Monthly Archives: June 2025

Sticky, Sweaty, Sleepless, Sublime Nights

by Woody

Woody’s award-winning debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

*

In the summertime, in my boyhood, in Ohio, humid nights sometimes refused to cool down much from the sunburned daytime making falling asleep next to impossible.

Pop, despite Mom’s pleas, refused to get air conditioning. He also refused to buy electric fans, despite the whining of us four kids, because he was convinced at least one of us would poke a finger through the wire cage guard into the whirling blade and he would have to rush us to the E.R. and personally sew the tip back on.

On the muggiest nights, when our pajamas clung to us like we had the flu and 102-degree temperatures, my siblings and I – and sometimes Mom, but never Pop who apparently could have fallen asleep in a steamy tropical rainforest – would peel off our PJs down to our BVDs and migrate downstairs to the dining room because it had floor-length windows that let in the softest whispers of a breeze. Lying next to the open windows we camped restlessly atop open sleeping bags.

As miserable as those sweltering sweaty sticky sleepless nights were, it’s funny how they are among my cherished memories – “marble-in-a-jar” remembrances, to borrow from last week’s column. In my mind’s eye and ears, I can still see and hear my two older brothers, bookended on either side of me, telling ghost stories and cracking jokes until our little sister would decide the jungle heat upstairs was preferable and left us alone to our tomfoolery. Eventually, of course, our laughter became snoring.

I was reminded of these miserably marble-ous memories after a similarly sleepless sultry night recently at my daughter’s home in the Bay Area. The guestroom, on the first floor and east facing, is generally so comfortably cool I cannot recall ever not needing a blanket even in summertime.

Not this time.

Opening the sliding glass door would have solved the problem for while the day had been hot, the evening cooled down very pleasantly. Alas, the house security alarm was turned on and I did not wish to wake my daughter or son-in-law to deactivate it; they had long earlier gone to bed, as is demanded when you have two young kids who rise and shine before the sun does.

Remarkably, my warmhearted Much Better Half, who favors a thermostat setting of “Igloo,” fell fast asleep in the sweat lodge-like heat as if sprinkled with fairy’s dream dust.

Unremarkably, in the wee hours I had to go to the bathroom – which proved to be a big relief in two ways, because in the hallway I was greeted by temperatures as cool as a TikTok influencer. Returning to bed, I left the guestroom door ajar to let the wintermint air drift in and said hello to dreamland.

Not so fast.

Moonlight now also sliced in through door crack, bright enough to be bothersome. No matter, I turned facing away and shut my eyes tight and…

…tick-tock Tick-Tock TICK-TOCK!

A wall clock in the nearby family room, unnoticeable during the noisy busyness of daytime, in the lonely quiet hours echoed like a pickleball match. It was water torture to the ears, and then…

…snore Snore SNORE!

It would be kind to describe it as a soft humming lullaby, but in truth the snoring was as loud and unmelodious as three young brothers cracking jokes on a hot summer’s night.

I was about to nudge Sleeping Beauty awake when it struck me that she was drowning out the far more annoying clock. Suddenly, I appreciated her snoring as a familiar lullaby indeed and drifted happily to sleep.

* * *

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.

*

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.

Summertime is Marble in a Jar Time

by Woody

My debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

* * *

Today, June 20, is the first day of summer so this column from my Star archives seems fitting…

*

This may come as a surprise to readers of this space, but I am not losing my marbles. To the contrary, I am gaining them.

For this I owe my great gratitude to a teacher who interrupted his discussion of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” one long-ago spring afternoon and shared a personal story.

A philosophy, really.

Mr. Hawkins explained he kept a large pickle jar on his dresser and every time something wonderful happened in his life he dropped a marble inside. Smooth pebbles, sea glass, or shiny pennies would also suffice, he noted. His goal was to fill the jar, and hopefully a few more, during his lifetime. The marbles themselves were not the real treasure, however – the act of noticing each special moment was.

All these years later, I can quote by memory only two lines from that Shakespeare play – “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” and “Though she be but little, she is fierce” – but I still collect a rising tide of sea glass and marbles. In doing so, I have come to notice something: summertime is marble time.

As my wise fifth-grade teacher importantly emphasized, something need not be a monumental pinch-me event – hitting a home run, stealing a first kiss, earning a diploma, winning an award – to merit a marble. In fact, oftentimes the simple pleasures are much deserving.

Simple summer pleasures such as…

Gazing at the stars that always seem brighter on a warm midsummer’s night.

A sweet summer romance.

Catching fireflies, catching frogs, catching “running” grunion in the midnight moonlight.

Running in the sprinklers, running your first marathon or fastest 5K, running after an ice cream truck.

Enjoying a Popsicle or ice cream cone that tastes better – and colder – on your tongue on a hot summer afternoon.

Sleeping in a tent, be it in the backyard for a slumber party or on a camping trip.

Visiting any National Park – or ballpark, be it Major League or Little League.

Hiking in Yosemite Valley or the trails of Ventura’s Harmon Canyon.

Climbing Mount Whitney or climbing a tree more lovely than a poem.

Writing a poem about a marble moment.

Skinny dipping in a pond for the first time – or most recent time.

Wine tasting, pub crawling, beach walking.

Spending an afternoon wading in the tide pools, collecting seashells and sea glass, building a sandcastle.

Visiting one of the Channel Islands.

Watching – really watching – a Pacific sunset more beautiful than anything in the Louvre.

Going fishing, even if you bring home nothing more than a sunburn, a smile, and a tall tale about the one that got away.

Teaching your son or daughter to ride a two-wheeler – doesn’t this always happen during the summertime?

Daydreaming while gazing off the Ventura Pier.

Spending a week at your grandparents’ home and hearing stories about what your dad (or mom) was like as a young boy (or girl).

Flying a kite with your grandchild.

Attending your high school reunion or revisiting old memories with a college friend.

A backyard barbecue with friends is always better in the summertime.

Playing outside until one of your parents hollers, for the third time, for you to come inside for the night.

An evening walk hand-in-hand with your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend/child – or hand-in-leash with your dog.

Riding a merry-go-round or Ferris wheel at the fair with your child/girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse.

Watching Fourth of July fireworks.

A picnic with your favorite person in the world.

Be you 6 or 96, don’t be a mortal fool: make a point this summer to recognize – and savor – as many new marble moments as possible.

* * *

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.

*

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.

Dadvice for Father’s Day

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

*

Father’s Day cards will be opened two days hence, so it seems apropos to share a Hallmark-worthy thought from Mark Twain who famously observed: “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”

More recently, classical pianist Charles Wadworth, who died two weeks ago at age 96, once expanded on Twain’s quip: “By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.”

Or daughter.

Barry Kibrick, an Emmy-winning TV host on PBS, once insightfully told me of raising his two sons: “I never worried about over-praising them and building up their self-esteem too much because there are plenty of people in the world who will try to tear them down.”

Author Jan Hutchins had a similarly wise dad, sharing: “When I was a kid, my father told me every day, ‘You’re the most wonderful boy in the world, and you can do anything you want to.’ ”

Clarence Budington Kelland, a 20th century novelist who once described himself as “the best second-rate writer in America,” made a first-rate compliment about his own father: “He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”

Best-selling essayist Robert Fulghum put it this way: “Don’t worry that your children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.”

American inventor Charles Kettering likewise advised, “Every father should remember: one day his son will follow his example, not his advice.”

With attribution unknown comes this pearl: “One night a father overheard his son pray: ‘Dear God, Make me the kind of man my Daddy is.’ Later that night, the father prayed, ‘Dear God, Make me the kind of man my son wants me to be.’ ”

The rock band Yellowcard offers this lovely lyric about the power of a dad as a role model: “Father I will always be / that same boy who stood by the sea / and watched you tower over me / now I’m older I wanna be the same as you.”

Hall of Fame baseball player Harmon Killebrew apparently had a Hall-of-Fame Dad, the son recalling: “My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard. Mother would come out and say, ‘You’re tearing up the grass.’ Dad would reply, ‘We’re not raising grass – we’re raising boys.’ ”

A great attitude for Girl Dads as well, naturally.

Speaking of little girls, John Mayer strikes the perfect chord with these lyrics: “Fathers, be good to your daughters. You are the god and the weight of her world.”

Getting further to the heart of the matter, John Wooden, who believed “love” is the most important word in the English language, opined: “The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”

From another basketball coach, the late Jim Valvano: “My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person – he believed in me.”

Wayne Bryan, father of doubles legends Mike and Bob who are even better people than they are tennis players, advises parents: “Shout your praise to the rooftops and if you must criticize, drop it like a dandelion. On second thought, don’t criticize at all.”

In closing, this home-run thought from Hall of Fame singles hitter Wade Boggs: “Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.”

* * *

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.

*

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.

Lovely ‘Poem’ Turned Into Woodchips

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

From Woody’s column archives, spring 2013, evoked by recently seeing a fallen tree…

*

A century and change ago, Joyce Kilmer penned “Trees” with one of the most widely familiar opening couplets in America poetry:

I think that I shall never see / A poem lovely as a tree.

The other morning I gazed out my window and across the street as a lovely “poem” got sawed down, cut up, turned into woodchips, and trucked away. It was like witnessing a theatrical street version of Shel Silverstein’s classic children’s book “The Giving Tree” starring two workmen in white hardhats and optic-yellow vests.

Actually, this story was even sadder for this tree’s limbs would not be used to build a house for the grown boy; its trunk not crafted into a boat to sail the seas. When the workmen’s work was finished, there remained not even a stump to sit and rest upon.

This tree had soared majestically, perhaps 70 feet into the clouds, tall and leafy, with a trunk too thick to reach one’s arms around. Alas, it had become a botanical Leaning Tower of Pisa, cracking and raising a section of sidewalk and in danger of falling across a busy street.

And so at 9 a.m. on a May gray day, a whining chainsaw made the morning more leaden. Standing in the basket of a gargantuan cherry-picker, a workman amputated the large branches one by one by one as he hydraulically rose higher Higher HIGHER.

Far below, the felled branches were cut into manageable lengths and fed into a woodchipper roaring loud as a jet engine. Lines of a lovely “poem” went in, lousy mulch came out.

Lastly, the towering tall barren trunk came down, made not into long lumber for a home or boat, but into short logs to be burned in fireplaces. This was not a heartwarming thought.

Start to finish, what had taken many decades of the four seasons to become living poetry was erased in a less than four hours. It was tree-mendously sad.

Kilmer again: A tree that may in summer wear / A nest of robins in her hair.

No more birds will nest in the lovely tree I used to admire out my kitchen window, looking east, the sun lifting above it in the late mornings of springtime.

The melancholy event gave me pause to think about a handful of memorable trees from my life: the evergreen beside the driveway of my earliest boyhood home that my two older brothers and I attempted blind shots over while playing H-O-R-S-E; the sturdy buckeye, near a swimming pond, with a hanging rope we swung on like Tarzan; the apple tree I picked snacks from on a shortcut home from grade school; the orange tree my two then-young kids and I planted; the giant redwoods we saw, in awe, as a family; and on and on.

I think “poems” fill our lives more than we often realize. We draw trees in kindergarten and as older kids climb trees and hopefully one day we plant a tree in deference to this Greek proverb: “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

Kilmer once more: Poems are made by fools like me, / But only God can make a tree.

Afterwards, this curious fool sought to determine how old the tree had been by counting its rings, but the stump was cut off below ground level and covered with dirt.

I may be overestimating by half, but I like to imagine this poetic tree had sprouted in 1913 – the same year “Trees” came into the world.

* * *

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.

*

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.