Monthly Archives: November 2026

Yes, Virginia, ‘Ball Drive’ Is Back

by Woody

Editorials are generally as disposable as the newsprint on which they are printed, yet one that appeared in The New York Sun in 1897 might as well have been carved in granite because it remains timelessly relevant still.

Headlined “Is There a Santa Claus?” it began with a letter from young Virginia O’Hanlon:

“Dear Editor –

“I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?”

The Sun’s reply included the now famous line, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” and continued: “He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence.”

Alas! How dreary the world would be if there were also no Sarahs, Davids, and Briannas who have contributed in years past to “Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive” that kicks off once again today to give brand-new sports balls to local disadvantaged youth.

Life’s highest beauty and joy was 10-year-old Sarah emptying her “Jar of Chore Money”; 14-year-old David using his birthday gift cards; and 9-year-old Brianna collecting and redeeming recyclables for a full year; to buy a small sleighful of gift balls.

The germination of this endeavor occurred nearly 30 years ago at a local youth basketball clinic when former Ventura College and NBA star Cedric Ceballos awarded autographed basketballs to handful of lucky attendees. Leaving the gym afterward, I happened upon a 10-year-old boy who had won one of the prized keepsakes . . .

. . . which he was now dribbling on the rough blacktop outdoor court, and shooting baskets with, while perhaps imagining he was Ceballos with the game clock ticking down to the final buzzer.

Meanwhile, the real Ceballos’ Sharpie signature was wearing off.

Curious why the boy had not carefully taken the trophy basketball home to put safely on a bookshelf, I interrupted his playing and asked.

“I’ve never had my own basketball,” he answered, matter-of-factly, between game-winning shots.

At Christmastime that year, visions of the boy – and other boys and girls without their very own basketballs to shoot, soccer balls to kick, footballs to throw – danced through my head and I asked you dear readers to help make their holidays happier. You responded like champions and have done so every year since.

Let’s do it again!

To be an MVP – Most Valuable Philanthropist – drop off new sports balls (no batteries required!) at a Boys & Girls Club, YMCA, Toys For Tots, or similar organization . . .

. . . or, through December 14, drop balls off (weekdays 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.) at Sanbell (formerly Jensen Design & Survey) at 1672 Donlon St., near Target, on Telephone Road in Ventura; online orders can be shipped to this same address; and I will see the bouncing gifts wind up in deserving young hands.

Please, please email me at woodywriter@gmail.com about your donations so I can add your generosity to this year’s tally and also thank you by name (unless you request anonymity) in a future column.           

Together, we can prove The Sun’s long-ago words ring ever true: Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and ball-giving MVPs exist.

* * *

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.

Pedicure Is Hands Down Heavenly

by Woody

For her recent birthday, My Much Better Half wanted to get a pedicure.

For a number of reasons, a handful of chosen companions — a dear friend, our daughter, our oldest granddaughter who at age seven has been begging to get her first pedi — one by one begged out.

“Will you come with me?” MMBH asked me.

“Sure, I’ll keep you company,” replied I.

“No, I mean get a pedicure with me,” MMBH said, humorously, except she did not laugh. She was as serious as a bad bunion, an ingrown toenail, and a cracked callus combined.

In our 44 years of marriage, this was the most outlandish Honey-Do request My Much Better Honey has ever made. I say this not because of gender stereotyping or fragile masculinity, but because no one, not even a nail technician who gets paid and tipped generously, should have to touch my homely (to be kind; hideous to be honest) toenails.

Ever since running my first marathon four decades ago, I have typically had at least one or two dead-and-black toenails at all times and a personal record of seven once. It is not that my running shoes are too short, but rather my mileage is too long.

My toenails are not only often painful to look at, they can be painful to the touch. The thought of a pedicurist trimming my nails and, worse, filing them, struck me as torture — rather, toe-ture.

Ohhhh, the things we do for love.

“Ohhhh-kay,” I relented. “I’ll get my first ever — and last — pedicure, just for you. Happy birthday!”

I was not alone in feeling sympathy, compassion, and a dose pity for the pedicurist who was assigned to me. After my treatment began, MMBH texted a photo to our two adult children and my sister, too, and — Ding! Ding! Ding! — three replies quickly came back . . .

Smartypants 1: “I bet the staff were praying to do Ma’s feet instead of yours.”

Smartypants 2: “Oh, my, the poor pedicurist!”

Smartypants 3: “Who would touch your feet?! Did they draw straws to see who got the short one and was stuck with you?”

I could not disagree and actually asked the kind woman who drew the shortest straw, “Are these the worst-looking toes you’ve ever seen?”

Theresa’s awkward, elongated hesitation spoke more truthfully than did her eventual polite response.

My hurt feelings aside, the pedicure was pure pleasure. To fellow gentlemen pedicure virgins, you have no idea what you have been missing out on!

The warm foot bath, perfectly shy of hot, was relaxing; the toenail trimming was “Ouch!”-less, unlike when I clip them myself; the nail shaping and cuticle care was likewise flinch-free; exfoliating scrubs and the buffing of calluses with a pumice stone tickled for an instant, then actually felt soothingly sublime (and made the heels and balls of my feet smooth as kid leather); and the calf-and-foot massage was absolutely heavenly and my favorite part of the 45 minutes of pedi pampering.

It was actually a toe-to-trapezius experience thanks to a massage chair that kneaded all the right spots and nearly put me to sleep.

Lastly, it was time for nail polish. My Much Better Half  assumed I would sit this out, and I would have until she couched it as a dare.

I dare say, at first blush painting my toenails seemed like putting lipstick on a pig — yet my ten little piggies turned out as dazzling as Ana de Armas. Certainly, the dark plum-colored polish outshines marathon-black nails.

* * *

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.