Monthly Archives: October 2023

Murderous Tale in a Lovely Book

by Woody

Few things bring a newspaper newsroom to a total standstill, the common cacophony of keyboards and chatter suddenly swallowed by an eerie hush.

The Space Shuttle Challenger explosion did so when I was a young journalist; as did the two hijacked jetliners slamming into the Twin Towers 15 years later; as, most certainly, President Kennedy’s assassination did long before my writing career began.

When I tell you a similar pall blanketed the old Ventura Star-Free Press newsroom, back when it was on Ralston Street, back on an autumn day in 1987, that not only were voices hushed, but tears rolled, you will understand something truly dreadful had occurred.

Which is why, to be honest, when my colleagues began bemoaning with disbelief that Bob Hope had passed away, I was slightly puzzled. Granted, he was a Hollywood legend and this was sad news, yet the earth-shattering reaction seemed far beyond proportion.

The reason for my confusion was because I had joined the S-FP staff only a month earlier and, due to unfamiliarity, ignorantly misheard who died. The legend suffering a fatal heart attack, at age 69, was Bob Holt, a longtime reporter and columnist who was every bit as beloved as he was talented, a very remarkable twin feat.

In the ensuing days and weeks I perused back issues of the newspaper, kept in endless binders the size of couch cushions, only thicker, reading some of Holt’s columns. It was readily apparent why he was so admired by writers and readers alike.

For nearly four decades Holt wrote for the S-FP, beginning in Sports, later covering hard news, and also penning a slice-of-life column that frequently featured his two girls, Debby and Betsey, oftentimes to their chagrin.

I bring up Bob Holt today because his eldest daughter, Debby Holt Larkin, has written a new book titled “A Lovely Girl: The Tragedy of Olga Duncan and the Trial of One of California’s Most Notorious Killers.” It is part true-crime story, part memoir through the eyes of 10-year-old Debby in 1958, and fully a page-turner.

Debby will return to her hometown to talk about her book, and about her dad for he is interwoven throughout, at two events: Saturday, Nov. 4, at 10 a.m. inside Ventura City Hall, formerly the courthouse where the salacious trial took place, a trial Bob Holt covered; and Sunday, Nov. 5, at 2 p.m. in E.P. Foster Library.

The poet Robert Frost famously said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” As surely as the account of Olga’s murder, she being a newlywed nurse who was seven-months pregnant, made my eyes spill over, so too did the lovely closing pages with young Debby and her father and two surprise tickets to a Dodgers game, thus proving Mr. Frost correct.

“When it finally came time for me to write that scene, I was very emotional,” Debby shared with me, “which surprised me a little because I’d been thinking about it for so long. I did the draft in one sitting. The words just flowed with tears streaming down my face. By the time I wrote that last sentence, I was sobbing. To this day, I can’t go to a professional baseball game without thinking about my dad at some point – bad call, terrific play. And when they sing ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game,’ it still makes me tear up. He always sang it at the top of his lungs!”

Another song, despite the chronicled tragedy, comes to happily mind page after page: Bob Hope singing, “Thanks for the memory…”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Measuring Door is a Time Portal

by Woody

“Don’t paint this door,” I told the foreman of the painting crew and, for good measure, attached a sticky note to it: “Please! Don’t Paint Door!”

So you can imagine my reaction a few workdays later upon seeing the door, pintles removed from its hinges, leaning against a wall and freshly painted white as a cumulus cloud. Thundering mad was I with “#$@&!” being my newspaper-friendly reaction.

There is a very good chance you have in your home a similarly prized door – or wall. Specifically, a Measuring Door or Measuring Wall where you mark the rising heights of your children.

The Measuring Wall when I was growing up was actually not in our home but in my great aunt’s kitchen. Her given name was Elizabeth, which became Libby, which to my dad was Aunt Libby, which when he was little came out Aunt Wibbie, which stuck and was what my three siblings and I called her.

We visited Wibbie a few times a year and always she would march us into her kitchen where, one by one, we pressed our backs against the floral wallpapered wall near the refrigerator, wallpaper that still chronicled the growth of the small boy who became our towering dad.

“Stand up tall,” Wibbie would say, herself short by any measure, her directive as unnecessary as telling a kid to “eat your ice cream” because kids always want to be as tall as possible when being measured. As we assumed the posture of Buckingham Palace guards, she would mark our new heights, and the date, in pencil, the point always newly sharpened.

Just as one piece of broken tile is not much to look at, one measuring mark is nothing special – but put many together and you have a beautiful mosaic. Alas, you cannot very well pack up and move a kitchen wall, so when Wibbie passed away our mosaic was surely peeled off or painted over by new homeowners.

You can, however, relocate a door quite easily. And so it is that The Measuring Door for my daughter and son moved with us to a new house during their mid-childhoods, their heights from toddlerhood until they stopped growing at ages 17 and 19, respectively, recorded like clockwork – or, rather, calendar-work – twice a year on their birthdays and half-birthdays, a time-lapse image of two human saplings becoming trees.

Indeed, the pencil markings echo a tree’s growth rings that are broadest near the center of the trunk because the early stage of life is when timber grows most rapidly. Similarly, the distance between growth markings on a Measuring Door or Wall are widest during teenage years.

A tree’s growth rings also tell the story of rain and sunshine with thicker rings, drought and hardship with thinner ones. Growth markings likewise tell this story: that the little brother passed his big sister in height when he was 14 and she was 17, thanks to his biggest one-year surge of five inches; that her biggest leap was at age 12; that she eventually reached 5-foot-10, in thick socks, while he continued to 6-barefooted-3.

When our Mona Lisa of a door was reinstalled you can understand my elation upon discovering that a mustache had not been painted on it after all. The painter instead had taken great care to create a fresh white perfect frame around the priceless pencil marks, marks that now include four-year-old granddaughter Maya and in short time will be joined by her sister, Auden, not yet a year old, and newborn cousin Amara.

Our Measuring Door has become a Family Tree.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Cooking Up Some Kitchen Sink Soup

by Woody

“This is delicious,” I told my daughter. “Where’d you get the recipe?”

“It’s my own,” she answered. “I basically just clean out the refrigerator and call it Kitchen Sink Soup because I put everything in it but the kitchen sink.”

Similarly, here is a Kitchen Sink Column of notes and quotes and other stuff…

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I don’t know about you, but bumper stickers never influence how I think about anything – except, sometimes, uncharitably about the driver.

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“I have a burning question,” column reader Albert Rodriguez recently wrote me and before proceeding I was worried he had misfired an email intended for his urologist. He continued: “What is the proper order – reading the book first or watching the movie adaptation?”

As with whether toilet paper should roll over or under, there is only one acceptable answer: book first! If an author oftentimes does not know where a book will go while writing it, a reader most certainly should not know ahead of time.

John Steinbeck’s “Joyous Garde” writing cabin.

Also, while it is irrefutably true the book is always better than its movie adaptation – prove me wrong! – there is great satisfaction in having already read the book and thus being able to say afterwards, with conviction and even a trace of scorn, no matter how terrific the movie: “The book was better!”

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Speaking of books, I am reminded of this observation from writer Donna Talarico: “Simply put, I love books. I own so many. Many of which I have not read (yet). I just need to have them. On shelves. In piles. In random conference tote bags. Paper magazines and newspapers too. Some call it clutter. I call it cozy. It’s comforting to know I am surrounded by pages of stories. And, thus, by storytellers.”

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Oh, yes, as for the TP roll – over, always!

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Driving past as a kid was shooting baskets the other day reminded me of this: One can never leave a practice court without swishing your final shot, a long one at that, and usually with Chick Hearn’s voice in your head counting down the final seconds to the buzzer.

Ditto for leaving a golf driving range without hitting a final shot straight and true, no matter how long it takes.

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A number of my column readers have asked, as mentioned here a few weeks back, why the Woodburn abode is nicknamed “Casa Joyous Garde.”

It is in honor of John Steinbeck, who, at his summer home in Sag Harbor, NY, in the backyard overlooking the gorgeous cove below, had a tiny hexagonal writing cabin he named “Joyous Garde” in honor of Sir Lancelot’s castle.

Since our house is slightly larger than Steinbeck’s 100-square-foot castle, we added “Casa” – although to be honest, in light of Steinbeck’s home recently selling for $13.5 million, his shed-sized Joyous Garde alone is likely more pricey than our entire castle.

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Tragically, these words by Mr. Steinbeck remain as true today as when he wrote them: “All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.”

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Speaking earlier of storytellers, this wisdom comes from the late, great British author Henry James: “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”

I also love this sentiment from singer and composer Melanie DeMore: “Every day I wake up and think, ‘Who am I going to hold up in song.’ ”

The final ingredient in today’s Kitchen Sink Soup: A reminder to be sure to sing to someone, perhaps even yourself, today.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Caught in a Catch-22 Situation

by Woody

Johnny Carson, doing his Carnac the Magnificent character on “The Tonight Show” many years ago, memorably gave the clairvoyant answer, “Catch-22.” He then opened the sealed envelope and read aloud the question within: “What would the Dodgers do if hit 100 pop flies?”

The joke, hilarious then, would land flat this season with The Boys In Blue having just become only the eighth team in major league history to win 100 games in three consecutive seasons. Moreover, excising the 2020 season that was shortened by COVID-19, the Dodgers have now reached triple-digit wins in their last four full seasons.

Anyway, I found myself in a funny (in hindsight) Catch-22 situation the other day that eventually turned me Dodger Blue in the face. It was regarding a certificate of deposit that had just matured. Despite being with an online bank, to keep the CD from automatically rolling over I was required to make my withdrawal by phone.

After an eternity in the call queue listening to the musical equivalent of Ambien, a representative finally asked for my full name and account number, then had a few more questions.

“Mr. Woodburn, for security purposes, what’s your date of birth? The last four digits of your social security number? Mother’s maiden name?

He was just beginning.

“Mr. Woodburn, what’s your mother’s mother’s sister-in-law’s mother’s maiden name?”

Me: “Ummm…”

Rep: “Lets try a different question, Mr. Woodbum. Who was the first concert you attended?”

Me: “Yes, The Who.”

Rep: “Very clever, Mr. Woodbury. What was the model of your first car and which of the nine photo squares is it touching?”

Me: “I’m talking to you on the phone, not looking at a computer screen.”

Rep: “Well then, tell me: Are you a robot, Mr. Woodstone?”

Me: “No.”

Rep: “A nonstop train leaves Chicago for Philadelphia traveling 60 mph. Another train leaves Philadelphia heading to Chicago at 40 mph. In what city will they pass each other?

Me: “I have no idea.”

Rep: “Perfect, Mr. Woodberry. If you’d gotten that right I’d know you were an AI bot.”

(The remainder of the transcript is cross-my-heart true)

Me: “Can I please cash out my CD?”

Rep: “Not yet, Mr. Woodburn. One final question. I need to send you a text with a security code – is blah-blah-blah your phone number?”

Me: “No, that’s a landline we no longer have. My cell number is blah-blah-blah.”

Rep: “That’s not the number we have listed.”

Me: “I understand that, so please change it to…”

Rep: “As I said, Mr. Woodsworth, I can’t do that without texting you the security code.”

Me: “But you can’t text it to a landline. Use this number I’m calling your from.”

Rep: “Mr. Woodshed, I can only send a text to the number we have on file.”

Me: “How about you email the code to me.”

Rep: “I’m not authorized to do that.”

Me (frustration rising like a home run off Mookie Betts’ bat): “Will you please transfer me to your supervisor?”

Rep: “It’s been a pleasure to help you today, Mr. Woodpile. I’ll transfer you right now…”

The line went dead.

A second phone call was placed, summer turned to autumn while I was on hold, and when my at-bat finally came I swung for the fences: “I’d like to update my phone number.”

Rep: “No problem, Mr. Woodburn.”

Me (happy dancing while the change is successfully made): “Since I have you here, I’d like to cash out my CD.”

Rep: “Of course, Mr. Woodchuck. For security reasons, if two nonstop trains leave Los Angeles and New York…”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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. His SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.