Part 2: Little Man and ‘The Greatest’

October 1, 2021 by Woody

As shared here last week, Ken Burns’ newest documentary film “Muhammad Ali” rekindled some of my own memories with “The Greatest” during my many years as a sports columnist.

Before concluding my tale, let me recap briefly. Exactly 25 years ago, I attended the National Sports Collectors Convention and brought along my six-year-old son. On our two-hour drive to the Anaheim Convention Center I told Greg that Ali was nicknamed “The Greatest” and shared a few stories.

My press pass gained me easy access behind the velvet ropes, but a security guard with the disposition of a junkyard dog insisted Greg could not accompany me without a ticket. Admission was pricey so I told my son to patiently wait just outside the ropes where I could see him – and he in turn could see Ali from afar – and I would be back as soon as possible.

Muhammad Ali lighting the torch at the 1996 Summer Olympic Games.

Barely had I settled into a folding chair right beside The Champ when my son silently sidled up to me. When the junkyard dog had turned to growl at someone else, Greg sneaked in and for the next half hour we hung out with Muhammad Ali as he signed autographs and posed for pictures.

Finally, I told my son it was time to leave.

“Not yet,” he whispered, and loudly. “I’ve gotta say ‘Hi.’ ”

Ali heard the little boy’s protests and swiveled toward Greg, who instinctively stepped forward and extended his right hand. Ali gently shook the tiny offering in his big paw and for the very first time all afternoon the man who used to “float like a butterfly” broke out of his cocoon of total silence.

“Hi, Little Man,” Ali whispered, hoarsely, spreading his arms wide open.

A second later, The Little Man was wrapped in a bear hug. Goodness it was cool. But an even more magical moment was yet to come.

After a standing eight-count, or maybe even the full ten seconds for a knockout, Ali eventually released the Little Man and then held out his giant hand, shaking slightly from Parkinson’s Syndrome, palm up in the universal “give me five” position.

The boy, who at that age would enthusiastically smack palms hard enough to “sting like a bee,” this time slapped ever so gently before in turn holding out his own tiny palm for The Champ to return the gesture.

Ali took a swipe . . .

. . . and missed!

Because at the very last instant, the Little Man, as he loved to do, pulled his hand away like a matador’s red cape teasing a bull.

“Too slow,” the Little Man said, his two missing front teeth causing the words to lisp slightly. Like, “Tooooth looowww.” Like Ali’s own soft voice that by then, at age 54 going on 94, lisped slightly.

And like two six-year-olds they laughed together at the prank.

While still roaring with delight, Ali once again opened his wingspan fully and my son once again stepped into his open arms, except this time the shy boy squeezed back, and tightly. Ali’s eyes caught mine and I swear to this day they twinkled.

It was an end-of-a-movie fadeout and roll-the-credits hug. A full thirty-second hug. A worth-the-two-hour-drive-in-Southern-California-gridlocked-freeway-traffic hug.

A hug from “The Greatest” that the Little Man, now a six-foot-three-tall man, still remembers warmly and surely will until he is an old man.

As we walked away hand-in-hand after saying goodbye to Ali, my son stopped short and looked up at me with a Christmas-morning smile, sans two missing front teeth, and said: “You were right, Dad—he really is The Bestest.”

* * *

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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Recalling A ‘Greatest’ Memory

September 24, 2021 by Woody

Filmmaker Ken Burns’ newest documentary “Muhammad Ali” debuted on PBS this past week and the four remarkable episodes rekindled my own memories with “The Greatest” during my many years as a sports columnist.

The most golden encounter occurred shortly before Ali lit the flame at the opening ceremonies of the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta and has not faded in the ensuing quarter century.

At an autograph show in the cavernous Anaheim Convention Center the living legend shuffled to his assigned table, his feet sliding forward slowly and carefully in the unsteady gait of an elderly man missing his cane. Ali was only 54 years old that day. Fifty-four going on 94 it seemed for Parkinson’s Syndrome had transformed the “Ali Shuffle.”

When the doors for the National Sports Collectors Convention opened, the longest line by far, 300 fans at least, formed to meet The Champ. Even when he took an occasional break from signing endless autographs, Ali’s right hand never took a rest, never stopped moving. Tragically, both of his hands shook so uncontrollably it looked like he was constantly shuffling an invisible deck of cards.

And yet once he began signing the cursive “M” until he had dotted the lower-case “i”, the earthquake-like tremors magically calmed. Indeed, his signature was smooth and true. Perhaps after signing his name a million times, his neurons and synapses were programmed with a computer-like save-get keystroke.

But Ali was no robotic signing machine. He smiled each and every time an autograph seeker – tickets cost $90 to have a flat item signed and a whopping $120 on a boxing glove – called him “Champ” or said “It’s an honor to meet you.” A steep price for a squiggle of ink? Not at all when you consider one man in line had called it “a religious experience.”

And every time a camera was raised, Ali, his face still “pretty” and his body still muscular and almost in fighting trim beneath a tan golf shirt, would rise out of his chair, slowly but with grace and without assistance, to pose with a playful snarl and a clenched fist held beneath the fan’s chin.

When I had learned Ali would be in town, I made plans to take my then-six-year-old son to meet him, just as my grandfather once took my dad to see the larger-than-life Babe Ruth in a hotel lobby. On the drive there, I schooled Greg all about “The Greatest.”

My column angle was to chronicle the interactions between Ali and his fans. Thus, my son and I sat right beside The Champ as he signed glossy pictures and signed magazine covers and signed boxing gloves. Finally, I told Greg it was time to leave.

“Not yet,” he whispered, a tad loudly. “I’ve gotta say ‘Hi.’ ”

Ali heard the little boy’s protests and slowly swiveled our way. Instinctively, the little boy stepped forward and extended his right hand. Ali, who had been shaking adult hands almost femininely with just his manicured fingertips, took the small hand gently into his big paw and this time it did not look awkward or frail.

And, for the very first time in an hour, the poetic boxer who used to “float like a butterfly” broke out of his cocoon of total silence.

“Hi, Little Man,” Ali whispered, hoarsely, spreading his arms wide.

The six-year-old Little Man, who back then was quite shy, sprang forward without hesitation and was engulfed in a bear-hug clinch. My goodness it was magical.

But the greatest moment was yet to come, which I will share next week.

* * *

Mourning On A Gloomy Morning

September 18, 2021 by Woody

My favorite Wooden-ism, as I call John Wooden’s maxims, is “Make each day your masterpiece.”

This past Tuesday never had a chance to be a masterpiece. It was a canvas painted with ugly graffiti; a day where the Southern California sunshine seemed gloomy; a masterpiece ruined because Nan Wooden, the late legendary coach’s daughter, passed away in the morning at age 87 of natural causes.

The news squeezed my heart so hard it felt bruised and brought me to tears. Losing a friend is never easy, even one you have never met. Indeed, all the times I visited Coach in his home during our two-decade friendship, Nan never happened to be present.

That is not entirely accurate. Her presence was always felt through photos on display and our conversations.

Coach John Wooden and daughter Nan at at UCLA basketball game.

When my daughter Dallas was born – coincidentally, and sentimentally for Coach, her due date was his and Nell’s wedding anniversary – he shared how over-the-moon he had been when Nan was born and that I was likewise sure to be wrapped around my own little girl’s finger.

Two years later when my son arrived, Coach pointed out that we had both been blessed with “one of each” and in the same order. After that, I always paired Nan with Dallas, his Jim with my Greg, and I think Coach did likewise.

When Coach passed away a decade ago, I sent Nan a condolence card care of her father’s address. In the months, and even years, to follow I wish I had made a greater effort to reach out through others to set up a visit.

Among many things I would have loved to ask her was something I should have asked her “Daddy” as she called him even in her old age: Did he ever put notes with Wooden-ism – Daddy-isms to her! – in her school lunches?

I would have shared with Nan how I had made a daily habit of writing notes such as “Have a great day!” or “Good luck on your spelling test!” or “I miss you lots!” on paper napkins and putting them inside Dallas’s Little Mermaid lunchbox and Greg’s Power Rangers lunchbox.

Then, after I took them to meet her Daddy one unforgettable afternoon when they were 10 and nearly 8, I started adding his pearls of wisdom such as “Be quick, but don’t hurry” (a great reminder before a spelling test) and “Happiness begins where selfishness ends” and “Little things make big things happen” and dozens more.

Coach’s Seven-Point Creed, one line at a time, became a frequent go-to napkin jotting: “Be true to yourself. Make each day your masterpiece. Help others. Drink deeply from good books. Make friendship a fine art. Build shelter against a rainy day. Pray for guidance and give thanks for your blessings every day.”

We would discuss Wooden-isms at the dinner table and also talked about Coach’s “Pyramid of Success” and his personal definition of success: “Success is peace of mind which is a direct result of self-satisfaction in knowing you did your best to become the best you are capable of becoming.”

Today, Dallas is already teaching Wooden-isms to her nearly 3-year-old daughter Maya and Greg frequently texts Wooden’s gems to me! I think Nan would have enjoyed hearing all this.

About losing Nell, Coach wrote to me once: “I no longer have any fear of death as that is my only chance, if He will forgive me of my sins, to be with her again.”

Maybe last Tuesday was a masterpiece day after all, in Heaven, with Coach, Nell and Nan smiling at their reunion.

* * *

9/11: Yesterday, a Lifetime Ago

September 10, 2021 by Woody

Where were you when you learned the world stopped spinning twenty years ago today? If you are older than 25, I’m certain you remember as clearly as if September 11, 2001 happened yesterday.

For my wife and me, it was a typical weekday morning rush helping our daughter and son get ready for school and ourselves off to work. In the midst of our familiar routine the phone rang. My brother-in-law was at the other end: “Turn on the TV.”

“What channel?” my wife asked.

“Any channel,” he said gravely.

The surreal images were beyond imagination: One of New York City’s iconic Twin Towers was billowing black smoke after being hit by a jetliner; then a second plane, seemingly flying in slow motion, slammed into the bookend skyscraper; thereafter the North and South Towers both collapsed, also as if in slow motion.

In all, four hijacked passenger jets were turned into terrorist missiles with the other two crashing into the Pentagon, and – as a result of heroic passengers putting up a fight with their lives – a field in Pennsylvania en route to its target in Washington D.C.

Today, we pay remembrance to the nearly 3,000 lives lost in the horrific attacks. The truth, of course, is that the loved ones and friends and co-workers of those victims have remembered them every single day for the past two decades.

Nine months after the infamous event, I was in New York City covering the NBA Finals of which I remember nothing specific. But I cannot forget my visit to Ground Zero, which by then was a deep, steep-walled, square hole that looked like a giant grave being dug.

I have toured Gettysburg’s battlefields and cemeteries; visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall with more than 58,000 names etched into the black mirror-like marble; and seen the USS Arizona Memorial that marks the resting place of 1,102 sailors. The sight of a canyon-sized hole at Ground Zero squeezed my heart ever as tightly.

The devastation that had been cleared away was numbing: 200,000 tons of twisted steel wreckage, 600,000 square feet of shattered glass, 425 cubic yards of concrete, and even 40,000 doorknobs that had all come crashing down from 110 stories high, entombing more than 2,600 innocent victims.

Left behind were shattered hopes, wrecked lives and broken hearts – and also, at a nearby makeshift memorial site, countless notes and cards. One hand-written message I saw read: “You will always be remembered as heroes” in honor of the 344 FDNY firefighters and 71 police officers who lost their lives after courageously rushing into the burning buildings trying to save the lives of others.

Another note, this one from a young schoolchild who wrote in her best printing: “Dear Firemen, THANK YOU for everything you did for our country. Love, Jodi.”

Similarly there was a picture of seven firemen in uniform, young and handsome and in the prime of their lives, with these words: “Thank You, Seven In Heaven, Ladder 101 FDNY.”

And this: “To Daddy, We love you, miss you and you’ll always be in out hearts. Love, Gyasi and Craig.” My heart aches for them growing up without their Daddy and all the milestones – graduations, weddings, perhaps the birth of his grandchildren – he missed.

At Ground Zero that day, I also met a woman whose husband died in one of the Towers. Cradling an infant baby, she tearfully shared this: “Her father never met her.”

That baby girl is now 19 going on 20, and to her 9-11-2001 does not seem like yesterday. It was her lifetime ago.

* * *

Poor Proposal, Rich Marriage

September 4, 2021 by Woody

Among Carol King’s full catalogue of memorable songs, one lyric is most dear to me. It is from her iconic “Tapestry” album and goes, “Where you lead, I will follow.”

That, without the piano accompaniment, was what my college sweetheart told me matter-of-factly a month before I was to graduate from UC Santa Barbara. Wherever I eventually found a newspaper job, she promised to follow.

“Well, then, we might as well get married,” I replied without a moment’s hesitation, without a ring, without getting down on bended knee. It was perhaps the least planned and least romantic proposal in history.

Our very first date…

“Quit joking,” she replied and laughed.

She had good reason to think I was kidding. After all, we had dated for less than a year and a half, and that included a three-month breakup in the middle of our romance – of course, doesn’t every worthwhile rom-com have a breakup? – plus a full summer spent apart. Moreover, we were so very young. She was only 23 while I was still a couple weeks away from turning 22.

No matter. After she stopped laughing, I tried once more: “I’m serious. Will you marry me?”

This time she said “yes” and today – Sept. 4 – we celebrate our 39th wedding anniversary.

I cannot speak for my much-better-half, but when asked for my secret to a blissful marriage here is my answer: Find a former homecoming princess whose inner beauty impossibly outshines her outward comeliness; who is supremely kind and confident and charming, intelligent and generous and strong; with a sense of humor and an ocean of grace and, importantly, has a soft spot in her heart for a knuckleheaded guy.

Thirty-nine years – and two children raised to adulthood, and one grandchild thus far – is a long time, yet it also seems to have passed in about 39 days. The French writer Andre Maurois noted, “A happy marriage is a long conversation that always seems too short.” That’s how Lisa makes me feel.

… and as a beautiful bride.

Too, she brings to my mind the poetry of Tennyson and these lines: “If I had a flower for every time I thought of you . . . I could walk through my garden forever.” If only I had recited those syrupy lines when I proposed it might have compensated for not having already bought an engagement ring.

In “As You Like It” Shakespeare wrote, “Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?” So it was with me.

Our meet-cute happened under a sprig of mistletoe at a college Christmas party thrown by mutual friends. She was wearing a light-blue turtleneck sweater, jean bell bottoms and running shoes, while I was soon wearing a smile that reached from Isla Vista to the Channel Islands.

Our first date was the very next day, a hole-in-the-wall dinner out, and I showed up at her door with a single yellow rose. At the time, I had no clue that yellow roses convey “friendship” while red ones signify “love.” In hindsight, yellow was perfect because it exemplifies a passage from A.A. Milne’s “Winnie-the-Pooh” that still describes my love for Lisa:

“ ‘We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?’ asked Piglet.

“ ‘Even longer,’ Pooh answered.”

Half of forever later, as I reminisce about watching “Leese” walk down the wedding aisle, the words of the great John Steinbeck invade my heart. In his essay “The Golden Handcuff” about his long and deep love for San Francisco, he wrote: “My God! How beautiful it was and I knew then how beautiful.”

My God! How beautiful she was and I knew it then. I know it still.

* * *

Readers Share Nature Memories

August 28, 2021 by Woody

Sharing some smiles from my email inbox…

“Your column ‘Mining gold in front yard’s wildness’ rang a bell with me,” wrote Cyndi Nichols. “I have always enjoyed nature. I’m a gardener now, but when I was a child I collected bugs, their eggs and offspring. When there was a science fair in school, I brought the bugs and their eggs and the food that they would eat to share. I did not harm them.

“One year, I collected about 200 caterpillar’s eggs from our elm tree. I put them in shoeboxes and fed them elm leaves every day. One day I forgot to put the lids back on and had to scramble to catch them all and put them back in the boxes. Eventually, they spun their cocoons and emerged as butterflies. I took all the boxes into the backyard and let them out at the same time. What a sight!

“When I was about three, we lived in the desert, in Lancaster. My brother says I walked in with a tarantula in my small hand to show everyone. All my shocked mother could say was, ‘Take that thing outside,’ which I did. To this day I do not kill spiders in the house. Little jumpers and daddy longlegs I catch barehanded, but as I have gotten older larger spiders get caught in tissue and put out.

“I still love nature, from the tiniest flowers in the lawn, to the largest Dahlias. I love to garden and would like to have one of everything. I feel the same about animals of all kinds, whether it be pets, lizards, bugs. Thank you for bringing me down memory lane.”

Linda Calderon also took a mental trip back to her youth: “My Dad used to walk my late brother and me to the end of our street and teach us which constellations were which. I sure don’t recall today, but it was great for him to do that.

“He also taught us to lay on our backs in the yard and imagine what different things the clouds looked like. I still find myself taking photos of some that look like poodles, etc., and I told my grandkids to go outside at their house and do the same. At 80, I’m still amazed at rainbows and photograph them also.

“I grew up in a small village (about 400 population) in the countryside and I am still in love with nature.”

In response to my comment that the Channel Islands are underrated, John Snyder replied: “Shhhh! I sailed to the islands, all of them except San Clemente and San Nicolas, at various times between 1972 and 2015.

“Most of our vacations, and practically all long weekends, were to/around Santa Cruz Island. Other than stinkpots becoming more prevalent over the years, little changed. This included the proposal by the family owing the eastern portion of the island to turn it into a resort area with hotel and fast food restaurants, which, fortunately, was shot down.

“That the island has been preserved is one of the happier memories of my life. As far as I’m concerned, the Channel Islands can remain concealed from human view, much like Brigadoon. Not like Brigadoon necessarily, but more, out-of-sight; out-of-mind, only those who have taken the time and made the effort to get there, knowing its delights.”

Barbara Murray shared this closing wisdom: “It is hard in this current time to remember the beautiful things. I have one addiction: I think laughing is underrated. It heals the body and the soul.”

* * *

These Opinions Might Be Overrated

August 22, 2021 by Woody

Nobody asked me, but here’s a list of things I think are underrated or overrated.

Farmer’s markets are underrated.

Watermelon is overrated and bananas are underrated.

Our local fresh strawberries cannot possibly be overrated.

Tacos are overrated – just kidding.

Even after all we’ve been through during the enduring COVID-19 pandemic, frontline workers, from grocery cashiers, food service and agricultural workers to janitors, truck drivers and all healthcare employees, are underrated.

Frontline teachers are especially underrated and CEOs are especially overrated.

Doctors tend to be correctly rated, but nurses and physician assistants are definitely underrated.

Novacaine cannot be overrated if you are sitting in a dentist’s chair getting a filling.

Even if you try to fully appreciate it, good health is underrated until you fall ill or are injured.

Tom Hanks’ niceness is overrated – it simply has to be!

The magic of being a grandparent is overrated – until you become one.

The value of having music and art education in our schools is underrated.

The value of having kids in our schools, as opposed to attending classes remotely, cannot be overrated.

Individual universities are often overrated, but earning a college degree remains underrated.

Trade school degrees are greatly underrated.

Having a good mechanic, plumber or repairman/woman is underrated.

The dangers firefighters face are underrated by most of us.

All superheroes other than Superman, Batman and single parents are overrated.

A simple lunch or happy hour with another person, in person, is no longer underrated as of 2020.

Ditto for visiting a parent or grandparent in a senior living facility.

Expensive stylish shoes are overrated and comfortable shoes are underrated.

Before one sees the Grand Canyon in person it cannot help but be overrated; standing on its rim, however, it is impossible to underrate its awe-inspiring grandeur and breathtaking beauty.

Yosemite Valley is probably underrated.

The Channel Islands are definitely underrated.

Barefooted walks on the beach are highly rated, but still underrated.

Pizza is underrated, except for Hawaiian-style which is grossly overrated.

A short commute to work – especially from the bedroom to the kitchen table or extra bedroom/office – is no longer underrated.

Local microbreweries and small wineries are underrated.

Local charities that humbly do tremendous work are underrated.

Independent bookstores are underrated, as are public libraries and Little Free Libraries, too.

Ebooks are overrated by people who prefer printed ones, and vice-versa.

I thought Tolstoy was overrated, at the least overly longwinded, until I recently read some of his short stories – he merits his lofty rating.

At the risk of jinxing myself and getting a flat on the freeway, today’s car tires are underrated.

Common sense is underrated.

Cats are overrated to dog people, and vice-versa – but both are wrong because no beloved pet can be overrated.

Teenagers overrate the calamity of having a few pimples.

Older people overrate the calamity of having a few gray hairs.

The “good ol’ days” are overrated and today’s youth are too often underrated by those who were youths back in the “good ol’ days.”

A friendly smile is underrated by the person who is sharing it.

The medical miracle of all vaccines is underrated.

A true friendship cannot be overrated.

Handwritten letters and cards sent in the mail cannot be overrated.

Butterflies and birds are underrated, as are flowers and trees, and seas and sunsets. Let’s just say all of Nature is underrated.

These opinions are probably overrated to everyone except me.

* * *

Two Stories As Sweet As Cider

August 14, 2021August 22, 2021 by Woody

“One of these days in your travels,” Damon Runyon wrote, “a guy is going to come up to you and show you a nice brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken, and this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the Jack of Spades jump out of the deck and squirt cider in your ear.

“But, son, do not bet this man, for as sure as you are standing there, you are going to end up with an earful of cider.”

As a break from the earful of sour news we all get squirted with daily, here are two stories to give you a smile – one sent to me by a friend, the other by my nephew, authors unknown.

“I was shopping in a big store and heard a loud crash. Multiple items had broken. Without even seeing what had happened, that much was obvious.

“I went to investigate. It was a shopping cart accident. An older shopper had misjudged a corner and steered her cart into a tall display, which came crashing down. It was quite a mess. Many items were shattered.

“The older shopper who had caused all this was on her knees. She was extremely embarrassed. Frantically, she was trying to clean things up. It was all her fault. She would make it right. People were gathered around her, doing nothing but gawking.

“Since I heard the crash, I felt I had to do something. I knelt down beside this poor woman and told her not to worry. I helped her pick up the broken pieces.

“After about a minute, the store manager appeared. He got on his knees next to us and said, ‘Leave it all there. We will clean it up.’

“The woman who was responsible said, ‘I want to pay you for all the damage.’

“The store manager said, ‘No, we have insurance for this. You don’t have to pay a thing. These things happen. It’s really nothing. Please don’t let this ruin your day.”

“I’m not a garbage man, but my dad was before I was born.

“He’d found old fishing lures, a Bulova watch, but more importantly…

“My dad was the driver who had this one girl’s garbage route, and every time the girl would hear the truck she’d get all the last-minute garbage from the house and take it out so she could get a good look at all the garbage men.

“And she was interested in my dad. She even scheduled her radiography classes around trash collection day, just so she’d be home. When my dad noticed the trend, he’d often switch roles with one of the guys on the back of the truck so he could take the girl’s last-minute garbage from her and toss it in.

“This went on for months. One day, the girl’s father locked her out of the house and said he wouldn’t let her back in until she gave her phone number to one of the garbage men.

“Coincidentally, this was one day my dad was driving. She took the trash up to the guy on the back and asked him, ‘Hey, is your driver seeing anyone?’

“The guy yelled to my dad, ‘Hey, Keith, are you seeing anyone?!?!’

“And that is how my dad found his most valuable treasure, my mom, in the garbage. They’ve been happily married for almost 26 years.”

I like to think – no, in fact, I know – these sweet-as-cider love stories and Golden Rule kindnesses happen all around us, and to us, each day.

* * *

Mining Gold In Yard’s Wildness

August 7, 2021 by Woody

In fifth grade, in springtime, in the afternoon, Mr. Hawkins, one of my all-time favorite teachers, grounded me from recess and instead gave me an assignment as a small punishment for talking in class.

While my classmates raced onto the playground, I was sent outside to the school’s front yard and told to fill a sheet of notebook paper with observations. I returned in about five minutes, bored and with an empty page, begging to go join my friends in kickball.

“Don’t come back until the page is filled,” Mr. Hawkins reprimanded, adding encouragingly as I remember it like yesterday: “Look up in the sky, look at the trees, get down on your hands and knees and really look.”

It may not be memory’s sweet exaggeration to report that I filled up two full pages, even three, with my findings. Certainly, long before reading these words by John Muir I learned their meaning that day: “There are treasures hidden in the glorious wildness like unmined gold.”

Hidden, too, in a schoolyard’s grass, bushes and trees.

This all came flying back to my mind, like a red robin alighting on a dogwood branch, the other day when I spent some time really looking at the drought-resistant wildness of my front yard.

This close examination was further tied to Mr. Hawkins, who doubled as the school’s science teacher. Whenever a spider intruded in our classroom he would capture it beneath an upturned coffee cup, slide a piece of paper below, and then release it outside. He explained that while spiders may seem scary, they benefit our ecosystem by eating insects and pests.

Ever since, except in the middle of the night when I choose the heel of a shoe instead of a cup, I try to catch-and-release spiders as I would a lovely rainbow trout.

This time, when I bent down to liberate the eight-legged guy – or gal – in the front-yard landscape, I sighted a beetle crawling on a decorative boulder. I proceeded to watch it seemingly defy gravity by climbing down the steep face like a rock climber rappelling Half Dome.

Next, my eyes followed the paroled spider as it slowly scaled the long arm of a cactus plant. By now, I was back in the fifth grade, literally back on my hands and knees, filling up a lined notebook page in my mind.

A single file of ants marched across a dry creek bed of smooth stones; a butterfly, black and orange but not a Monarch, flitted by; a bird chirped out of sight and leaves overhead fluttered like nature’s gentle wind chimes; a second butterfly joined the first and they did an aerial ballroom dance together; another bird, a crow I believe, made a short commuter flight from our rooftop to the top of a plum tree.

For a long while I observed a lone worker bee go from flower to flower to flower like a trick-or-treater from door to door. In the midst of this viewing, a stray cat, black as midnight with golden eyes that seemed neon-lit, strolled up beside me as if to ask: “Hey, buddy, have you seen any mice in there anywhere?”

To this I would have thankfully answered “no” for I am too phobic of rodents to rescue and relocate one with a coffee mug.

And so it went, for fifteen minutes or maybe it was 45, I do not know. I do know this, as Mr. Muir also wrote: “In every walk with Nature, one receives far more than he seeks.” Mr. Hawkins would have surely agreed.

* * *

“Let Me Be Brave In The Attempt”

July 31, 2021 by Woody

The Tokyo Olympics, as the Games always do, makes me think of Special Olympics meets I have covered.

John Steinbeck, among other great writers, claimed fiction is often more truthful than nonfiction. While the names and location have been changed, the track scene below excerpted from my nearly completed novel “all is not broken” truly happened. Backstory: Charley and Finn are best friends, and Kenny is Finn’s autistic brother.

“Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.”

Harriet Beecher Stowe’s quote on display in her Hook Farm home in Hartford sent Charley’s thoughts racing back in time, back to Brooklyn. She thought the abolitionist author’s inspirational words perfectly described Kenny – especially at his Special Olympics swim and track meets.

Actually, “never give up” pretty much characterized every Special Olympian in Charley’s eyes.

Charley went with Finn to many of Kenny’s races and both girls got gooseflesh each time. While no world records ever fell, some of the competitors did – but only those who, like Kenny, were physically blessed enough to be able to stand in the first place. After all, many Special Olympians compete in wheelchairs.

When someone held a pity party for themselves, and this included Charley on rare occasions, Geepa would gently refocus their perspective by noting: “I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes – and then I met a man who had no feet.” That was how watching the Special Olympics made Charley feel – blessed to have feet and shoes, and legs and arms and hands that worked perfectly.

In turn, Charley recalled a Special Olympics track meet in Brooklyn when she saw a young boy – probably about twelve years old, she guessed – stumble at the halfway mark of the hundred-meter dash. The race was called a “dash” but in truth some of the competitors walked and others limped and still others rolled in their wheelchairs.

The stumbling boy fell headfirst and bloodied his knees, bloodied his palms, and also bloodied his nose. Hearing the crowd groan with alarmed empathy, Kenny – in the neighboring lane, but far ahead of all the other runners – stopped cold ten meters shy of the finish-line tape and looked up into the stands and then back over his shoulder.

Seeing the boy sprawled on the track, Kenny started running again…

…not to the finish line to win the blue ribbon, but in the opposite direction toward the fallen competitor.

As the other racers continued full speed ahead, Kenny helped the injured runner to his feet and, with his shoulder under the boy’s arm to lend support, walked the final fifty meters at his side. Every spectator in the stands stood and cheered as though the two boys were running for the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl.

Actually, Charley did not cheer – she was too proud and too choked up with tears to do so. Little did she know that that example of sportsmanship and kindness would later change her life.

Having forfeited a blue ribbon for winning the hundred meters, Kenny disappointedly settled for a participation ribbon. Charley was of an opposite mind. Whenever she looked at the “Wall of Fame” in Kenny’s room, her eyes would invariably find their way to the white ribbon he got for finishing in a tie for last place. It, more than the many, many, many blue ribbons and gold medals combined, made Charley smile the widest because it truly highlighted the motto of the Special Olympics:

“Let me win, but if I cannot win let me be brave in the attempt.”

* * *

WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

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