Sweet Thank You For Heroes

May 16, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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!”

* * *

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 available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Special Delivery for Mother’s Day

May 9, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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.”

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

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!”

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

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.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Readers Share “Warm” Memories

April 11, 2020 by Woody

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Readers Share Own

“Warm” Memories

Two weeks back in this space, I turned back the calendar five decades and shared a story about a kindergarten boy who embarrassingly did not making it to the classroom’s bathroom in time.

That column, headlined “Cowboy boots filled with a warm memory,” resulted in a flood – pun intended – of emails from readers.

In hopes of offering a brief distraction from COVID-19, and perhaps a few laughs in the process, here are a few of the responses.

“You gave me the best laugh of the week with ‘– Squish! Squish! Squish! –’ ” wrote Patrick Martin, who then returned the favor with this observation: “Ironically, now that we are at the other end of the age spectrum, such an event might be in store for us again. I wonder if Depends makes absorbent socks?”

“You nailed it!” wrote Fred Romero, hitting the nail on the head himself with this: “I’m sure a lot of us adults can relate in one fashion or another.”

Mike Pedersen, for one, related with a memory from when he was 8 or 9:

“My story would be my grandmother finding soiled underpants in a drawer of their 2 bed, 1 bath on 24th Street in Del Mar – right across Highway 1 from the beach.”

The important fact was the one bathroom, as Mike explained the cause of his accident: “Grandpa was taking forever in the bathroom.”

His grandmother’s reply: “He gets a little constipated sometimes.”

“May have been the first time I’d heard that word,” Mike recalls.

Rick Throckmorton related with this: “7th grade for me! Old Ocean View School on Olds Road. 2 classrooms, 1 bathroom. 60-70 kids and 2 teachers!

“I think it was built in the ‘teens. Guess educators back then figured it was sufficient, since we were surrounded by citrus orchards. Which, by the way, were used – at least by us boys – frequently during recess.

“Won’t tell you what happened, it’s still embarrassing,” Rick continued, but hinted with this: “Had to do with the bottom of the ninth, I think, and I was on-deck. Or was it bottom of the 3rd at recess?

“Mom and Dad worked the fields, no phones, certainly no cell phones, and therefore no dry clothes! But a (now old) buddy loaned me his sweatshirt, which I wrapped around my waist and hid most of the incriminating evidence.”

This heartwarming “happy little memory of mine” came from Sharon Bisaccia:

“Thanks for today’s sweet story about a little boy and his cowboy boots.

I laughed until I had tears in my eyes. I loved it! It reminded me of another little five-year-old, my youngest grandson.

“One day, I received a call from the kindergarten teacher at Ojai Elementary School when I was at work at Ojai Village Pharmacy. She explained that Cody hadn’t made it to the bathroom in time. She was unable to locate his mother and could I possibly come and take care of him.

“ ‘Well, of course,’ was my reply.

“I arrived at the school to pick up my precious forlorn-looking little grandson.

We sped home where he trustingly allowed me to remove his damp clothing and to sponge him off and to find him dry clothing.

“With a hug and a smile, I returned him to school and all was well.

“I have never forgotten the look of relief on his face and the complete trust that little boy placed in me. This all happened many years ago. That little boy is now almost 30 and he and I have been great pals for many years!”

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Linked Hands In A Wheat Field

April 4, 2020April 4, 2020 by Woody

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Our Hands Linked,

Even If Only Virtually

Ventura County is rightly renowned for its strawberry fields. But my hometown also makes me think of wheat—specifically, a wheat field in a tiny farm town in Ohio.

The story goes like this:

A young girl wandered from home and became lost in the family’s wheat field that had grown taller than she. Her parents called out her name repeatedly, searched frantically, but could not find her.

Soon her three siblings, then neighbors as well, joined the hunt. But as daylight dimmed and disappeared, the little girl still had not been found.

By now seemingly half the townspeople were hectically racing through the wheat field trying to find the little girl, but with no success. The wheat field was simply too vast.

“Wheat Field With Crows” by Vincent van Gogh.

Night fell and with it the temperature. If the little girl was not found soon, she would surely perish from hypothermia. At long last, her father called everyone in from the wheat field.

No, he had not given up on finding his dear daughter. Rather, he had an idea. He gathered all the volunteers together and had them join hands to form a long human chain. More accurately, they formed a human comb.

They then walked together, side by side by side, combing through the tall amber waves of grain. In this manner they did not miss a single area as had happened when they randomly searched separately.

Within ten minutes, the search party of more than one hundred individuals – now united as one – found the little girl curled up on the ground …

… shivering and trying to stay warm, but still alive.

In a grander sense, it seems to me, the wheat field represents Ventura County – and even the world – most especially during challenging times like these COVID-19 “stay-at-home” days and nights.

All of us figuratively get lost at times and need the help of others. Our local healthcare professionals, restaurant staffs providing takeout meals, pharmacy and grocery workers, Instacart shoppers and retirement home caregivers, and so many more are now linking hands on the front lines, so to speak, to help the rest of us.

The rest of us, in turn, by “sheltering-in-place” as asked are figuratively linking hands to help keep our most vulnerable citizens – those over age 65, those with compromised immune systems, those with asthma – as safe from coronavirus as possible. Additionally, many in our “human comb” are further helping our small businesses by ordering takeout meals or having other products delivered to our homes.

Here is what else I see in our “wheat field.” I see people “social distancing” as advised, yet still “connecting” with others with a smile and a wave outside from safely afar or though a window; with phone calls, emails and video chats; with Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

With our hands linked, virtually, we will eventually emerge from this current wheat field challenge. Perhaps we will be shivering, as though having stayed in the ocean too long; but, as if wrapped in a beach towel, we will quickly warm up again.

When this frightening moment in history passes and the warmth of normal returns, and with it the warmth of real hugs replacing virtual ones, I hope we will be better because it.

Correction. I am convinced we will be better because if it.

Already, I believe, we are seeing one another – from doctors and nurses to grocery workers and pizza delivery drivers, from co-workers and neighbors to the elderly and shut-ins – with a new appreciation.

Yes, when I think of the wheat field story, the new soundtrack is by Beatles: “Strawberry Fields Forever.”

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Boots Filled With Warm Memory

March 28, 2020 by Woody

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Cowboy Boots Filled

With A Warm Memory

A photo-essay showing playgrounds starkly empty due to COVID-19 caused my heart to sink with sadness, but a black-and-white image of a lonely swing set was a time machine that made me laugh. I figure we can all use a dose of levity during these trying days, so here is a social-distancing memory from the 1960s.

My best friend Dan and I were in kindergarten. In our imaginations on this day, the swing set was our airplane and we were paratroopers fighting in the Cold War. We would pump as high as we could and then, at the zenith of the forward surge, launch ourselves airborne.

The danger of a broken leg or chipped tooth from this human-catapult game only added to our recess revelry.

After a few landings behind Russian lines, I had to go to the bathroom. Naturally, I ignored nature’s call. I figured I could hold out until the bell rang.

This became more difficult with each ensuing parachute-less landing, sometimes in a tumble, on the blacktop. Wearing hard-heeled cowboy boots rather than rubber-soled PF Flyers made the impact all the more jarring to my legs and, in turn, to my bloated bladder.

The end-of-recess bell still had not clanged, but I could hold it in no longer. I pumped my legs on the swings one last time, rose towards the clouds, released my grip at the perfect moment and soared far into enemy troop territory.

I then raced inside Classroom 2 to its single-person restroom. The smooth soles of my cowboy boots skidded to a stop on the tile floor and I turned the doorknob …

… LOCKED!

I felt a stab of panic. My five-year-old mind had not anticipated this perilous possibility. Frantically, I danced the I-Have-To-Go-Number-One Texas Two Step and knocked on the door. A girl’s voice said the restroom was in use.

“Hurry up,” I urged and danced faster.

Seconds passed like minutes.

“Hurry, pleeeease!” I pleaded.

By now my bladder was like a balloon hooked to a water faucet and rapidly being filled to the bursting point. Finally, the toilet flushed and its whooshing water was music to my ears – and like Pavlov’s bell to my bladder.

More running water in the sink.

“No, don’t wash your hands!” I thought. “There’s no time!”

I knocked yet again and begged with full urgency: “Please, pleeease, let me in!”

CLICK! At long last the door unlocked and swung open. A girl exited and I rushed in.

For unpracticed kindergarten fingers, a pants zipper can be as difficult to solve as cracking a safe. Before I could dial the opening combination, Hoover Dam breached and warm waterfalls cascaded down both my legs.

Remarkably, not a drop of the five gallons of pee spilled onto the floor. This was because two-and-a-half gallons filled my right cowboy boot and two-and-a-half gallons poured into the left.

Events then took a turn for the worse. Before I could sneak out of the restroom and get help from Miss Bower – dry pants would be nice; a disguise even better – the recess bell rang and in stormed the rest of the class.

Knock, knock!

“Go away!”

A long moment passed as I remained sheltered in place.

Knock, knock!

Through the locked door and through tears: “Tell Miss Bower (sniffle) I need her.”

Like nurses and grandmas, kindergarten teachers are angels on earth. Miss Bower came inside, hugged me, and then escorted me – Squish! Squish! Squish! – down a mile-long hallway to the office to wait for my mom to bring dry clothes and shoes.

Thankfully, there wasn’t a photojournalist around.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Being Good Neighbors Vital Now

March 21, 2020 by Woody

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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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Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

No More Mr. Nice Guy (Today)

March 14, 2020 by Woody

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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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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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Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

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