Monthly Archives: August 2019

Amber Rubarth is in the House

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Small Audience,

Big Enchantment

            Picking up where I departed last week, serendipity smiled and Amber Rubarth sang and my daughter and I had a strawberries-in-wintertime “Daddy date” in August.

My travel writer friend Ken likes to remind me, “Be sure to turn down a hidden alleyway or go inside a quiet doorway off the beaten path because that’s where you’ll find some of the most memorable experiences.”

Heeding this sage advice, my daughter-who-now-has-a-daughter and I drove down a main thoroughfare in Fremont to a series of smaller and smaller streets with slower and slower speed limits, and eventually turned into a hidden neighborhood. After parking, we strolled in search of an address and at last went inside a quiet doorway.

It was not pure serendipity that guided us off the beaten path. My son had learned of a “house concert” featuring Amber Rubarth. Knowing how dearly his sister delights in Amber’s music, he bought two tickets with one stipulation: I must keep the destination a surprise.

Amber and Dallas after the “house concert.”

Mission accomplished. Not until she stepped inside the front door and was greeted by a host – and a table stacked with CDs and vinyl LPs – did my daughter realize she was about to see Rubarth in a private concert.

In my quarter-century as a sports columnist, I sat courtside at Lakers games and saw Pete Sampras from the first row; I stood on the field a yard behind the end zone for an entire 49ers-Rams playoff game and walked inside the ropes following Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods; and on and on, but I have never been closer to the action than at this concert.

My daughter and I sat left of the stage in the front row – which was also the back row. Well, if there had been a stage. Rubarth, an award-winning singer-songwriter, occupied a card table-sized patch of hardwood floor. If I straightened my legs, I literally ran the risk of tripping Amber if she took two steps in our direction.

It bears mentioning that everyone had amazing seats as there were by actual count only 23 people in attendance. Inside a lovely living room with a vaulted ceiling and a grand piano in one corner, the gathering sat on a couch, a love seat, kitchen and dining room chairs, and in the center back row – which was the third row – high-backed barstools.

With no mic and amplifier required, Amber’s voice seemed impossibly twice as pleasant as on recordings and three times more so than in a large venue. It was wondrous to close one’s eyes and get lost in her singing and guitar playing. But it was even more mesmerizing to watch her at her craft; to see her graceful fingers flex and dance; see the currents of emotions flow across her face with the changing notes; have her warm gaze catch yours and hold it, all from a few feet away.

Before songs, Amber shared their meanings and peeled open her life at the times she wrote them. After songs, she asked audience members about themselves. It wasn’t a concert so much as an intimate party.

Often ignoring her play sheet that rested on the piano, Amber frequently opened the floor for requests. Near evening’s end, my daughter asked for “Song to Thank the Stars” which she danced to at her wedding three years ago. Amber said it was one of her favorites as well and began to strum and sing.

One lyric: “I need a song to thank the stars / That you are mine.”

My feelings precisely as I enjoyed an enchanted summertime “Daddy date” with my grown-up little girl.

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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” …

Never Too Old For “Daddy Date”

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Serendipity Smiles …

… And Also Sings

“Strawberries in wintertime” is a favorite phrase I use for an unexpected delight, its origins dating to when I was age 10 and visited California for the first time during Christmas break.

A highlight surpassed perhaps only by my Ohioan debut swim in the freezing ocean near the Ventura Pier was gorging on a flat of sun-warmed strawberries from a roadside stand in Saticoy. In the Midwest we only ate strawberries in summertime.

All of which is to put into perspective a strawberries-in-wintertime treat I recently enjoyed. Or, I suppose, it was Christmas in August. Semantics aside, here’s the specifics: my adult daughter and I went on a “Daddy date” as she has called our just-the-two-of-us outings ever since kindergarten.

Oftentimes, with Mom and Brother staying home, we would go out to dinner and my lovely date always insisted on wearing a pretty dress. In turn, I would bring her flowers and open the car door for her because both were things she should expect boys worth dating to do when she got older.

Our “Daddy dates” have continued for nearly three decades, through high school and college and grad school; even through her finding a date who not only opened her car door and gave her flowers, but gave her a diamond ring. She, in turn, gave him a daughter eight months ago.

Singer-songwriter Amber Rubarth

Being a mom and wife and author can leave little time for being a daughter, and thus our most recent “Daddy date” was indeed a strawberries-in-wintertime evening together.

Backstory. Three years past, my daughter and I flew to Seattle solely to attend a concert by one of her favorite musicians, Amber Rubarth. The award-winning folk singer-songwriter has provided the soundtrack of my daughter’s life since teen-hood when she first saw Rubarth play in the intimate confines of ol’ Zoey’s Café in Ventura.

During life’s sunny days, my daughter beamed listening to Rubarth’s songs. More importantly, during stormy nights of tears, she drew strength and inspiration from Rubarth’s penetrating lyrics.

My daughter’s husband, who had never strummed a guitar, spent six months learning one song to play when he proposed – “Quiet” which Rubarth recorded in duet with Jason Mraz. Not surprisingly, at my daughter’s wedding the bride and groom danced to Rubarth’s “Song to Thank the Stars.”

What is surprising, however, is that on that wedding day Rubarth posted a Tweet to her many thousands of Followers: “Congratulations @DallasWoodburn on your big day!! So happy for you two!”

Rubarth knew about the nuptials because a year earlier, after seeing her in concert, my daughter cathartically wrote an essay – a letter, actually, addressed “Dear Amber Rubarth” – expressing how important the singer’s music has been to her. She then sent it off into the ether of the Internet like a message in a bottle.

One paragraph tucked inside the corked glass read: “I felt myself in your songs. I felt understood. I listened to your beautiful, fragile, strong voice sing bravely and vulnerably about love and hope and healing, and for the first time in quite some time I felt excited to fall in love again. I felt like the world was indeed a wondrous place and that there was magic out in the future waiting for me.”

Through magic, the heartfelt words unexpectedly reached Rubarth and were strawberries in wintertime to her ears. She emailed Dallas and a small friendship was born.

All the same, Amber did not know Dallas recently moved to Fremont nor did Dallas know Amber was about to play a concert there. At the last moment, serendipity smiled and sang.

To be continued next week.

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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” …

 

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” …

Help For “Sobsmacked” Columnist

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Readers Fill In For

“Sobsmacked” Columnist

I planned to take a stroll down Nostalgia Lane today with a column about the Ventura County Fair, which concludes its 144th edition on Sunday, but Dayton and El Paso on the heels of Gilroy made me feel an obligation to write yet again about the gun-fueled cancer that is killing America.

But I have no new thoughts, only my same old rage. Feeling sobsmacked – my word for being gobsmacked to tears – I instead will turn this space over to some emails from my readers.

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“I liked your perfect games column with the 1956 Don Larson World Series no hitter and first moon landing correlation,” wrote Alex Jannone. “I listened to one (Larson) and watched the other.

“With the final out approaching, as a wash-up boy I was washing up old Potter printing presses with benzene and no gloves – benzene and inks with chromate not only thickens your fingers and hands, but your mind too – in the downtown NY printing district at Canal and Hudson streets. Silence, then a roar from the mixed bag of Yankee and Dodger fan listeners as some other presses stopped to listen.

“With the first moon landing 1969, I was comfortably watching in my living room with my wife and small children in Commack, Long Island. Nice memories to bring back.”

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“ ‘Gobsmacked’ – now there’s a word we don’t often see/read and much less hear!” Rick Throckmorton began, quoting in extreme brief from my column sharing a tall tale about a talking dog told to me by Starr Thompson.

“I, too, have the immense pleasure of knowing Starr. We are members of the ‘Quiet Birdmen’, a national aviation group with roots to post-WWI.

“Starr, certainly a member of The Greatest Generation, is quite the story teller. I’m proud to know him!”

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            Bill Waxman poignantly found new words that I could not about America’s mass shootings, sending me his poem titled “Only in America”:

“And today we awoke to the familiar refrain / Of families reeling in their grief and their pain

“Dozens of lives the gunmen have claimed / While our leaders scramble for someone to blame

“Statements are issued, just more prayers and thoughts / That get lost in the nightmarish echo of gunshots

“Once again, there will be no action taken / To prevent the horror of El Paso and Dayton

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“There is now no safe place to go / Malls and churches, a cool movie show

“Outdoor concerts, and yes, too, our schools / Our numbness to violence has rendered us fools

“There’s no common ground for common sense / There’s no leadership coming from Trump and Pence

“Time alone won’t correct the aberration / Of the terror that stalked El Paso and Dayton

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“What if every elected official / Simply did what they know to be beneficial

“What if every one of them all across the nation / Simply said no to NRA political donation

“What if they all simply took a stand / To ensure that all assault weapons were banned

“Maybe then our collective conscience would awaken / To the needless carnage in El Paso and Dayton

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“From Gilroy to Parkland, from Sebring to Vegas / The political will to do something evades us

“From Aurora to Penn State, we’re at a loss for an answer / And we sit back and ignore this fast spreading cancer

“We wring our hands, we continue to be vexed / We don’t believe that we might be next

“Until the next time, when we see we’re mistaken / We learned not the lessons from El Paso and Dayton.”

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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” …

For Sale: Talking Dog

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Treated to Unexpected

Tall Tale in Bookstore

Once upon a time, only a few weeks past actually, I was treated to a story in a bookstore, which is a very good place for stories.

In particular, it was Mrs. Figs’ Bookworm in Camarillo, which is just about the best place in the world for stories because its owner, Connie Halpern, makes storytimes come to life when she reads aloud to children ages 1 to 102.

This story, however, did not come from Connie’s lips. Rather, it was told by 96-year-old Starr Thompson. In addition to being a Bookworm regular, Thompson is a former Flying Tiger as evidenced by the blue-and-orange ball cap he was wearing.

After serving in the Air Force in both WWII and Korea, Thompson joined the First American Volunteer Group (AVG) of the Chinese Air Force. These “Flying Tigers” were composed of U.S. military pilots recruited by President Franklin Roosevelt’s orders in 1941 before Pearl Harbor.

I did not write down the facts as I listened, only later, so if I get anything wrong the errors are mine. If I retell matters accurately, all credit goes to Mr. Thompson. And so, as memory serves…

A young man was driving through rural Ohio – which, coincidentally, is where Connie Halpern grew up, further proving truth is stranger than fiction – and a yard sign in front of a farmhouse caught his eye: For Sale / Talking Dog / $50.

The man put on the brakes, made a U-turn and pulled into the driveway.

“Hello,” greeted the farmer from a rocking chair on the porch. “You lost? I seen ya turnaround. Need directions?”

“No, no, I’m not lost,” the visitor answered. “I saw your sign about the talking dog and was curious – what’s the gimmick?”

“Ain’t no gimmick,” said the farmer.

The visitor rolled his eyes and turned to leave, but before he had taken his first footstep of retreat the farmer rejoined: “He’s ’round back. Go see for yourself.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, the visitor headed to the backyard where he found a Labrador, chocolate in color, sleeping in the shade of a buckeye tree. The dog raised its head as the visitor approached.

“Can I help you?”

The visitor twisted his neck to look at the farmer who had followed behind him, but there was no one there.

“I said, can I help you?” the Labrador repeated.

The visitor nearly fainted in his tracks. Upon regaining his senses, like a dazed boxer during a referee’s ten count, the visitor stammered: “You … really … can talk?”

“Of course I can talk,” the Labrador replied. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you even more.”

The gobsmacked visitor plopped down on the grass.

“I used to work at the airport sniffing for drugs and listening to conversations,” the Labrador continued. “If I heard something suspicious, I’d go tell my superior. Travelers can be an annoying bunch, though, so after a while I quit.

“Before long, I found I missed the excitement so I got a job with the FBI sniffing for explosives. I loved the thrill of it, but it’s a young dog’s game so last year the FBI forced me to retire – put me out to pasture here.”

The visitor, hardly able to believe his ears, returned to the front porch and said in astonishment: “My god, your dog is amazing! He’s worth a million dollars, at least, so why are you selling him so cheaply?”

“It’s all BS,” the farmer said, curtly. “Buster didn’t do any of that airport security and FBI stuff like he claims. He’s a good-for-nothing liar.”

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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” …