The Little Fellow takes the lead

June 20, 2020June 20, 2020 by Woody

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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” …

Personalized signed copies are at WoodyWoodburn.com

Final Goodbye To Role-Model Friend

June 13, 2020 by Woody

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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.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are at WoodyWoodburn.com

Black Lives Matter – In All Ways

June 6, 2020 by Woody

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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.

* * *

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To Travel Hopefully Is On Hold

May 30, 2020 by Woody

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Traveling Hopefully

Gets Put On Hold

“The journey,” the 16th Century great Spanish writer Miguel de Cervantes said, “is better than the inn.”

Scottish novelist Robert Louis Stevenson agreed, noting 300 years later: “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.”

These sentiments resonate with added gravity of late as the coronavirus has put most of our journeys on hold for one tends not to travel hopefully when the inns are closed.

Early on during these stay-and-shelter times when I complained mildly of cabin fever, my much-better-half half-jokingly said: “How has your life even changed? You write at home all day before going for a run and you never go to the grocery story anyway.”

She had a point. My normal life leans towards being a writer’s retreat in the seaside paradise of Ventura. And yet she also missed the mark. Without the anticipation of various events, big and small, my retreat became the same Groundhog Day most everyone has been experiencing.

For example, suddenly I could not escape to a coffee shop to do some writing. Similarly, looking forward to pints at a local microbrewery with author friends – or non-author ones – as a dangling carrot to cure Writer’s Block disappeared.

“Friday Date Nights” similarly vanished as lighthouses guiding me, and countless married couples, through the rough waters of a workweek. And what of single people suddenly unable to travel hopefully toward a dating weekend?

Bigger events being erased from our calendars, like inns disappearing from the landscape, took away the anticipation of traveling hopefully for many of us. It is remarkable how much pleasure a long-planned trip – or concert, party, celebration – provides in the months and days leading up to departure.

I bet my list of cancellations and letdowns varies from yours only in specifics: high school and college graduations; a milestone birthday oversized gathering; an anniversary cruise for two to Italy and a family trip to Hawaii that logistics-wise was harder to solve than a Rubik’s cube; my daughter’s debut novel book signing at Barnes & Noble here in her hometown with a lifetime of friends and family and teachers able to celebrate in person; attending a series of lectures by famous writers and thinkers; a music concert; and finally seeing the play “Hamilton.”

On the heels of last weekend’s column about filling a mason jar with smooth beach stones, sea glass, sand and ocean water as a metaphor for how to live a full life, I am reminded of a bookend story.

Mr. Hawkins, my fifth-grade teacher, explained to our class how he had a large jar resting atop his dresser and every time something wonderful happened in his life he would drop a marble inside. His goal was to fill the jar, maybe even two or three, to overflowing by the end of his lifetime.

After getting married, I finally embraced my old teacher’s example, although substituting pennies for marbles.

A couple weeks ago, I added a twist to this with a new smaller jar. Instead of a penny or marble for something special I have just experienced, whenever I think of something I want to do – but cannot right now – I write it down on a slip of paper and drop it in.

Here are just a few items on my Coronavirus Delayed To-Do List: visit Italy; visit my quarantined dad; enjoy a crowded happy hour; have a belated crowded 60th birthday party; hug my friends; hug a helpful stranger; on and on, big things and small.

Later, when it is safe to do so, I will travel hopefully all the way to the bottom of the jar.

* * *

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Life Lesson Inside A Glass Jar

May 23, 2020 by Woody

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Life Lesson Inside

A Glass Jar

Many years past, one of my college professors gave a demonstration on our final day of class that seems especially fitting to share during the graduation season.

I was reminded of Mr. Lloyd’s lecture, which had nothing to do with Speech 101, when a dear friend sent me a YouTube video by Meir Kay featuring a professor giving a nearly identical life lesson.

In my mind’s eye, the two professors are one and the same. And thus, since I do not remember Mr. Lloyd’s specific words well enough to quote at length, I shall lean on the video titled, “Amazingly Simple Theory for a Happy Life.”

The Professor enters the classroom, greets his students, and then displays a mason jar.

“We all have just one life to live,” he says, “a fleeting shadow amongst all that exists in this vast universe. We have the ability to accomplish anything, truly anything, if we use our time wisely.”

From his leather briefcase The Professor takes out a box of golf balls and feeds them into the jar until there is room for not one more.

“Is the jar full?” he asks and the students answer as one: “Yes.”

The Professor now adds pebbles which filter into the open spaces.

“Is it full now?” he asks and again the answer is, “Yes.”

The Professor pours in sand, shaking the jar so the grains settle into every nook and cranny, until it reaches the top.

“And how about now – is the jar full?”

“Yes,” more loudly this time.

Like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, from his briefcase The Professor produces two bottles of beer. He opens one and pouring slowly fills the jar to the brim.

A quick aside. Mr. Lloyd, perhaps on account of us being at UC Santa Barbara, employed a beach theme by using smooth stones instead of golf balls; colorful sea glass instead of pebbles; sand of course, but ocean water instead of beer.

Also, my professor used two jars – one small, one large – because, he explained, lifetimes come in different sizes.

“Now, I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life,” The Professor on YouTube resumes. “Golf balls are the important things: your family, your friends, your health and your passions.

“The pebbles are the other important things: your job, your car, your home.

“The sand is everything else: just the small stuff. If you put the sand in the jar first, you won’t have room for the pebbles or the golf balls.”

Also, as Mr. Lloyd pointed out, if you put the sea glass in first you will not have enough room for all of the larger important stones.

“The same is true in life,” The Professor continues. “If you spend all your energy and time on the small stuff, you won’t have time for all the really important things that matter to you.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Take care of the golf balls first. Set your priorities because everything else is just sand.”

A student in the video raises his hand and asks: “Professor, what does the beer represent?”

“I’m glad you asked,” The Professor answers. “It goes to show that no matter how full your life may seem to be, there’s always room for a couple of beers with a friend.”

Mr. Lloyd, meanwhile, explained the ocean water’s metaphor as meaning there’s always time to go to the beach.

I think both professors are right: there’s always time to enjoy a beer at the beach with a friend.

* * *

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Sweet Thank You For Heroes

May 16, 2020 by Woody

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Sweet Thank You

For Frontline Heroes

A cupcake is a small thing.

One thousand cupcakes is quite another.

Stephanie Nelson had the very big idea of honoring frontline heroes at Ventura County Medical Center with gourmet cupcakes. She selected National Nurses Day on May 6 for the confectionary celebration.

Because National Doctors Day passed two months earlier without any festivities due to the urgency of COVID-19 preparations, docs were also mixed into the new cupcake batter. In fact, because every worker in the medical profession is indispensible, it was decided that each and every member of the VCMC staff would be thanked with a fancy cupcake.

This was no small undertaking for Nelson, Director of Volunteer Services at the hospital, and her helpers. To deliver successfully required the harmony of an ICU team during a Code Blue situation. Call this a Code Red Velvet.

The baking angels were called upon at “Heavenly Cakes & More” in Oxnard to create a variety of gorgeous offerings in chocolate, vanilla, lemon and, of course, red velvet. The frosted artworks featured swirls, sprinkles and powdered dustings.

On the morning of Nurses Day, Nelson and two fellow cupcake crusaders – Mary McCarthy, a member of the VCMC Auxiliary; and Patient Advocate Marie Castaneda – picked up the baked bounty.

In a bakery’s version of Tetris, they puzzle-pieced 84 pink and white cardboard boxes, each holding a dozen delicacies, into their three cars and rushed them – “Stat!” – to VCMC.

“It took quite a while to load the cars and then unload them,” McCarthy shared in apparent understatement, for the boxes naturally had to be handled and stacked with care.

After the cupcakes were set out in various break rooms throughout the hospital, Nelson sent out word about the goodies to department managers. During brief reprieves from caring for patients, their work seemingly more nonstop than ever during this coronavirus era, staff members snuck away to savor a little taste of Heavenly.

Despite a sweet discount by Heavenly Cakes and a kind Samaritan stepping forward to pick up the tab for 100 of the cupcakes, dough was still needed to pay the balance. In stepped the Auxiliary with funds it raises from sales in the hospital gift shop.

The Auxiliary itself is a collection of hero volunteers. It routinely buys toys, books and games for young patients in the Pediatric and NICU wards and also stages holiday parties for the kids.

“It’s tough for them to be there, especially at holiday times,” McCarthy says of the hospitalized children. She further notes that because of COVID-19, the volunteers currently cannot visit the kids but instead must drop gifts off at the nursing stations.

As grand as the cupcake party was, here is something even more beautiful than a red velvet with a swirl of white frosting: for each of the 1,000 smiles delivered to VCMC there surely has been a similar deed of coronavirus-related kindness in Ventura County these past few stay-and-shelter months.

The cupcakes, however, seem a perfect metaphor for these times – and for a hospital. Unlike a giant-sized fancy cake where the cut slices touch one another, cupcakes are individually wrapped in paper liners – like tiny Personal Protective Equipment. Boxed together, or arranged on a table, they are the equal of any whole cake.

“I know it’s a small gesture,” McCarthy shares, “but I am so grateful to all those on the frontlines. The hospital is under enormous pressure. Hopefully the cupcakes provided a bit of cheer. Never underestimate cupcake power.”

Asked if all 1,000 cupcakes made it to the staff lips, Mary offered a confession: “I had a red velvet one – heaven!”

* * *

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Special Delivery for Mother’s Day

May 9, 2020 by Woody

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Special Delivery for

Mother’s Day

The first Mother’s Day gift I remember giving my mom was a bouquet of flowers fashioned from colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners, plus gobs of paste and a bigger glob of love, that we made in first grade.

Mom, naturally, acted as thrilled as if it were a dozen long-stemmed roses because that’s what moms do.

The final Mother’s Day gift I gave my mom, 28 years ago – it is difficult to believe it has been that long – was a bouquet of real flowers. More importantly, I delivered them in person with a hug. She probably would have preferred a single dandelion and a bouquet of hugs.

These bookend reminisces bring to mind a story, perhaps apocryphal, that seems fitting to share on Mother’s Day Eve.

Harry was an extremely successful, and busy, businessman. The Friday before Mother’s Day his secretary called in sick and he realized he had not asked her to order flowers for his mom.

Harry believed in supporting local businesses so instead of going online he took a quick break and walked to a florist shop a few blocks from his office.

The owner began to show off a variety of special arrangements, but Harry was in a hurry. Truth is, he was always in a rush. In the business world, time is money after all. He hastily ordered a dozen long-stemmed red roses to be delivered two days hence on his mom’s doorstep 200 miles away.

“Those are for my mom,” Harry noted, adding: “Give me another dozen of the same, wrapped to go, for my wife.”

Exiting the shop, in a blind rush back to work of course, Harry collided with a young boy standing beside a bicycle.

“Watch where you’re going!” Harry snarled.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said the boy. “Um, could you lend me three dollars?”

“Don’t you mean give you three dollars?” Harry acerbically corrected the boy. “You aren’t planning to pay me back. Why do you need three dollars anyway?”

“Today’s my mom’s birthday and I want to buy her a beautiful flower,” the boy explained. “But I don’t have quite enough money.”

Harry’s heart softened, slightly. While reaching for his wallet he asked the boy where he lived.

“About five minutes that way,” replied the boy, pointing down the street.

Harry left his wallet in his back pocket. He had a better idea and plucked one of the roses from the bouquet for his wife – surely she would not even notice the difference between a dozen and 11 – and handed it to the boy.

“Give this beauty to your mom,” Harry offered with a wink.

“Wow! Thanks!” said the boy. “I’m gonna take this to her right now!”

With that the boy hopped on his bike and began to ride off – in the opposite direction of where he had indicated that he lived.

“Hey, son, I thought your house was that way,” Harry said, gesturing.

“It is,” the boy replied. “But the cemetery is this way – my mom died last year.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, his voice cracking.

Eleven heartbeats of silence passed, one for each rose in Harry’s hand, before he spoke again. Handing the boy the remainder of the bouquet, he said: “Here, please put these on her grave.”

The boy took the full bouquet of roses and rode off while Harry wheeled around and went back inside the florist shop.

“I need to cancel that out-of-town delivery I just ordered,” Harry said. “Instead, I need you to put together two dozen roses to-go as quickly as possible. I’ve decided to deliver them today personally.”

* * *

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Highlights During Low Times

May 2, 2020 by Woody

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High Moments During

These Low Times

With facemasks the new normal during these coronavirus times, seeing a smile can seem as rare as a bluebird sighting. Here are some bluebirds…

Josh, a young man I know who faces food and shelter insecurity, recently went to the grocery store for a friend and received a tiny tap on his shoulder.

“Behind me was a sweet middle-aged woman with a gentle voice,” Josh retells. “She mumbled, ‘Can… can … you help me with some food?’

“My heart sank because I could tell she was in great need, but then my spirit reminded me that in this moment I could do something. We walked over to the deli and I was able to buy her lunch. I don’t have much; I often don’t know where my meals may come from; but this shared experience gives me great compassion and understanding for those less fortunate and in need.

“Her heart and words flowed with gratitude. I was able to put some of my own worries aside and focus on where I could give some love. It was a beautiful experience to be a part of!”

The owner of a small commercial building in downtown Santa Rosa phoned his 60-year-old son, who manages the property, and instructed him to cut the tenants’ rents in half for April.

Shortly thereafter, according to The Santa Rosa Democrat newspaper, he called his son back: “No, tell them there will be no rent for April.”

A longtime customer at a donut shop in Upper Arlington, Ohio – where, coincidentally, I grew up – purchased a single custard donut for a whopping $1,000.

The generous Samaritan, who has been going to Tremont Goodie Shop for nearly half a century, explained he wanted to help the store stay in business.

The kind act proved contagious after word spread, including a $100 tip by another customer.

“Look For The Helpers” began a post on social media along with a photograph of a girl inside her home, paper and pencil in hand, looking outside at a man kneeling on the front walkway.

“A 12-year-old girl was having difficulty with her math homework during the lockdown. So she emailed her teacher for help. He came over, brought his whiteboard, and taught her through the window.”

Another helper is Nemat Azizi, who came to America as a refugee from Afghanistan.

“He got married, had a family, and started a business,” read a Facebook post. “When COVID-19 hit, he knew he wanted to help. He’s now paid for the groceries of more than 300-plus families in Nebraska.”

An 8-year-old boy in Australia has been bullied because of his name: Corona De Vries.

The boy wrote a letter to actor Tom Hanks, who spent two weeks in quarantine Down Under after testing positive for COVID-19, saying: “I heard on the news you and your wife had caught the coronavirus. Are you OK?”

He further mentioned that kids at school called him “Coronavirus” which makes him “sad and angry.”

Hanks, who collects typewriters, composed a reply on a Corona portable model and then mailed both the letter and the pristine machine to the boy.

“Your letter made my wife and I feel so wonderful!” Hanks typed. “You know, you are the only person I’ve ever known to have the name Corona – like the ring around the sun, a crown. I thought this typewriter would suit you. Ask a grown up how it works. And use it to write me back.”

In his own writing hand the two-time Academy Award winner added: “P.S. You got a friend in ME!”

* * *

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Worst Day Leads to “Best Week”

April 25, 2020 by Woody

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Worst Day Leads

To “Best Week”

What was the best week of your life to date?

It is an impossible question, really, with your answer likely depending on the phase of the moon and your current frame of mind. Was it your wedding day and honeymoon? Maybe summer camp as a child? Or the miraculous first week as a parent?

Traveling to Ireland and sensing the ethereal presence of my great-great-great-grandfather who sailed from those shores, alone at age 14, to America is another contender for me.

Ideally, we do not have a single best week but many. Hence, this is my new best week because my daughter’s debut novel, “The Best Week That Never Happened” from Month9Books, has just been released. It is a childhood dream come true for her, which makes it my dream come true as well.

As you might imagine, a thousand images have flashed across my imagination this week. One memory is of a 6-year-old girl sitting at the kitchen table and typing on my Radio Shack portable word processor. Using one finger, and slowly searching out each key, she wrote her stories.

In second grade, she had a poem – “Peanut Butter Surprise” about a PB&J sandwich made with a jellyfish because the grape jelly ran out – printed in The Star’s “Kids Corner” feature. She never looked back, self-publishing a book in fifth grade that sold 2,000 copies; released two more short-story collections; had a play produced off-Broadway; received the John Steinbeck Creative Writing Fellowship; and now reached No. 1 on Amazon’s list for Young Adult New Releases. Each, and countless more highlights amidst, has been a best week at the time it happened.

And yet “The Best Week That Never Happened” has me thinking of a worst week that did happen. A week of overwhelming grief that began on Jan. 26 five years past. At 5 a.m., my daughter phoned and said in a tear-choked voice: “Daddy, Celine is gone.”

One of her two best friends in the world was in India for a wedding, during one of the best weeks in her 26-year-young life, and the taxi she was riding in was broadsided by a bus.

On its homeward voyage, Apollo 11’s Command Module “Columbia” crossed an invisible Rubicon where the moon’s gravitational attraction yielded imperceptibly to the pull of Earth’s gravity. Mourners experience a similar invisible line where the gravity of grief and loss are overcome by the pull of healing and happiness.

After Celine’s death, my daughter’s Rubicon seemed too distant for a rocket ship to reach. For long stretches, she even stopped writing. Then, out of the blue, came the proverbial lightning bolt of inspiration and she began pouring out her grief through the QWERTY keyboard.

“On some level,” my daughter says now, “I was writing – trying to write – a different ending for Celine than the one she was dealt.”

The result is a YA novel of love, mystery and magic set in Hawaii that is not about Celine at all, yet she is throughout its pages.

The result also is testament to the wisdom of the great poet Robert Frost: “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.”

And the result is, according to bestselling author Jennifer Niven, “A poignant and gripping heart-tug of a page-turner filled with heart and hope. I couldn’t put it down. Magic.”

The most magical result is that the moment my daughter typed out the ending sentence she found herself crying and smiling simultaneously. Her grief was coming and going at once. She had crossed the imperceptible Rubicon.

Another best week in Dallas’s life had arrived.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Mrs. Figs’ “Storytime” is Magical

April 18, 2020 by Woody

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“Storytime With Mrs. Figs”

Offers Magical Healing

It is said that reading aloud to young children fosters a love for books and literature that lasts a lifetime. Connie Halpern, however, pays lip service to this noble notion.

Literally.

Four weeks past, in an effort to make these shelter-in-place days and nights a little less confining for children, Connie started a not-for-profit channel on YouTube.com entitled “Storytime with Mrs. Figs.” She believes even coronavirus cannot quarantine a child’s imagination.

You may well recognize Connie’s pseudonym because for the past decade, before recently selling her independent bookstore, Connie was the effervescent shopkeeper of “Mrs. Figs Bookworm” in Camarillo.

“I believe strongly in the healing qualities of stories,” Connie says in explanation of why she created “Storytime.”

Down the road, again literally, Connie plans to travel by motor home and read to children all across America. For now, she is spreading the healing qualities of stories online.

Connie Halpern, aka the marvelous “Mrs. Figs.”

To date, Mrs. Figs has posted eight fireside Storytimes, including: “The Day the Crayons Quit” by Drew Daywalt and its bestselling sequel, “The Day the Crayons Came Home”; “Wild About Books” by Judy Sierra; “After the Fall” by Dan Santat; and “All in a Day” by Cynthia Rylant. More stories promise to be added as she receives copyright permission from publishers and authors.

Previously, the favorite fireplace I had ever seen was in Mark Twain’s home in Hartford, Conn., in his library to be specific.

Making it special is the elaborately carved oak mantelpiece that came from Ayton Castle in Scotland. Displayed upon it, from left to right, are a painted round vase; large seashell; marble figure of a woman; tall blue vase; silver serving platter; framed painting of a woman wearing a red winter coat and black hat; bronze tile of Twain’s profile; matching tall blue vase; white pottery water jar; small blue vase; a typing paper-sized painting of a cat’s face surround by ruffles; and a tiny bronze harp figurine.

I detail the items because each evening the master storywriter became an oral storyteller by making up a new tale for his young daughters in which he incorporated the entire ensemble, always beginning with the “Cat in a Ruff” painting. To imagine Twain performing one of his off-the-cuff stories is to imagine magic.

Connie’s “Storytime” is surely similar magic brought to life. She even reads while sitting beside an elegant fireplace, flames flickering as warmly as her voice, the handsome wooden mantle filled fully from left to right with books. It is my new favorite fireplace.

To say Mrs. Figs reads aloud is not quite accurate. Rather, she performs, the words seemingly memorized as she displays the illustrations to the listener/viewer. Additionally, she offers introductory thoughts about each book and other wisdoms.

“The only thing that you absolutely have to know,” Albert Einstein said, “is the location of the library.” During stay-and-shelter with children, knowing the location of “Storytime With Mrs. Figs” on YouTube is an absolute must.

Reading a book has been called a time machine. Mrs. Figs further proves that for adults, listening to a children’s book can magically transport us back to kindergarten naptime or even younger while being tucked into bed as our mother read us to sleep.

“Now you get to close your eyes,” Connie even coos after finishing one performance.

“It is my prayer that stories will be one small way that we can ‘stay-connected-while-sheltered’ during ‘stay-and-shelter,’ ” Connie allows, her words echoing the spiritual origins of Mrs. FIGs: Faith In God.

“Until next time, much love to you,” Connie signs off each episode. All that is missing is a kiss on the forehead.

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Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

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