Author Archives: Woody

Being Good Neighbors Vital Now

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Being Good Neighbors

Is Vital Now

            Freshman year in college, to fill an English requirement I got stuck in a class I had no desire to take. What a lucky break.

“The Poetry of Robert Frost” proved to be my favorite class of all four years. Partly it was the professor; largely it was the wordsmithery of the four-time Pulitzer Prize winner.

I recently retrieved Frost’s complete and unabridged works from my bookcase because, probably like you, I have extra time on my hands during these COVID-19 days and nights of self-isolation.

While “The Road Not Taken” remains my favorite Frost masterpiece, the poem I had foremost in mind to reread was “Mending Wall” with the closing line: “Good fences make good neighbors.”

One interpretation of the poem is that a wall, or stone fence between farms, is good because it separates people and livestock.

The following lines, however, offer a wink towards an opposite interpretation as the narrator notes of his neighbor beyond the hill: “He is all pine and I am apple orchard. / My apple trees will never get across / And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.”

Frost is playfully observing that apple and pine trees do not need a wall to keep them apart.

Shortly thereafter, the narrator continues: “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know / What I was walling in or walling out, / And to whom I was like to give offense.”

Here especially “Mending Wall” seems powerfully pertinent today. Through social distancing and self-isolation we are all being asked to build fences between ourselves and fellow citizens.

A week ago, not greeting a neighbor or friend with a handshake or hug felt rude because they were “like to give offense.” Similarly, by self-quarantining were we walling coronavirus out or walling ourselves in?

The important truth, we now know, is that we are using a metaphoric wall to “flatten the curve” of infections in an attempt to prevent our healthcare system from being overwhelmed.

Some people, for the good of all, must breach the wall – healthcare professionals, truckers, grocery and pharmacy workers, for example. Others need to go over the shelter-in-place wall to seek medical care, buy food, help at-risk neighbors.

It makes the news and goes viral on social media when selfish boors hoard toilet paper and fight over hand sanitizer, but I remain convinced most people share, give, help.

My friend Dave told me a story that I like to think is the Dog-Bites-Man non-headline norm. An elderly couple in their 80s sat in their car in a supermarket parking lot for 45 minutes, afraid to go inside and risk getting COVID-19.

Finally, they worked up the courage to ask a stranger to do their shopping. A young woman passerby gladly took their grocery list and money. She returned and set down the bags – and change – outside their car.

This suggests to me a new 2020 interpretation for “Mending Wall” with the narrator being a young, healthy farmer while his neighbor is in a vulnerable group – perhaps over age 65, or has a compromised immune system, or has asthma.

For the neighbor, balancing the “boulders that have fallen to each / And some are loaves and some so nearly balls” back in place on the wall is potentially life-saving.

If we view the mended wall as a metaphor for serious social distancing, it is indeed true that “Good fences make good neighbors” – at least for now.

The day will eventually return when it is more neighborly to shake hands across the fence. Or, better yet, hop over it and embrace.

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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” …

No More Mr. Nice Guy (Today)

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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For Today, No More

Mr. Nice Guy

If you were expecting 600 words of nice this morning, toss the newspaper in the recycling bin and phone your sweet grandma. I’m in a Being-Quarantined-On-The-Grand-Princess kind of mood.

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Speaking of coronavirus – and is anyone talking about anything else? – if supermarkets and pharmacies can impose a two-package limit on a decongestant pills, why can’t stores do the same with toilet paper and hand sanitizer?

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It annoys me when something breaks while it’s still almost brand new. Of course, it annoys me even more when – and this seems the norm not the exception – it breaks about 18 minutes after the warranty has expired.

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Speaking of broken things, I find it annoying when the service repairman can only give a four-hour time window for when he will arrive at the house. It’s a safe bet, by the way, he’ll show up after the window closes …

. . . unless you aren’t home the first 18 minutes of the time window, in which case he’ll be early, miss you, and you’ll have to reschedule.

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            Like 4 out of 5 patients in my nonscientific survey, it annoys me that doctors’ offices give an appointment time accurate to 10-minute increments yet always seem to run about 47 minutes behind schedule.

With that said, 5 out of 5 patients love it when their doctor’s office squeezes them in without a prior appointment when a semi-urgent matter strikes – which, naturally, is the reason other patients have to wait an extra 47 minutes.

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            You want nice? Go watch a made-for-Netflix romcom. Me, I’m in the dark mood for a Stephen King novel. Heck, even King must be frightened by coronavirus.

While everything about coronavirus has me annoyed, and worse, the viewpoint of a friend made me smile. She said she’s not worried about contracting it herself, but would truly hate to unknowingly have it and then spread it to a high-risk elderly person or cancer patient or someone else with a diminished immune system.

Needless to say, she’s not one of knuckleheads hoarding toilet paper like a group of teenagers planning to TP a friend’s house on a Friday night.

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            I’m annoyed that no one TPs our house and trees anymore – at least during this coronavirus outbreak.

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            Lines to cast ballots that stretch longer than for rides at Disneyland annoy me to the boiling point. There is no excuse good enough; America should be better.

With that said, seeing fellow citizens stubbornly – no, supremely patriotically – enduring three-hour marathon lines to make their voices heard buoys my spirits and makes them heroes in my eyes.

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            I get annoyed by other drivers. If I were to list these grievances it would annoy you. On the other hand, if you don’t use your turn signal; make the cars behind you miss a green light because you’re reading text messages instead of paying attention; or speed up to prevent someone from changing lanes on the freeway, annoying you in return seems fair.

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I’m annoyed twice a year by our changes to, and from, Daylight Saving Time. Personally, I wish we could keep DST year-round. But, honestly, if the majority of Californians were to vote to stay on Standard Time, I’d be fine with it.

Let’s just pick one or the other and stick with it.

Better, yet, let’s split the difference and change our Cali clocks only 30 minutes and always be half-an-hour different. I mean, the rest of America seems to hate California anyway so let’s really give them something to complain about!

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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” …

Teacher Appreciation Day Is Early

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Appreciation For

A Great Teacher

You have probably seen a bumper sticker proclaiming “If You Can Read This, Thank A Teacher” or a sentient similar.

Coach John Wooden, no less, believed teaching to be the world’s second-most important profession behind parenting.

And yet, teachers constantly feel overworked, underpaid and underappreciated. The first two positions are probably true, but the latter I argue is not. It’s just that the appreciation too often goes unexpressed.

This opinion was fortified recently when a simple question was posed on the “I Grew Up In Ventura” Facebook page: “Remember PE teacher McFadden from Balboa Middle School who passed away from cancer and the gym was named after him –

is the name logo still on the gym?”

One answer would have sufficed: Yes, it is still called Harold R. McFadden Gym.

Instead, an avalanche of appreciation poured in. If more than 100 posted replies do not impress you, understand that “Coach Mac” passed away 36 years ago. That is a lasting legacy.

“Great teacher and wonderful role model!” commented Brian James Toohey.

“Coach had an amazing impact on so many lives,” wrote Richard Johnston.

A mural inside Balboa’s Gym named after Coach McFadden

Ken Crown is an evidence, noting: “In the early 70’s when it wasn’t cool to be a Boy Scout, I asked Coach Mac if he could help me earn my Athletics merit badge. He graciously stayed after school for a couple days timing and measuring my runs and jumps. One of my life’s great role models for sure.”

“Coach Mac had a sense of humor, he was a great coach, was always giving encouragement to us,” shared Jim Matiniez.

“He was such a great teacher/man,” posted Ann Romero.

David Hobert saw him as a father figure, sharing: “My dad passed away when I was in eighth grade and afterward Coach McFadden was really good to me. He sat with me at lunch; came to my house to check on me and make sure I was doing homework; played Ping-Pong a few times and he was a world-class player! Super good guy.”

“I can hear his voice clear as day,” posted Drew Herron.

Steve McFadden offered this insight: “I truly believe my dad was able to connect with most students, but I think his forte as a teacher was to recognize when a particular student was ‘struggling’ in his or her life and maybe needed a little TLC or attention. He also had a ‘soft spot’ in his heart for students that were making the wrong choices or beginning to head down the wrong path for whatever reason. He would try to intervene and counsel as an attempt to hopefully get the student to recognize the poor choices and realize there are people who do care.”

I was blessed to have Harold McFadden for Physical Education five of my six semesters at Balboa Junior High in the early 1970s. He had such a lasting impact on me that I wrote a full a chapter about him in my memoir “Wooden & Me: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help ‘Make Each Day Your Masterpiece.’ ” Coach Mac, too, taught valuable life lessons.

While he was exceptional, Mr. McFadden is not the exception. We all have a teacher, or teachers, who are life-changers. This year’s National Teacher Appreciation Day is not until May 5 – that gives us all plenty of time to write a note of appreciation for a special teacher, either handwritten or by email or through social media.

As others and I have done regarding Coach Mac, don’t wait until it’s too late to express your gratitude.

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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” …

Readers Share Cookies and Sunrises

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Column Readers Share

Cookies And Sunrises

            Judging from my flooded email in-box, I am far from alone in being a pushover for Girl Scouts selling Tagalong and Shortbread cookies.

Diane Hunn, among others, shared: “I did a very similar thing with the little Brownie up the street from me. I was only going to purchase two boxes. But I only had $20’s from the ATM – and two boxes turned into eight!”

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Jane Rozanski related a heartwarming experience her granddaughter Juliana had.

“One early evening, a few years ago, Juliana (then 9 years old and a Brownie), her younger sister Tessa, their Daddy and their golden-doodle Rose packed up their little red wagon and went door to door to sell the cookies.

“Somewhere, on the way home, Juliana’s Hello Kitty wallet fell out of the wagon and she lost $150! They backtracked to look for it, but to no avail! Juliana made ‘Lost’ signs and they placed them around the neighborhood and her Daddy called the police to report the loss.

“The officers felt so bad for her that they passed the hat and collected $165 – and dropped by the house to give it to her!

“The next day, Juliana received a call from a mother whose 15-year-old daughter, also a Girl Scout, had found the wallet and they would drop it by!

“Juliana decided to return the $165 that the officers had collected – plus give them 30 boxes of cookies. So they packed up their wagon and they all dropped by the station to surprise the officers!”

A gorgeous “Pajama Sunset” in Ventura…

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Meanwhile, my friend Jim McCoskey takes the cake, so to speak, by buying all 66 boxes a Girl Scout had left to the tune of $330!

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John Watts sent this gem echoing my column on sunsets and the importance of perspective:

“There once was a woman who woke up, looked in the mirror, and noticed that she only had three hairs on her head. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll braid my hair today!’ So she did, and she had a wonderful day.

“The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror and saw that she had only two hairs on her head. ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘I think I’ll part my hair down the middle today!’ So she did, and she had a grand day.

“The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror and noticed that she had only one hair on her head. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘today I’m going to wear my hair in a pony tail!’ So she did, and she had a fun, fun day.

“The next day she woke up, looked in the mirror and noticed that there wasn’t a single hair on her head. ‘Yeah!’ she exclaimed, ‘I don’t have to fix my hair today!’

“Attitude is everything.”

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Lastly, an email from my sister-in-law, Kay, who shared a story of my late mom I had never heard before. As background, before my dad’s house was lost in the Thomas Fire, Kay lived a short walk away from him.

“When I used to visit your Dad every morning we would often comment on the pretty sunrises. I guess when your parents first married your Mom had some pajamas that had pinks and blues in them – so your Dad and I started calling certain gorgeous mornings a ‘pajama sunrise.’

“I have told my three girls the story and now we often comment on ‘pajama SUNSETS’ because they are never around to see the sunrise with me!

“So next time you see the sky in various shades of pink and blue, your Mom may be wearing her pajamas!”

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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” …

George Washington At My Keyboard

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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George Washington

Fills In At My Keyboard

 Dear readers and fellow countrymen, I cannot tell a lie, most especially on George Washington’s February 22 birth date: I wanted to take the day off from the keyboard.

Hence, our nation’s first president is ghostwriting my column with his own famous words.

While Washington was no Ben Franklin, or “Poor Richard” for that matter, when it comes to witticisms, “The Father of His Country” was nonetheless the father of countless quotes of wisdom and inspiration. To be sure, his words penned by quill lose no value when retyped on a computer keyboard.

To begin, this maxim comes from the very end of Washington’s “110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation” which he wrote down at age 16: “Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.”

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“Leave nothing for tomorrow which can be done today.”

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“Happiness depends more upon the internal frame of a person’s own mind, than on the externals in the world.”

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“Worry is the interest paid by those who borrow trouble.”

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“Associate yourself with men of good quality, if you esteem your own reputation; for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.”

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“A sensible woman can never be happy with a fool.”

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“True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to appellation. ”

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“A slender acquaintance with the world must convince every man that actions, not words, are the true criterion of the attachment of friends.”

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“Undertake not what you cannot Perform but be Careful to keep your Promise.”

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“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one” and, similarly: “99% of failures come from people who make excuses.”

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“Decision making, like coffee, needs a cooling process.”

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“We should not look back unless it is to derive useful lessons from past errors, and for the purpose of profiting by dearly bought experience. ”

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“Put not another bit into your mouth till the former be swallowed. Let not your morsels be too big for the jowls.”

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“Perseverance and spirit have done wonders in all ages.”

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“Speak not evil of the absent, for it is unjust.”

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“Let your heart feel for the afflictions and distress of everyone, and let your hand give in proportion to your purse.”

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“The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved.”

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“The harder the conflict, the greater the triumph.”

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“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and the strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these.”

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“Be courteous to all.”

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“To encourage literature and the arts is a duty which every good citizen owes to his country.”

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“I conceive a knowledge of books is the basis upon which other knowledge is to be built.”

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Finally, let me close with this maxim I found not in a book, but searching online: “ ‘The Internet is full of many false and unverified quotes.’ – George Washington.”

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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” …

It’s Girl Scouts Cookie Time!

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Unwelcomed Solicitors,

and Two Welcomed Ones

If you are like me, you have too many salespeople knocking on your front door.

Solar panels, cable TV and satellite services, house painting and more are all pitched. “We can save you money,” they say.

And: “We just installed (fill-in-the-product) for your neighbors and knew we’d be doing you a favor by interrupting your dinner to let you know!”

I try to be polite with my “No, thanks” although the other day I fell short.

The incident occurred shortly after we had a drought-resistant landscape completed in our front “yard.” Featuring a cornucopia of cactuses, succulents, flowers, a new tree, and a dry riverbed of rock, I half-expect a photographer for “Sunset” magazine to ring our doorbell.

Instead, it was a solicitor asking if I wanted him to mow our lawn.

“You just walked past that desert landscaping – do you see any grass?” I asked, sarcasm dripping at a far heavier flow than the new underground irrigation system.

On rare occasions, however, I do welcome a salesperson at my door. Specifically, this time of year when it’s a Girl Scout hawking cookies.

While I’m still waiting for this year’s annual Samoas and Tagalongs sales calls, let me share a memorable visit from a year past. Two or three Girl Scouts, each more adorable than the previous, had already capitalized on my sweet tooth. After nineteen years in the same house, I think the young green-vested army knows I’m a pushover.

Early one evening yet another Thin Mints-selling soldier came knocking. Surprisingly, however, it was a boy selling Girl Scout Cookies.

As if reading my mind, he told me he wasn’t a Girl Scout but his sister was. He was helping her because this was the last day of sales and she hadn’t reached her goal.

“She fell off her skateboard and hurt her hands,” the boy explained.

Perhaps it was a con and I was being played for a sucker, but I nevertheless excused myself to retrieve my wallet. When I returned, the brother had been joined by his sister.

Not only was the skateboard injury real, it was fresh. “It happened today,” she told me, holding out both hands, palms up. Each was badly skinned and looked painful.

I learned that she was 12 and her brother 9. Even better, I learned they were “best friends” according to him and she nodded in agreement.

I glanced over their shoulders at their mother waiting watchfully in the car and called out: “You must be very proud of these two.”

She smiled so widely it was like she shouted, “Yes, of course I am! Thank you!”

I asked the sister and her tagalong – actually, I suppose it was the other way around in this instance – how much the cookies cost, forgetting from my earlier orders that they are $5 each.

I requested two boxes, but after pulling out a $20 bill thought the better of it and said: “Make it four boxes.”

Simultaneously they nearly sang: “Four boxes, really?”

I wish you could have seen the joy on their shining faces. If you had, you would understand why I had third thoughts and added a fifth box of Shortbread to the previous four Samoas.

The bookend smiles widened until they almost touched.

“You know what?” I said, riding their happiness like a surfer on a perfect wave. “Let’s double my order.”

I don’t remember how long it took to finish those 10 boxes of cookies, but I won’t forget that brother and sister. I sure hope they both come knocking on my door again this Girl Scout Cookie season.

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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” …

Beauty of Sunsets and Perspective

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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The Beauty of Sunsets

and Perspective

High on my Must-See List is to visit Yosemite National Park during mid-February to witness the “Firefall” display when the water falling over Horsetail Fall seems to magically turn into molten iron ore being poured from a foundry kettle.

This natural spectacle, which lasts about a week of evenings, only occurs when the setting sun’s rays strike the falls at a rare and perfect angle.

While I have not yet seen this trick of light in person, in a way I feel have. After all, I have witnessed countless magical sunsets on our Gold Coast that seem painted by Monet using a palette of flames; mixed oils of reds, golds and oranges.

One such sunset occurred recently and, as usual, social media was ablaze with postings of gorgeous photos snapped by locals. In the comments section, my reply was always the same: “Ho-hum, another Ventura sunset.”

If you live here you will understand my sarcasm. As if one would shrug their shoulders unimpressed while gazing at the Mona Lisa. Indeed, our sunsets are masterpieces of nature. They are like Giant Redwoods – no matter how many such majestic trees you see in a forest, each is individually breathtaking.

The magical sunsets off Ventura’s coast are second-to-none.

To illuminate my point further, let me share a story from a Thanksgiving vacation in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, that my wife and I spent several years ago with her extended side of the family.

Each evening, like most everyone else staying at the resort, we would gather on the beach to watch the sun dissolve into the Pacific Ocean.

“Oooh!” said some with enthusiasm.

“Ahhh!” and “Gorgeous!” others in the chorus sang.

My wife and I remained silent and unmoved.

Perspective is everything. Sure, the Puerto Vallarta sunsets were nice and fine, but in our eyes the Golden Hour was fool’s gold. For starters, the sun sank into a plain horizon. There was no contrast – no Channel Islands – to add brushstrokes of dimension.

Furthermore, because the sky remained cloudless the heavens did not catch fire as happens on our Gold Coast. It was like watching the black-and-white portions of “The Wizard of Oz” compared to the film’s Technicolor scenes.

Not wishing to be sunset snobs, my wife and I kept our critical reviews quiet. Alone, however, we were like old Hollywood actors complaining of modern talent: “In our day, we had movie stars!”

Us: “In Ventura, we have sunsets!”

During the most recent Firefall-like sunset here, I was running at a park as late afternoon began its metamorphosis into evening, turning from a brown caterpillar into a kaleidoscopic butterfly. To be honest, I was blind to the wondrous show taking place.

My spirits were down and so were my eyes. Arthritis in my neck, which required disc-fusion surgery 17 years ago after my car was crushed by a speeding drunk driver, had been acting up worse than usual. Not yet 60, my cervical spine seems to belong to a 90-year-old.

Thus, too stiff on this day to look around to-and-fro, my focus remained steely eyed on the ground a few strides ahead. Then everything changed.

“Wow!” came a voice from a passerby going the other direction. “Look at that sky!”

My eyes lifted as directed and my spirits followed at once. Stopping in my tracks, I admired the Firefall colors being amplified with each passing moment.

Additionally, my dose of self-pity fell away like water over a falls. You see, the man who had awakened me to this pyrotechnic display of nature does his exercise loops around the park in a wheelchair. Suddenly, my sore neck seemed inconsequential.

Perspective is everything, isn’t it?

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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” …

Imagining Kobe’s Lost Tomorrows

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Kobe’s Tomorrows

That Will Never Come

Four times Kobe Bryant held a newborn daughter when she first came into the world, as it should be for a father.

Last Sunday, as it never should be for any daddy, he held one of his girls – 13-year-old Gianna – as she left this world.

At least that is how I imagine the final moments, perhaps mere seconds, transpired as the helicopter carrying Kobe, Gianna and seven other living souls fatally crashed in the morning, in the fog, into a Calabasas hillside.

I imagine that, if the seatbelts allowed, Kobe leaned over and wrapped his long, strong arms around his precious daughter and held her tight in the hands that used to powerfully dunk a basketball.

I imagine this not out of morbidity, but because my heart wishes to believe it. Tenderness before the tragedy.

I imagine, if there was time as the unspeakable horror unfolded, Kobe spoke: “I love you, Gigi.” And I imagine, even through terrified tears, she said: “I love you, Daddy.”

Kobe Bryant and daughter Gianna

I imagine that as he hugged Gianna, Kobe hoped – no, prayed, for he was a religious man – his 41-year-old body would superhumanly serve as a shield to save his little girl.

If there was more time, or perhaps a few seconds impossibly slowed seemingly into years, a million memories flashed through Kobe’s mind. If so, I imagine none of them were of his two decades of supernova greatness in the NBA; not his five NBA titles and two Olympic gold medals; not his 81-point night or career farewell 60-point performance; not his singular honor of having two Lakers jersey numbers – 8 and 24 – retired.

No, I imagine Kobe’s earthly farewell memories would have been of his wife, Vanessa, and their four daughters: Natalia, 17; Gianna; Bianka, 3; and Capri, born last summer. Perhaps he recalled the couple’s first date; saw the girls’ first smiles, first words, first steps; relived his last kisses from all five.

I imagine similar image collages for the other victims: for John Altobelli, 56, his wife Keri, 46, and their daughter Alyssa, 13; for Sarah Chester, 45, and her daughter Payton, 13; for Christina Mauser, 38; and for pilot Ara Zobayan, 50. I cannot fathom the measure of bereavement felt by their loved ones.

Nor can I imagine the grief of Vanessa, losing a child and a husband; of Natalia losing her younger sister and her dad; Bianka losing one of her big sisters and her dad; Capri losing both a big sister and a dad she will never know.

I imagine in a blur of memories, Kobe saw his girls’ birthday parties and Christmas mornings past; saw his honeymoon and family vacations; maybe saw his younger self teaching his girls to swim or ride bikes.

Too, surely, the relived images would have included shooting hoops with his three oldest daughters – basketball was still in the future for infant Capri.

Ah, the future. I imagine also, if there were enough final fractions of time, tomorrows that will never come for Kobe flashed before his eyes – reading bedtime stories to Capri; taking Bianka for ice cream; cheering for Gianna in a WNBA game; walking Natalia down the church aisle and then doing so with Gianna and Bianka and Capri; Vanessa and he becoming grandparents.

Perhaps, even, Kobe imagined his girls-turned-women squeezing his hand on his distant deathbed because that’s how it should be – daughters, and sons, should hold their fathers when they leave the world. Not the other way around.

Heartbreakingly, but lovingly, I imagine Kobe indeed had one of his four daughters holding his hand as he left this world.

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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” …

 

Part 2: Hemingway’s “Last Red Cent”

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Part 2: Hemingway’s

“Last Red Cent”

The stairway to heaven has 19 steps.

Before climbing the outdoor flight leading to Ernest Hemingway’s second-floor writing studio in the backyard, spitting distance away I toured the main house at 907 Whitehead Street in Key West’s Old Town. It is a mansion masterpiece.

The Spanish antiques and African artwork throughout, much collected by Hemingway himself, are stunning. However, I was more captivated by the wordsmith’s seven typewriters – three Underwood models; one Remington portable; two Corona machines, one black and the other forest green; and one Royal – displayed in various rooms.

Hanging out with Hemingway in his Key West home.

The black Royal portable, Hemingway’s favorite, naturally resides in his next-door upstairs studio. The spacious room has robin-egg blue walls and red terra cotta tile floor. Sun pours through ample windows, one of which affords a view of the Atlantic Ocean.

In addition to bookcases fully filled, the décor features taxidermic hunting trophies plus a mounted fish – albeit greatly smaller than Santiago’s great marlin in “The Old Man and the Sea.”

The showpiece of the room, however, is a modest round table the master used as a desk paired with a lone wooden chair. Upon the well-worn tabletop sits Hemingway’s prized typewriter as well as a notebook with a pen resting on its open pages.

When I came through, an orange six-toed cat was also resting on the table-turned-desk. One could imagine the tabby was waiting for its master to return because a sheet of typing paper was in the Royal, as if Papa had just stepped out for a moment.

“There is nothing to writing,” Hemingway famously said. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

Hemingway bled profusely in this den from 1931 to 1939, writing nine books. The prolific period began with “Death in the Afternoon”, included “The Green Hills of Africa” and “For Whom the Bells Toll”, and ended with “Under Kilimanjaro.” His process was to rise at dawn and hunch over his Royal until early afternoon, always quitting while still in the flow so it would be easier start anew the following morning.

The magic one feels standing before the Mona Lisa or the marble David, I experienced here. Oh, how I would have loved to give the Pulitzer Prize winner’s antique Royal a whirl for a sentence or three!

Too, I would have liked to dive into the magnificent swimming pool some two dozen strides from the writing studio and directly below the master bedroom in the main house. Dug into solid coral ground, it took two years to complete and was the only swimming pool within 100 miles.

Measuring 60 feet by 24 feet and 10 feet deep at the south end, half that at the opposite point on the compass, the rectangular pool cost a staggering $20,000 in 1938. Understand, less than a decade earlier the entire home and acre of land was purchased for $8,000.

Hemingway was exasperated at the pool’s final cost and at his second wife who oversaw its construction while he was away as a correspondent for the Spanish Civil War. Upon his return, he is said to have flung down a penny and complained: “Pauline, you’ve spent all but my last red cent, so you might as well have that!”

Offered as evidence that the story is true and not apocryphal, Pauline had a penny embedded heads-up in the cement on the shallow-end deck. Superstitiously, I left a shiny penny behind on top of that famous red cent.

Soon thereafter, I left a few dollars behind in the gift shop for a leather bookmark with the image of a lucky six-toed cat.

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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” …

 

Hemingway’s Home Is Cats’ Meow

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Hemingway’s Home

Is The Cats’ Meow

            A seven-block walk from the celebrated red-black-and-yellow concrete buoy marking The Southernmost Point in the Continental United States brought me to the North Star: The Ernest Hemingway Home & Museum.

Inside the brick wall and front gate awaits the home.

Nestled in the heart of Key West’s Old Town, the white-black-and-gold manor at 907 Whitehead Street is where the master wordsmith lived for a prolific writing span from 1931 to 1939. In 1968, seven years after Hemingway’s death, the estate became a registered National Historic Landmark.

Architecturally, the home seems transplanted from the French Quarter in New Orleans with a black wrought-iron balcony wrapping around the second story. Floor-to-ceiling arched windows framed by gold shutters add to the southern charm.

Majestic trees, including skyscraper palms, surround the home. The one-acre lush grounds are in turn framed by a brick wall, tall as a man. Not surprisingly, there is a tale behind the wall.

It seems that when the town’s red-brick streets were being torn up in 1938, Hemingway and some pals, including renowned Sloppy Joe’s Bar owner Joe Russell, surreptitiously followed behind the work wagons helping themselves to Baltimore pavers. After the pilfering was discovered – for the bricks had in fact not been headed to the scrap heap – Hemingway settled up by paying a penny apiece.

A Hemingway portrait greets visitors inside.

The wall had become necessary because of an earlier visit to Key West by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. To capitalize on the event, a map was printed for tourists and among the sites highlighted was Hemingway’s home complete with address. Suddenly, strangers were knocking on the front door and roaming the property uninvited.

Emphasizing the dangers of the period, Hemingway expert Chris Parsons told me in a private visit following a public tour: “Key West was like the Wild West when he lived here. You needed a knife or gun if you went out on street after dusk. Hemingway, of course, didn’t need a weapon because he was larger than life – ”

Nodding towards the brick wall’s entranceway, Parsons added, “ – with a gait wider than that gate.”

Strolling through that gate an hour earlier, I was immediately greeted by a sense of overwhelming reverence. In my mind’s eye, I could see Papa Hemingway; in my heart’s imagination, I felt his presence.

Too, I was greeted on the front porch by a grey tabby rubbing up against my leg. Inside, more cats awaited. In some rooms, the felines seemed as numerous as the butterflies at the nearby nature conservatory.

The famous six-toed Hemingway cats roam everywhere, outside and inside.

It turns out about 60 cats live out their pampered nine lives at Hemingway’s home. To give you an idea, they are even allowed to sleep on the priceless antique furniture that is roped off from the public visitors.

The resident cats are of all shades and colors: gray, black and white, red. Most are likely distant descendents of a Snow White, a rare six-toed cat given as a gift to Hemingway from a local boat captain. Six-toed cats, even black ones, were considered good luck at the time.

Cats normally have five toes on each front paw our tour guide informed us, but the majority of the Hemingway housecats are “polydactyl” meaning they have six front toes. The polydactyls are easy to spot because their paws are so large it looks like they are wearing mittens.

“One cat leads to another,” Hemingway liked to say of his caboodle, although he had fewer back then than the current five dozen.

He also liked to name his cats after famous people, a practice that continues today with Lucille Ball, Winston Churchill and Cary Grant among those all in current residence.

To be continued next week.

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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” …