Author Archives: Woody

Words Add Up To Tin Anniversary

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Words Add Up To

Tin Anniversary

Tin Man is on my mind as I write today’s 600 words.

Not Dorothy’s newfound companion in “The Wizard of Oz”, but rather a homeless man I encountered many years past outside the Rose Bowl Stadium two hours before kickoff. He introduced himself as “Tin Man” even though his shopping cart was overflowing with empty aluminum cans.

I was there to cover the Super Bowl and cannot even remember who played. However, I have never forgotten Tin Man. The record earnings he anticipated from gathering recyclables at tailgate parties would not have bought the cheapest ticket to the big game. Amid princely opulence, he was a pauper.

Why am I thinking of a stranger I shared hot dogs and sodas with nearly three decades ago? Because tin/aluminum is the traditional gift for a 10th anniversary – and today marks that occasion for my column in this Saturday space.

In truth, the official debut date was July 31, 2010. Alas, as with my wedding anniversary a number of years ago, last week I dropped the ball – much like the Buffalo Bills did many times in losing to the Dallas Cowboys, 52-17, in the 1993 Super Bowl. I had to look all of that up.

Despite one fumbled anniversary, my marriage is streaking happily towards 38 years next month. Loyal readers here know I have a thing for streaks, having run at least three miles every day for the past 17 years – 6,243 consecutive days to be precise.

Similarly, my column “streak” stretches back all ten years and now numbers 524 consecutive Saturdays without a miss. Doing the math at 700 words weekly for the first eight years and 600 ever since, this adds up to more than 350,000 words. The tally seems impressive until you realize “War and Peace” comes in at 587,287 words.

Sometimes I feel like I inherited this sacred forum from Tolstoy himself. Chuck Thomas, my predecessor and mentor, was a Star – and star – columnist for half a century. The final time I saw him, Chuck was in the hospital and he joked I should pinch hit for him. He died a couple days later and his words proved prophetic.

How greatly did I look up to Chuck? Perhaps the best answer I can offer is this: his notes and letters are inside the same box that holds penned heirlooms from my idols Jim Murray and John Wooden.

Re-reading those missives from Chuck, who uniquely and affectionately called me “Wooder”, I came across this gem: “If there’s someone whose friendship you treasure, be sure to tell them now – without waiting for a memorial service to say it.”

I remain grateful I followed this wisdom and told Chuck while he was alive.

Another of his letters, written on a manual typewriter as always, is dated July 12, 1995, and was eerily prescient. Chuck, who started his career in sports, began: “Wooder, What happens to sports columnists? Some of them become old news-page columnists. …”

China is the recognized gift for a 20th anniversary, by which time I would indeed be an old news-page columnist. But even steel to celebrate 11 years seems as distant as the moon. As Jim Murray sagely shared early in my career, “I never look past today’s column.”

Or as Tin Man told me: “We’re all day-to-day and today is a good one.”

Yes, it is. And so, with a full aluminum can in hand, I raise a toast to my tin anniversary; and to Chuck Thomas; and to the two of his “three loyal readers” I have managed to keep.

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

 

 

In ‘Fair’ World, It’d Be Smiling Time

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

In a ‘Fair’ World, It

Would Be Smiling Time

A John Mellencamp song comes to my mind every summer at this time. Titled “County Fair” it takes a dark and depressing turn, yet one bright lyric sticks in my heart and makes me smile:

“Kids with eyes as big as dollars / Rode all the rides”.

That, in a single image, sums up the Ventura County Fair to me – kids having their thrills riding carousels and roller coasters, trains and the Tilt-a-Whirl and, of course, slow turns on the giant Ferris wheel with its seagull eye’s view of the ocean and Ventura Pier and city below.

Sadly, a new Fair Poster for 2020 was not to be.

George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr.’s famous invention debuted at the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago. Remarkably, that was actually 18 years after the debut of the Ventura County Fair.

Our 145th edition was scheduled to have opened its gates yesterday, July 31. Because of coronavirus, however, some 300,000 smiles have been cancelled and the turnstiles will dutifully remain locked. Like you, I am disappointed.

I had planned to take my young granddaughter to her first Fair this year. Instead of making new memories with her, I must be content with reminiscing about two other little girls with eyes as big as dollars.

The first girl, then 5, went to her first Fair alone with her father. Her biggest thrill that afternoon was riding the Ferris wheel. On their drive home, as her father retells it, she could be heard softly whispering to herself, “Ferris wheel, Ferris wheel, Ferris wheel,” so as not to forget the name.

Arriving home, the girl – now my wife – raced inside and excitedly told her mom: “I rode the merry-go-round!”

A second Ferris wheel memory was captured in a photograph that remains one of my favorites of my own little girl. It is in black-and-white, taken candidly by a Star photographer before newspapers became colorful, and hangs in a gold frame in her childhood bedroom.

Frozen in time nearly three decades past, she is 4 years old and my arm is wrapped around her as we ride the Ferris wheel. It was her first time at the Ventura County Fair and she will tell you it is one of her earliest vivid memories. I imagine most adults remember similar childhood Fair magic.

The Fair still makes kids of us all. If not the rides, then the exhibits or games or concerts still give us eyes as big as dollars. The Fair is a time machine. For 12 days each summer, we turn back the calendar.

Our Fair roared back after World War II, the last time it was cancelled, and it will do likewise after this war with COVID-19 ends. For now, sadly, the win-a-stuffed-animal games and whirling rides are on hold.

The chocolate-covered, deep-fried, bacon-filled food concoctions are on hold, as are the amazing exhibits of paintings and photographs, quilts and cakes, flowers and plants. The mini-pigs and giant rabbits the size of bulldogs and 4-H livestock auctions are also on hold.

In short, being a silver dollar-eyed 4-year-old, no matter one’s true age, is on hold.

Mellencamp’s song concludes as it opened: “Well the County Fair left quite a mess / In the county yard.” It is a lyric that carries extra melancholy this year since there will be no tents to fold, no rides to take down, no happy mess left behind.

And no new memories left behind, either.

However, since legend has it that Babe Ruth once played an exhibition baseball game at this very Seaside Park site, the late-season motto of sad-but-hopeful baseball fans seems in order: “Wait ’til next year!”

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

 

One City Can Become Any City

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

One City Can Become

Any City, Every City

Even though my column runs on the Opinion page, I generally try to keep it a retreat from politics and controversies and instead provide a smile, a laugh, some sunshine among the clouds.

Today is an exception. Today is thunder and lightning.

John Lewis, the legendary civil rights leader who died eight days ago, famously said: “When you see something that is not right, not fair, not just, you have to speak up.”

What we have seen happening in Portland, Oregon, is not right, not fair, not just. In honor of Lewis, I have to speak up.

American citizens being snatched off sidewalks by unidentified federal forces in unmarked vans and not told why nor where they are being taken, is not right.

“A Wall of Moms” being tear-gassed while peacefully trying to protect Black Lives Matter protesters from federal forces, camouflaged and armed as if for war, is not fair.

Peacefully protesting “Wall of Moms” being tear-gassed by federal agents in Portland.

A 52-year-old United States Navy veteran standing as still as a statue while being pepper sprayed in the face and having a semi-automatic weapon pointed at his chest and then being repeatedly beaten with batons by federal agents, their home-run swings so powerful as to break a bone in his hand as well as a finger so badly it required surgery, is not just.

Indeed, using excessive police force against citizens who are protesting police brutality is ironic and tragic. Understand, this was a man who has bravely served this country, not a rioter. The video of his beating resembles the newsreels showing John Lewis being violently billy clubbed nearly to death by a state trooper during a civil rights march in Selma, Ala., more than half a century ago.

How very little has changed in so long a time.

There are those who will label me a liberal (rightly so) and broadly label the Portland protesters (wrongly so) “rioters”, “looters” and “anarchists.” In turn, they argue the heavy-handed force is merited.

Such callousness is where the slope gets slippery, grows steeper, becomes a point of no return.

As Martin Niemöller famously wrote in 1946: “First they came for the Communists / And I did not speak out / Because I was not a Communist / Then they came for the Socialists / And I did not speak out / Because I was not a Socialist / Then they came for the trade unionists / And I did not speak out / Because I was not a trade unionist / Then they came for the Jews / And I did not speak out / Because I was not a Jew / Then they came for me / And there was no one left / To speak out for me.”

Those who support the current deployment of what has been called “secret police” and “American Gestapo” should be every bit as fearful by what is happening as are those who support the protesters. After all, Portland can become Plano; a “blue” city can become a “red” city; any city can become every city.

Indeed, we must all heed Niemöller’s warning. Black Lives Matter supporters being beaten with batons and gassed and pulled off the streets without justification today can tomorrow become open-carry defenders rounded up without warrant; “they” and “he” can become “us” and “me.”

The uniformed officers, politicians and others who enacted similar violence in the name of our government against John Lewis and his heroic peers as they practiced civil disobedience have not been remembered kindly by history. Today will be no different.

We all need to speak out for each other. Now.

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

 

Doubleheader of Baseball Tales

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Doubleheader of

Baseball Tales

Major League Baseball’s 2020 All-Star Game was to have been held at Dodger Stadium this past Tuesday, but coronavirus called it out on strikes. As consolation, here is a doubleheader of baseball stories.

The first is told by the great Vin Scully in the Introduction pages of “The Jim Murray Collection”:

“The Brooklyn Dodgers had lost a bitter one-run game to the New York Giants at Ebbets Field. As fate would have it, Jackie Robinson was involved in a very close play at second base for the final out, and he was steaming.

“Even though most, if not all, of his teammates felt he had been rightfully called out, Jackie was hollering at the top of his lungs about the unfair call, punctuating every steamy sentence by hurling furniture, equipment, and anything else he found handy into his locker.

“Now to really get the picture you have to understand the home-team clubhouse in Brooklyn. The pecking order and star status on the team placed big-name players’ lockers near the front door. Gil Hodges, Peewee Reese, Roy Campanella, Preacher Roe, Duke Snider, and Jackie were prominently displayed.

“After that, according to rank, a player was assigned a locker that befit his status on the team. In the farthest corner of the room, near the showers and the icebox that held the beer and soft drinks, was the locker of a somewhat obscure pitcher named Dan Bankhead. The fans didn’t know much about ’ol Dan, but his teammates did. Bankhead was not one to waste words and when he did have something to say, he had the immediate attention of all concerned.

“On this day as Robinson ranted and raved and hurled his bootless cries to the heavens, his was the only sound heard in the room. In the far corner Bankhead sprawled off the stool in front of his cubicle, naked but for a towel across his loins, hands folded at his stomach and reading glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose. Right in the middle of Robinson’s harangue Bankhead said softly, “Robinson…”

Jackie stopped in mid-sentence, adverbs and adjectives hanging in the air like wisps of smoke.

“Robinson,” said Bankhead, now that he had complete silence in the room. “Robinson … you are not only wrong … you is loud wrong.”

“Jackie stood and stared at ol’ Dan for a moment, and then his handsome features broke into a wide grin. The storm had passed, the point taken, and the wisdom received.”

I bring this tale up on account of different harangue going on these days that merits a Bankhead-like response: “Hey, you all who refuse to wear face masks during this coronavirus pandemic, you are not only wrong, you is loud wrong. Let’s all wear masks for each other and get through this storm.”

The second story comes from a friend who works a side job as a baseball umpire:

“I was driving too fast in the snow in Boulder, Colorado,” Dave related, “and a policeman pulled me over and gave me a speeding ticket. I tried to talk him out of it, telling him how worried I was about my insurance and that I was normally a very careful driver.

“He said I should go to court and try to get it reduced or thrown out.

“The first day of the next baseball season, I’m umpiring behind home plate and the first batter up is the same policeman. I recognize him, he recognizes me. He asks me how the thing went with the ticket?

“I tell him, ‘Swing at everything.’ ”

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Retired Teacher Still Giving Lessons

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Retired Teacher Is

Still Giving Lessons

The threat of a ruler rapped across her knuckles was nearly required, but I eventually got a long-ago student at St. Genevieve High School to share her recent story of kindness as a retired teacher.

“I don’t need recognition,” said Marie, who insisted I not identify her further. “I feel like so many teachers do things for their students, not just me. I try to live my life the way my parents did in giving of themselves.”

Her parents taught Marie well, as exemplified by this fresh email from a former student:

“Hi Mrs. (Marie)!

“I received your letter in the mail! Thank you so much for the heartwarming message and for the $10. I shall use it wisely! Maybe something I can put in my dorm room in the future to remember you! Not that I need something to do that. I am just so touched. That $10 bill is worth more than $10 to me.

“Again, thank you for the lovely letter. It was an amazing surprise and you had the most perfect timing. It cheered me up when I was feeling particularly sad about graduation. Knowing that I have your support and that I’m in your thoughts comforts me!

Stay safe and healthy! I hope you’re doing well!!

“Love, Ellen.”

Should anyone take exception with Cornell-bound Ellen’s free use of exclamation marks, know that Ernest Hemingway, no less, was known to use three !!! in a row when writing personal letters.

Marie taught Math, not English Literature, for nearly four decades, including her final 28 years in Ventura County. She retired three years ago.

“I loved what I did for so many years,” she says. “I miss it.”

In choosing her career path, Marie followed in the esteemed footsteps of Sister Joanne who was her high school Math teacher in the San Fernando Valley. Sister Joanne is now in her 90s and living in New Jersey, but the two remain in contact.

“I would often tell my students about her because she was the best,” Marie says. “Once, she told me that she remembered exactly where I sat in class and told me she could always count on me when it came to proofs. What a memory. She made me think I need to keep in touch with my kids.”

Like a boomerang, the notes Marie sends out often come flying back carrying updates about her students’ lives. This year, realizing the overwhelming disappointment caused by COVID-19, especially to 2020 graduating seniors, Marie decided to redouble her efforts.

“I had former students who had to leave their colleges,” Marie notes. “No goodbyes to friends; missed internships; had to go home and quarantine. It’s sad.”

Hence, she searched out mailing addresses and sent a blizzard of cards. What did she write inside?

“I basically told kids I knew this wasn’t the senior year and graduation they expected – missing prom, trips, barbeques, parties,” Marie shares, “but that their next graduation would be different.

“I told them I am so proud of them and know they will go far in life,” Marie went on. “And I know this is only a little bump in the road. I included a few dollars just as a small gift. It’s just something I wanted to do. To me, it’s all about kindness.”

Responses like Ellen’s have been the norm. Student after student has told their former teacher how much her card cheered them up and made them feel appreciated to know that someone was thinking about their trying situations.

Old educators don’t retire, they just teach new lessons.

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Balloons Filled with Wisdom, Love

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Balloons Filled with

Wisdom and Love

Selfishness may not be on the rise, but it sometimes seems that is the case. It therefore seems timely to share an unattributed story my friend Larry Baratte sent me shortly before his death, which I have rewritten for brevity.

An elementary school teacher asked the children in all grades to each blow up a balloon and then write his or her name on it. The inflated balloons were tossed into the hallway and mixed around thoroughly.

The teacher then set a timer for five minutes and instructed the students to find the balloon with their own name on it. On the word “Go!” the children ran around helter-skelter looking for their own balloon.

When time ran out, not a single child had succeeded.

Now the teacher told them, wherever they were standing, to grab the balloon nearest them and personally give it to the person whose name was on it. In less than two minutes, everyone had their own balloon.

“Balloons are like happiness,” the teacher explained, “no one will find it very quickly by looking for theirs only.”

That wisdom bookends nicely with another email I received recently. It quoted a group of children, ages 4 to 8, who were asked: “What does love mean?” Their answers are as uplifting as helium balloons.

“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.” – Billy, age 4.

“Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries.” – Chrissy, age 6.

“When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis, too. That’s love.” – Rebecca, age 8.

“Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.” – Terri, age 4.

“Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other.” – Karl, age 5.

“Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt and then he wears it every day.” – Noelle, age 7.

“Love is when Mommy gives Daddy the best piece of chicken.” – Elaine, age 5.

“Love is what’s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and just listen.” – Bobby, age 7.

“If you want to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate.” – Nikka, age 6.

“Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.” – Tommy, age 6.

“During my piano recital, I was on a stage and I was scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn’t scared anymore.” – Cindy, age 8.

“Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” – Mary Ann, age 4.

“My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don’t see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.” – Clare, age 6.

“When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.” – Karen, age 7.

“Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him to make sure the taste is okay.” – Danny, age 8.

“You really shouldn’t say ‘I love you’ unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.” – Jessica, age 8.

In other words, like happiness, love is like a balloon – you won’t find it by looking only for your own.

*   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Acts of Kindness Are Real Gift

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Acts of Kindness

Are a Real Gift

I had big plans for a recent milestone birthday.

But like everyone else with grand occasions to celebrate in 2020, Coronavirus had other ideas. Thoughts of a local microbrewery filled to overflowing turned as flat as warm, day-old beer.

Life, however, is full of bubbly surprises. I casually asked friends and family, since we could not get together, to do random acts of kindness as a gift to me. Here are a few of the ribbons and bows…

Vicki brought in her neighbor’s trashcans in 90-degree heat and added: “It felt so good I did a few more houses down, too!”

Her deed provided a bonus smile because it made me think of my late friend, Sparky Anderson, who used to walk through his neighborhood and move trash barrels from the curb up the driveways. “It don’t cost you nothing at all to be nice,” he told me in explanation.

Susan checked in on the health and needs of some elderly friends.

Trudy hand wrote a card to an old high school friend “letting her know that my memories and moments with her were some of my best.”

Ronna addressed postcards to get out the vote for mail-in voting.

Ed went shopping and delivered the groceries to his senior neighbor.

Rebecca similarly went “shopping for friends during this pandemic.”

Michele was another Samaritan shopper, making a Costco run for three seniors and also picked lemons for a friend who is on unemployment and quarantined with four kids.

Tim, knowing how much I love books and libraries and kids, bought a bunch of children’s books for a Little Free Library.

Bill phoned two friends who are fighting cancer.

Carrie said, “I am too shy to share what I did, but it made my day to hear that it really helped!” Her secret surprise made my day, too.

Margaret put out a basket of snacks on the front porch for her postal carrier and UPS drivers.

Barbara did a similar kindness for her garbage man and shared at length: “I was on my porch when my refuse company truck pulled up and mechanically dumped the contents of one of my receptacles into the truck. The driver stopped for a moment longer and I saw him pour water into a towel and wrap it around his neck. It was very hot and I felt for him.

“While he finished up in my cul-de-sac, I went inside and got an ice-cold can of ginger ale from my fridge. When he returned the other direction in front of my house, I walked over and gestured for him to roll down his window.

“I asked if he would like a cold drink and told him how much I appreciated how hard he was working, especially in the heat and during this pandemic. I was shocked to see tears well up in his eyes as he took the can and thanked me.”

She later added a postscript: “Ever since that day, he honks as he passes if I am outside and we share a wave and two big smiles!”

Two more big smiles. First from Kathleen, who put Mother Teresa’s famous words – “If you can’t feed a hundred people, then feed just one” – into action by delivering a homemade dinner of chicken cacciatore with pasta to her neighbor in my honor.

Lastly, a dear childhood friend of mine and her husband turned Mother Teresa’s inspiring sentence backwards by feeding not one, but 750 people, with a donation to Food Share of Ventura County.

It was indeed a masterpiece birthday.

*   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

The Little Fellow takes the lead

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

The Little Fellow

takes the lead

The other day, a friend texted me after returning from a run with his 9-year-old son. I could almost hear the dad’s shortness of breath and see his smile in the electronic message.

I know it made me smile for it reminded me of a poem that hangs near my writing desk. It is titled, “A Little Fellow Follows Me,” author unknown, and seems especially worth sharing before Father’s Day. It begins:

A careful man I want to be, / A little fellow follows me; / I dare not to go astray, / For fear he’ll go the self-same way.

My Little Fellow then…

Growing up, my little fellow’s bedroom walls were plastered with posters of Olympic runners. As a second-grader he wrote a poem that also hangs in my office, titled: “I Am A Boy Who Loves To Run.”

That little boy grew up to be a six-foot-three young man who still loves to run. A former collegiate racer and more recently Boston Marathon finisher, he is far too fast for me to keep pace. But in my mind’s eye, I still see our side-by-side runs from long ago.

I cannot once escape his eyes, / Whatever he sees me do, he tries; / Like me he says he’s going to be, / The little chap who follows me.

We talked a lot on those runs together. He would tell me about his friends, about school, about his beloved Lakers. Often he made me laugh: “Was Gramps really a kid once?”

And: “Is Mom growing shorter?”

Me: “What?”

“Dad, I think she’s shrinking!”

…My Little Fellow now.

Me (suppressing a laugh): “No, I think you’re just growing taller.”

You can see why I loved running with The Little Fellow Who Follows Me, even when I had to go slower than I would have preferred in order to keep him from actually following me. Admittedly, I knew that would not last long. Indeed, like his shrinking mother, his dad was growing slower.

More than that, The Little Fellow was growing into a faster fellow.

He thinks that I am good and fine, / Believes in every word of mine; / The base in me he must not see, / The little chap who follows me.

I fondly remember one magical day 19 years ago – I know the date for it is in my running diary – when my 11-year-old Little Chap Who Follows Me and I went on a three-mile run together. Reaching the turnaround point, I was struggling not to be The Old Man Who Follows Him.

Shortly thereafter, sensing I had fallen slightly behind, he turned around and came back for me. I urged him to go on ahead, but he ignored every word of mine and ran alongside me at my pace the rest of the way. I had known this watershed day would arrive, but had thought it was further down the road of life.

I thought wrong. The future had arrived. A couple days later, midway up “The Long Monster Hill That Makes Your Legs Burn” – as he nicknamed this stretch of heartbreaking asphalt – I breathlessly insisted that The Little Fellow Who Follows Me go on ahead to the top. He flew off like Hermes.

I must remember as I go, / Through summer’s sun and winter’s snow; / I am building for the years to be / That little chap who follows me.

With summer’s sun setting, I crested the hill well after The Little Chap Who Follows Me. Seeing me, he waved and grinned a big toothy smile. Truth be told, I was even happier than he.

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Final Goodbye To Role-Model Friend

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

A Final Goodbye To

Role-Model Friend

What do you say to a friend when you know it is the final goodbye?

I contemplated this heartbreaking question last month when, after three major surgeries and seven years of courageously battling incurable brain cancer, Larry Baratte entered hospice care. He would pass away shortly thereafter, five days shy of 61.

Searching impossibly for words remotely worth sharing at such a time, I kept circling back to the same thought – tell Larry his friendship and role-model-ship in my life have been John Wooden-like. Larry would well know I have no higher praise to offer.

To begin, Coach Wooden believed nothing is more important than “love” and “family.” I cannot imagine a family filled with more love than Larry’s – his dear wife, Beth, and their three adult sons, Chase, Collin and Cole.

Considering this similarity, and weighing what else to say, a new realization became clear: Four coaches have truly impacted my life. Interestingly, not as my sports coaches; rather, they have been life coaches to me.

This personal Mount Rushmore: John Wooden, Laszlo Tabori, Dick Gould and Larry Baratte.

Wooden’s teams won 10 NCAA basketball titles in a 12-year span; Tabori, the third man to break 4 minutes in the mile, coached three state championship junior college track teams, guided two pupils to marathon world records, and trained the distance runners at USC; and Gould, a Ventura native, coached the Stanford men’s tennis team to an astonishing 17 NCAA championships.

Larry measured up fully, coaching the Ventura College men’s and women’s swimming and water polo teams to 27 Western State Conference titles and two state championships.

As I said, however, it is not as athletic coaches that this Fab Four has influenced my life. It is by their example, their friendship, their inspiration.

“Put your guts to it!” Tabori would implore his Trojan runners, including my son. After befriending me, Laszlo preached this mantra in regards to my writing.

Wooden, naturally, instilled in me his 7-Point Creed: “Be true to yourself; Help others; Make each day your masterpiece; Drink deeply from good books; Make friendship a fine art; Build shelter against a rainy day; Pray for guidance and counsel, and give thanks for your blessings every day.”

Gould offers similar nuggets of wisdom, such as “Stress improvement, not perfection”; “Don’t take yourself too seriously, laugh at yourself, and have fun”; and “Be positive, walk tall, smile often, don’t complain or procrastinate.”

Likewise, Larry had his “How To Live” rules:

“Each day is a blessing.

“Give gratitude daily – life truly is a gift.

“Soak-in the beauty around you.

“Have your smile be your ‘resting face.’

“Slow down and be thankful every day!

“Give back to others anytime you have an opportunity!

“Default to KINDNESS – drown out the noise.

“Love deeply with a warm heart.

“Remember: You can get through anything – ANYTHING – with a positive attitude!

“Embrace the beautiful love of great friendships – it’s priceless!”

Larry lived genuinely by his rules. One personal example occurred a handful of years past when he attended a grand function in Los Angeles. After being introduced to John Wooden’s daughter, Nan, Larry did not ask her questions of his own interest. Instead, he thoughtfully made our friendship a fine art by bringing me into the conversation.

Driving home, Larry made my day a masterpiece by phoning to share: “When I mentioned you, Nan lit up and said, ‘Daddy loved Woody.’ ”

It remains a thrill I will never forget.

Larry was a friend I loved and will never forget. I am thankful I was able to tell him so.

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Black Lives Matter – In All Ways

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Black Lives Matter –

– In All Ways

Words fail me right now, and greatly so as a white male, but nonetheless I feel I must try…

Black lives matter.

Black lives gave their lives in The Revolutionary War and Civil War, World Wars I and II, Korean and Vietnam, the Gulf War and Afghanistan and Iraq.

And, 76 years ago today on June 6, Black lives stormed the beaches at Normandy.

Black lives save lives as surgeons, E.R. nurses and chemotherapists; as firefighters and paramedics; as lifeguards and suicide hotline volunteers; and, yes, as police officers.

Black lives are 2.5 times more likely than whites to be killed by police.

Black lives ran into the burning Twin Towers on Sept. 11.

Black lives write novels and computer code and love letters.

Black lives rock babies to sleep and are rock stars, rock climbers and rocket scientists.

Black lives are journalists and biologists, perfectionists and pedicurists, artists and astrophysicists.

Black lives grow gardens, grow farms, grow dreams.

Black lives play the piano, guitar and drums; play video games, beer pong and paintball.

Black lives paint masterpieces, paint houses, “paint the outside corner” for strike three.

Black lives know Martin Luther King’s words “the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice” but wonder why it has bent so very little in America over the past 400 years.

Black lives bleed and weep, laugh and love, pray and raise families.

Young Black lives are much more likely to go hungry than white children.

Black lives read The Bible, The Quran, The Torah and all other religious texts.

Black lives also read Shakespeare and Steinbeck, Du Bois and Baldwin, Harry Potter and comic books.

Black lives march in protest for Black lives and also for rainbow ribbon-wearing lives and pink ribbon-wearing lives and jigsaw puzzle piece-wearing lives.

Black lives need us all to march with them, kneel with them, stand with them – and video record them whenever they are confronted by police.

Black lives give Valentine bouquets, wear prom corsages and boutonnières, place flowers on headstones.

Black lives earn GEDs and Doctorates.

Black lives are playwrights and poets, singers and songwriters, actors and musicians.

Black lives are butchers, bakers and NBA slam-dunk makers.

Black lives are Little Leaguers and Major Leaguers, hotdog vendors and ticket takers.

Black lives fill stadiums and arenas as entertainers, cheer in the stands, and sweep them clean afterward.

Black lives are preachers and teachers, mentors and renters, truck drivers and cancer survivors.

Black lives are astronauts and pilots, Uber drivers and limo riders, cyclists and skateboarders.

Black lives are small business owners and big captains of industry, minimum wage earners and millionaires, lemonade stand kids and startup entrepreneurs.

Black lives are charged on average, even after controlling for debt and credit history, 0.31 percentage points more in mortgage interest than white borrowers.

Black lives sing at birthday parties, dance at weddings, grieve at funerals.

Black lives gaze at the stars and make wishes for future generations while remembering those of the past.

Black lives are golden anniversary lovers and newlyweds, new parents and grandparents.

Black lives count their baby’s fingers and toes at birth; count their blessings on Thanksgiving; count through memories at reunions.

Black lives are our family members and loved ones, classmates and colleagues, neighbors and friends.

Black lives jog in the streets; walk home after buying Skittles; have cars that break down on the road; ask people to put their dog on a leash in the park; and cry out for their mother when they can’t breathe.

Black lives matter dearly.

 *   *   *

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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

  • Personalized signed copies are