rapunzel and ‘Relay For Life’

How many wigs for cancer patients could Rapunzel’s long golden strands have made?

This thought crossed my mind after my daughter recently had a 10-inch ponytail cut off for Locks of Love.

1dallasCeline

Dear, dear friends Celine and Dallas.

In truth, a tangle of reasons had me thinking about Rapunzel and cancer and wigs. This includes Rachel Halpern, a freshman at Camarillo High School, whose recent class writing assignment was serendipitiously shared via email with my daughter the very day she donated her lovely locks.

Choosing Disney’s movie “Tangled” as her muse, Rachel wrote about tears and flowers and singing in her second-story bedroom.

“Every time she opens the window,” her personal essay says, “she half expects to hear, ‘Rachel, Rachel! Let down your hair!’ ”

“Stylist, stylist! Cut off my hair!” were tearful words for my daughter to utter, and not because she has had flowing locks since she was young child.

Rather, because of the reason behind the drastic haircut. It was in tribute to her dear, dear friend, Celine, who was tragically killed one year ago when her taxi was hit by a truck.

The first time they met, on Move-In Day their freshman year a decade past, Celine had very short hair because she had just donated her own lengthy brown tresses to Locks of Love. It was a brave thing to do right before starting college, but Celine was fearless.

In an effort to be more fearless herself, my daughter grew her “grief hair” out for a full year and on the anniversary of the tragic accident cut it off for a very worthwhile cause.

A wig for someone who has lost her hair while fighting cancer is no small thing. I remember my own dear, dear friend, Karen Hart Haight, whose Rapunzel-like platinum locks fell victim to chemotherapy.

The final time I saw her before she passed away, Karen briefly turned my tears into laughter by tipping her wig askew and sticking out her tongue in a funny face. That moment, thanks to a wig, matters to me 19 years later.

Something else that matters is the American Cancer Society’s “Relay For Life” which will soon kick off its annual season locally with 24-hour events that include: April 9-10 at Camarillo High School; April 30-May 1 at Isbell Middle School in Santa Paula; May 7-8 at Westlake High School; May 14-15 at Ventura College; May 21-22 at Nordhoff High School and also at Conejo Creek Park South; June 25-26 at Hueneme High School; July 16-17 at Oxnard High School; and July 30-31 at the Fillmore Courthouse. For further information: http://relay.acsevents.org.

In each of our own life relays many people, often strangers, help us carry the baton. For my daughter, in her past year of grief relay, this included a new stylist.

Her scissors in action, Anastasia asked my daughter why she was donating her hair. Upon hearing the tearful answer, Anastasia paused and gathered her own emotions before sharing that her best friend died in a car crash seven years ago.

“The first anniversary is the hardest,” Anastasia consoled. “It gets better. Just hang in there.” Her warmth was medicine for a weeping heart.

After sealing the ponytail in a plastic bag for donation, Anastasia styled my daughter’s short locks, added a blow dry and then did one thing more: she refused to accept any payment.

“This is a gift for your friend,” she insisted.

That night my daughter imagined Celine telling her, “Oh my god, Dallas! Your hair! You look fabulous!” and says she found solace in an Eskimo proverb that states: “Perhaps they are not stars in the sky, but rather openings where the love of our lost ones shines down to let us know they are happy.”

Rachel’s written words also added comfort, especially these: “The reflection of the stars makes her eyes twinkle like the stars themselves. Each star illuminates the dark night. They look down on her and sparkle a smile, almost reminding her that the world is still hers to explore.”

The title of Rachel’s wonderful essay: “She’s Shining in the Starlight.”

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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”