Two Tales: Impatience and Patience

October 23, 2021October 23, 2021 by Woody

Bookends often match, but not always, as was the case with the following two incidents that occurred on the same recent afternoon. The first bookend was Impatience, the second Patience.

I was third in line at a traffic light and when it turned green the car at the front did not take off like a drag racer so the driver in the car directly behind it honked. While rudely impatient, it was at least a polite single tap – beep! – as in: “Hey, look up from reading your texts and please go.”

The front car did not go.

A count of perhaps “one Mississippi, two Mississippi” passed before the second car honked again, twice, longer – beeeep-beeeep! – expressing growing agitation, like: “Come on, pal, it ain’t gonna get any greener!”

Still the front car remained stationary.

One more “Mississippi” passed and BEEEEEEP! PG-13 translation: “Come on, knucklehead! Wake the heck up! I don’t want to sit through another long red light because of you! Go already, go, Go, GO!”

By now I was muttering R-rated complaints at the front driver.

At long last, the front car started to move at a tortoise’s pace and about three angry heartbeats later the second car abruptly changed lanes and with a loud gunning of its engine bolted ahead like a high-octane dragster.

Now I was behind the slow-pokey car, but surprisingly it was the speedy racer I cursed silently with contempt. You see, displayed on the back of the front car was a bright yellow sticker the size of a dinner placemat and impossible to miss: “STUDENT DRIVER / Please be Patient.”

Arriving at my destination, having empathetically proceeded in no rush, I soon witnessed a remarkable display of patience and Good Samaritanship (that’s not a word, but should be). On one of my loops running around the soccer fields at the Ventura Community Park at Kimball Road, a middle-aged man stopped me and pointed towards the south parking lot.

“Is that your car?” he asked.

“No,” I said, adding curiously: “Why?”

Mr. Good Samaritan had found an electronic key fob and was trying to locate its owner. This was proving to be no small task for the key fob had been lost next to the sidewalk that runs the full perimeter of the park.

Specifically, Mr. Good Samaritan found it on the other side of the park about as far from the parking lots as can be. He could have left the fob where it was, hoping the owner would retrace his or her steps and find it. The problem was, the encircling sidewalk is 1.25-miles long making it almost a needle-in-a-haystack search.

Instead, he picked up the fob and started asking every adult walker, runner, dog owner and rollerblader he saw if it was theirs. Failing at this, Mr. Good Samaritan wisely figured that locating the car might help him find its owner upon return. He thus began pressing the “unlock” button while listening for a high-pitched beep.

Coming up empty in the north lot near the aquatics center, he next tried the south one and finally found the winning SUV. Stationed here he patiently continued his search for the owner with no success.

An hour, at least, after most people would have given up, Mr. Samaritan left a note on the windshield explaining he was leaving the key fob inside at the swimming complex.

I will tell you this: If I ever lose my car key, I know whom I want to find it.

By the way, when I finished my run the SUV was happily gone.

* * *

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

Sunshine All Wrong On Sad Day

October 15, 2021 by Woody

This past Tuesday was as beautiful a day as one can imagine, early autumn laced with a lingering trace of summer, the cloudless sky as blue as Paul Newman’s eyes.

It was all wrong.

Dawn should have arrived leaden overcast and gloomy. Afternoon should have been windy and cold. The evening sky should have cracked with thunder and lightning.

At the very least, birds should have taken the day off from song; flowers should have closed their blooms; the night stars refused to twinkle.

Suz Montgomery, a Renaissance woman and local shero, succumbed to cancer Tuesday after fiercely battling the heinous-and-heartless disease into remission time and again for nearly a decade.

It is a cliché to say Suz packed two lifetimes into her 73 years. It would also be an understatement – three lifetimes is more like it. Here is a one-deep-breath biography of the longtime Ventura resident: lifetime learner and educator, tireless advocate for the elderly and energetic champion for youth, host of the “Schmooze with Suz” talk show on local television, green-thumbed gardener and marvelous Italian chef, warrior of justice fighting for the homeless and mentally ill, and, of course, mother, wife, grandmother, and dear friend to about a million people.

In my favorite photograph with Suz, we are embraced in a hug as tight as two best friends who have not seen each other in ages even though our absence had not been long at all. Her face is turned toward the camera with a smile as wide as the 805 area code and as bright as a spring day. Her eyes twinkle with delight. She is so beautiful you probably would not even notice that chemotherapy had once again stolen her hair.

What is most special about this picture is that most everyone who knew Suz has a similar photo overflowing with her love. Indeed, Suz had a way of making everyone in her life feel like they were her dearest friend. That is no small gift.

A recent gift Suz gave me, and which I believe because of its timing she wished for me to share with the world after she left us, were these ten life lessons she believed in and put into practice:

“There is no such thing as a mistake – it’s an opportunity to learn a new lesson. (Especially helpful in teaching kids.)

“Every day is a miracle – you simply need to look beyond the moment and see beyond.

“The time to do the right thing is always NOW!

“Judge your friends by the size of their hearts.

“Give to the world the best that you have and the best will come back to you.

“Grandparents are the best teachers without fear or filters.

“Trust your heart to make the right choice, not your head.

“You can always begin again.

“Serving others is the best of self – everyone WINS!

“It’s not always what you do now, it’s what you leave behind that matters.”

Thanks to the size of her heart and her passion for serving others, Suz undeniably leaves behind a legacy that matters.

You remember funny things at a time like this. A few years ago, on a drizzly day, Suz sent me this message: “Hon, have a great run today! I, too, once loved running in the rain – made me feel like I was five years old at recess.”

This is all the more reason why the sunshine seemed so wrong on the day Suz passed away at sunrise, for I could not help but imagine her running in the rain again, finally free from pain.

* * *

Readers’ Ali Memories & Postscript

October 8, 2021 by Woody

My recent reminiscences of Muhammad Ali, who passed way five years ago and boxed his final bout 40 years past, resulted in a flurry of responses from readers whose own memories of “The Greatest” have not faded over time. Here are a few…

“Fifty-one years ago on October 1st, 1975, I was at ‘The Thriller in Manila’! Ali v. Frazier. I was in the Navy and still have my ticket stub framed and hanging on my wall at home,” John Tunigold wrote with an attached photo of the cherished memorabilia – a very simple, nearly square, black-printed manila-colored ticket “No. 25340” elegantly preserved behind glass.

“I was straight out of high school, Class of ’73 at Hueneme High, joined the Navy and caught the end of the Vietnam War. In April 1975, we took approximately 3,000 Vietnamese refugees to the Philippines when Saigon fell.

“At the time I didn’t realize the historical significance of everything going on, including the Ali fight. President Ferdinand Marcos and his wife were there and got introduced to the crowd in the auditorium. We got tickets through special services and as you can imagine they were way up high, ‘nose bleed’ seats.”

“I saw Ali at the Del Amo Mall in Torrance, trying to do magic tricks at a time when it was obvious Parkinson’s was ravaging him,” Bill Cizek wrote, adding with melancholy: “Kids were pointing at the rubber sleeve over his thumb from which he pulled out the long ‘magic scarf.’ It made me feel sad, but I also had to admire him for making appearances in his condition, trying to stay connected to his fans.”

Robert Raven Kraft shared some memories from Miami where “The Champ” often trained: “I saw Ali in my neighborhood by the 5th Street gym. My boxer friends all knew him.

“My mom was the cashier at the drugstore he ate at and she talked to him all the time and also got to meet his mom. My mom’s famous line was that Ali told his mother, ‘This is the lady that takes all my money’ and my mom replied, ‘I wouldn’t take all your money if you weren’t treating all your friends.’

“I even ran three blocks with him in 1975. I wish I still had the autographed picture he signed to me as Cassius Clay in 1962.”

Lastly, to borrow the signature phrase of the late, great radio broadcaster Paul Harvey, “And now the rest of the story . . .”

In 1996, seven months after my six-year-old son playfully pulled away his outstretched palm and teasingly sing-sang “Too slow!” when Ali whiffed – and then laughed – trying to give him five, I attended assemblies at two inner-city high schools where the living legend gave 3,000 students copies of his then-new book “HeALIng: A Journal of Tolerance and Understanding.”

Afterwards, in a private reception, Ali caught my eye across a crowded room and motioned me over. When I arrived, he held out his hand, hip high and palm down, and said almost inaudibly: “You got a boy?”

I nodded, stunned. Ali replied with a smile, clearly remembering the boyish prank pulled on him. Without another whispered word, he took a pen in his Parkinson’s-trembling hand and with difficulty opened a copy of “HeALIing.”

“His name is Greg,” I said.

The “Too Greg” is in seismographic script, and the drawn heart Ali sometimes added when he was not in a hurry is hard to make out, but the signature is smooth and true and as beautiful as the memory it summons.

* * *

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.”

* * *

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.

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WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

Author Archives: Woody

Two Tales: Impatience and Patience

Sunshine All Wrong On Sad Day

Readers’ Ali Memories & Postscript

Part 2: Little Man and ‘The Greatest’

Recalling A ‘Greatest’ Memory

Mourning On A Gloomy Morning

9/11: Yesterday, a Lifetime Ago

Poor Proposal, Rich Marriage

Readers Share Nature Memories

These Opinions Might Be Overrated