Imagining Kobe’s Lost Tomorrows

February 1, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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.

* * *

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

Part 2: Hemingway’s “Last Red Cent”

January 27, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Hemingway’s Home Is Cats’ Meow

January 18, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Psychedelic Snowfall in Key West

January 11, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Psychedelic Snowfall

in Key West

In “A Moveable Feast,” a memoir of his halcyon days – and nights – in Paris in the 1920s, Ernest Hemingway wrote of F. Scott Fitzgerald: “His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust of a butterfly’s wings.”

My key reason for traveling to Key West recently was to visit The Hemingway Home & Museum in Old Town. Five minutes away by foot, on the same block as the popular Southernmost Point in the Continental United States, is The Key West Butterfly & Nature Conservatory. Being so near, I decided to see some butterfly wings.

Entering the humid sanctuary with a soaring glass ceiling that seems to touch the clouds was to step into a time machine. Within seconds, I became a 59-year-old kindergartener on his first school field trip.

One of the psychedelic snowflakes in Key West.

“Look!” I reflexively exclaimed to my wife, pointing at a butterfly fluttering a few feet ahead.

“Look! … Look!” I quickly repeated, almost singing, as two more painted marvels danced through the air in slow motion.

Seeing a single butterfly in one’s backyard lightens the heart; here, inside the artificial outdoors, there are more than 3,000 representing 65 species. I had anticipated spotting butterflies would be like an aerial Easter egg hunt requiring eagle eyes and luck. Instead, it was like being in the midst of an NBA championship celebration with confetti – oversized and alive – floating all about.

My reaction to this psychedelic snowfall was as if watching Fourth of July fireworks: “Oooh! … Ahhh! … Wow! … Look at that one!” So unbridled was my childlike delight that I may have half-skipped along the winding pathway.

The climate-controlled paradise boasts beyond butterflies. There are plants and trees enough for a rain forest; a meandering stream with resident turtles; and two gorgeous flamingos, florescent pink as a Key West sunset.

Scarlett, or perhaps Rhett, struts her stuff.

Long-legged Scarlet and Rhett were not always so radiant. After two years of bureaucratic pink tape to secure them, they arrived sickly and gray. Loving care, and importantly a diet rich in brine shrimp containing a natural dye called canthaxanthin, returned the “Gone with the Wind” pair to “flame-colored” per the Portuguese derivation “flamenco.”

Rhett and Scarlet, each 7 years old with life expectancies up to 75, now enjoy the feathered company of 20 other species of exotic birds. All seem to have had their feathers colored in by imaginative children using the 64-count box of Crayola crayons.

Indeed, the fabulous fowls – “Look! … Oooh! … Another one over there!” – come in purples and pinks, reds and oranges, greens and golds, vibrant hues all. I wish you could see them.

And yet it is the butterflies that steal the show. One of the guides called them “flowers of the sky” which I think is perfect. I bet Hemingway would have liked that description, too.

Two especially memorable moments occurred on my breathtaking stroll through this Land of Ahhs. First, a bird of a royal blue variety lighted on my left shoulder and remained perched for what seemed like a minute, although surely it was 10 seconds at most, before flying off.

Shortly thereafter, a “flower of the sky” as luminously turquoise as the local shallow ocean waters, lighted upon my right forearm. With its wings opening and closing ever so slowly for thermal regulation, it rested there for a true minute before bidding me farewell.

On a sheet of paper in a typewriter at Hemingway’s nearby home, a copy of a letter he wrote to a friend begins: “Having a wonderful time!!!”

That aptly describes my visit with the butterflies!!!

To be continued next week.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Kindness Makes Ball Drive Beautiful

January 4, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Kindness Makes Holiday

Ball Drive a Beautiful Success

“Beauty lives with kindness,” wrote Shakespeare, perfectly describing kind Star readers who made the holidays more beautiful for local disadvantaged kids by donating to my annual ball drive.

Tim Hansen, dressed as Santa Claus but with a more impressive real beard, gave 10 assorted balls.

Draza Mrvichin donated 10 basketballs, three footballs and three soccer balls; Kay Giles and Michael Mariani donated five assorted balls; and Pat McGovern donated three basketballs in honor of his “darling grandsons.”

Jerry and Linda Mendelsohn involved their grandchildren – Garrick, Dannika, Parker, Asher and Joy – in a field trip to donate 10 basketballs and 10 soccer balls.

Shelly and Steve Brown donated four basketballs; Corey, Danielle and Paige Clayton gave three basketballs; and Sheila and Tom McCollum dished in two basketballs.

Karen and Dave Brooks donated two footballs, three basketballs and three soccer balls. Additionally, Karen noted: “My husband and his golf buddies donated dozens of Titleists to the depths of the water hazards at River Ridge Golf Course.”

Tennis legends and legendary role models Mike and Bob Bryan served up 25 assorted balls.

Ian Eaton gave two soccer balls and one football while his dad, Lance, added two basketballs “in honor of Jim Cowan who was my football coach in 1958 at Ventura High and in 1962 at Ventura College as my counselor. We continued to be lifelong friends.”

Steve and Bobbin Yarbrough gave one basketball; Steve Richardson donated one soccer ball and one basketball; and Audrey Rubin kicked in two soccer balls “in honor of my two incredible grandkids.”

Brad and Mia Ditto donated 10 assorted balls, plus a bat, in honor of Brad’s late father who was a high school coach.

Brent Muth, with an assist from The Mob Bike Shop in Ojai, held his third-annual “Ballapalooza” and collected 31 various balls “in memory of Mike Sandoval and Gerry Carrauthers.”

Jan and Tom Lewis donated 21 basketballs, the figure bearing significance because their three “point guard” daughters – Cory, Emily and Maddy – all wore jersey No. 21. Noted their proud dad: “We would like to recognize VYBA, Ventura Stars and Buena Girls Basketball of years gone by. A special thank you to coaches Mike Giordano, Joe Vaughan, Ann Larson and David Guenther.”

Glen Sittel donated one basketball and two soccer balls and Sandy Tubis and Don Rodrigues donated five basketballs from “on behalf of Jim Cowan.”

An anonymous donor gave four basketballs “in memory of longtime youth coach, YMCA leader and Channel Coast referee Jerry Nelson” and Steve Askay donated two basketballs “memory of Cal Houston a longtime teacher, coach and official.”

Jim and Sandie Arthur donated three balls and Linda Peddie gave two basketballs, noting: “I’m especially motivated to participate in getting kids off their screens and out to play.”

Wendy Spasiano donated 30 baseballs in memory of her father, Tom Pitkin, who for many years coached Little League and Pop Warner teams in Ventura.

Kelly Lanier gave four basketballs; Lynn and Jim Kenton donated one each basketball, football, soccer ball; and Chris Werner donated two footballs, two soccer, and two basketballs.

“In memory of Mr. & Mrs. Fred Zielsdorf” an anonymous donor gave two each basketballs, footballs and soccer balls, plus a dozen baseballs.

Kate Larsen donated three soccer balls; Sally and Tom Reeder donated eight various balls, plus a baseball glove; and Maya McAuley donated three basketballs as did Jess Ahoni.

The finally tally . . . drumroll, please . . . is a whopping 551 new sports balls – nearly 100 more than a year ago!

Thank you, dear readers, your kindness is as beautiful as our coastal sunsets.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

“Good-Sized” Reading List 2019

December 28, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

A “Good-Sized”

Reading List From 2019

Jack London, as young as age 10, maintained a goal of reading “two good-sized books a week” even when achieving the mark required staying up until 2 o’clock in the morning. Moreover, he had to rise early to deliver newspapers before school.

Later in life, the great novelist read even more voraciously, noting: “There is so much good stuff to read and so little time to do it in.”

More modestly than London, I annually try to find time to read one “good-sized” book a week. Often I fall shy of 52, but this has been a bumper-crop year with my tally at 59 books and 18,035 pages. Below is the best of my “good stuff to read” from 2019.

As usual, historian David McCullough did not disappoint with his latest offering, “The Pioneers: The Heroic Story of the Settlers Who Brought the American Ideal West.”

As a space/moon/Apollo junkie, I thoroughly enjoyed “The Man Who Knew The Way To The Moon” by Todd Zwillch.

“Behold the Dreamers: A Novel” by Imbolo Mbue is a fresh coming-to-America saga touching on race and immigration, rich vs. poor. Meanwhile, “I Will Always Write Back: How One Letter Changed Two Lives” by Martin Ganda and Caitlin Alifirenka is an inspiring true story about a boy from Zimbabwe and an All-American girl.

I always enjoy Fredrik Backman’s storytelling and “Beartown” and its sequel “Us Against You” are no exceptions. Both novels are about a hockey town filled with dirty politics and violence, but also loyalty and love.

These two Pulitzer Prize-winners captivated me: “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay” by Michael Chabon mixes superheroes and Nazis, the War and NYC, friendship and mystery; while Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch” dives into the art world’s dark underbelly.

My brother is a fly-fisherman who ties his own flies, but such interests are not at all necessary to be enthralled by the true story “The Feather Thief: Beauty, Obsession, and the Natural History Heist of the Century” by Kirk Wallace Johnson.

“Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore” by Robin Sloan is a fun page-turner filled with mystery and delightful characters.

“The Murmur of Bees” by Sofia Segovia is masterfully told by two narrators from different perspectives.

“The World’s Fastest Man: The Extraordinary Life of Cyclist Major Taylor, America’s First Black Sports Hero” by Michael Kranish is reminiscent of “The Boys In The Boat” except on two wheels with one hero.

“Bridge of Clay” by Markus Zusak merits a five-star review – one for each young brother, including Clay, who live on their own in this tale filled with heart and heartbreak.

Recommended to me by author Judy Blume in her “Books & Books” shop in Key West, “Red at the Bone” by Jacqueline Woodson weaves together the story of one family through the narration of different generations. I am eager to read more of Woodson’s award-winning writing.

Delia Owens’ writing sings, usually sorrowfully, in “Where The Crawdads Sing” with a mystery that holds until the final pages.

“The Nickel Boys: A Novel” by Colson Whitehead is very nearly as remarkable as his Pulitzer-winning “The Underground Railroad: A Novel.”

“The Water Dancer: A Novel” by Ta-Nehisi Coates is another mesmerizing Underground Railroad tale with magical realism added that makes one’s heart weep.

Lastly, perhaps my favorite read all year was “This Tender Land” by William Kent Krueger. A revision of “The Adventures Huckleberry Finn” taking place during the Great Depression, it features three boys who escape a brutal orphan school and go on an odyssey to find “home.” Jack London would surely have enjoyed spending time with these pages.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

On Page, In Person, In Full Blume

December 21, 2019December 21, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

On Page, In person,

She’s In Full Blume

Books are a time machine, it is rightly said, but so too are bookstores.

Indeed, the double-glass doors of “Books & Books” in Key West’s Old Town recently served as a magical portal that transformed my middle-aged wife into a young schoolgirl. Having taken no more than three steps inside the charming shop, my much-better-half stopped in her tracks and, her voice rising in pitch, declared: “I know you! You’re Judy Blume!”

No schoolboy was ever more excited to come face-to-face with LeBron James or Roger Federer.

“Yes, I’m Judy,” the Books & Books’ co-founder replied warmly.

Lisa and Judy Blume … and me.

“I read all your books growing up,” my wife-turned-child gushed as my mind’s eye flashed back to our daughter, as a teen, meeting author Ray Bradbury in Santa Barbara. “I loved them! Your writing was like a friend.”

Blume, whose Young Adult novels include “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” and “Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing,” smiled. It was not merely a polite grin, but rather broad and sincere for she surely could feel that my wife’s sentiments were heartfelt.

“I’m sorry,” my wife-turned-child said in her next breath, returning into a more-reserved adult. “You must have people tell you all the time how much your books meant to them.”

Blume, whose works have sold more than 80 million copies in 32 languages since arriving on the literary scene in 1969, relaxed in posture as if now chatting with an old friend. With the radiance of the Key West sun she replied, “I always enjoy hearing such kind compliments. Thank you.”

Meeting a hero – or, in this case, shero – from childhood can be dicey. The risk is that in real life the person will topple off her pedestal. Blume, however, proved to be a rarity by figuratively standing even taller. For the ensuing ten minutes she visited with my wife, answered questions and even asked some of her own.

During their conversation, Blume learned that our daughter actually spent an afternoon at her nearby home while attended the Key West Writing Workshop six years ago. Asking for an update and learning that Dallas’ debut YA novel – “The Best Week That Never Happened” – will be published this coming spring, Blume on her own accord wrote down the title and publisher so as to carry it in Books & Books. No small kindness, that.

Googling Blume afterwards, I discovered that my wife – and daughter, too, for she likewise once devoured Blume’s books – chose a gifted writer to admire. As evidence, among Blume’s numerous honors is being recognized as a Living Legend by the Library of Congress.

Equally estimable, if not more so, Blume has been a courageous writer. Indeed, she was a groundbreaker who broached controversial – and important – topics that previously had been largely sidestepped in YA literature. These included teen sex, birth control, menstruation, racism, divorce and death.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would ever find myself in a bookstore half as magical, with a proprietor a fraction as affable, as Connie Halpern and “Mrs. Fig’s Bookworm” in Camarillo, but Blume and Books & Books is very nearly a matching East Coast bookend.

Whenever I visit an independent bookstore I make a point to leave with a book as a show of support. This time, my wife and I left with an armful. Two of them – one recommended to me by Blume – makes my annual list of best books I’ve read in 2019, which I’ll reveal in this space next week.

In the meantime, I think it’s time I finally read a Judy Blume YA novel.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Junky Skiing Santa Proves Priceless

December 14, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Junky Skiing Santa

Proves Priceless

Some Christmas stories are as sweet as hot cocoa topped with melting marshmallows. This one is not. All the same, I wouldn’t trade it for the world – or even for a toy Matchbox car.

The year was 1966, wintertime in Ohio, and I bit my quivering lip trying with all the strength a 6-year-old can muster not to cry. I felt like I had just found lump of coal in my stocking.

I was in first grade, in Mrs. Bauer’s class, in a time when “holiday” parties were still called “Christmas” parties and elementary schools held student gift exchanges. I was to swap toys with Paul, a boy I knew little about because he was not in my circle of recess friends.

I knew one thing, however: I would buy Paul a Matchbox car. After all, all boys loved the tiny metal cars. I seem to recall that Matchboxes cost about a dollar, which was probably the price limit for our gifts.

Mom took me to the five-and-dime where my two brothers and I spent our allowance money – we got a nickel for each year in our age, hence I received 30 cents weekly while my older siblings got 45 and 55 cents – on trading cards, comic books and Matchboxes.

I don’t remember which specific car I picked out for Paul, but my best guess is a Mustang since that’s what I would have wanted for myself. Paul did not reciprocate with a Mustang or any other Matchbox. Nor did he give me a baseball or a few packs of football cards.

No, the gift I opened at our class party was a red-and-white hollow plastic Santa Claus, slightly larger than a coffee mug, on green snow skis. A toy bag on Santa’s back was empty although it probably held candy when originally purchased. Even filled with candy canes or Hershey’s Kisses, skiing Santa surely cost less than my weekly allowance.

In other words, I had swapped a shiny-and-cool Mustang for a lump of plastic coal.

As Paul and my best pals Dan, Bob and Bill – boys did not go by Daniel and Robert and William in the ’60s – raced their new Matchbox cars around the classroom and across desktops, I blinked back tears.

Not for the right reason, I suddenly did the right thing. Despite selfishly feeling sorry for myself, I started racing my stupid skiing Santa alongside the Matchbox cars. I truthfully was not trying to erase any embarrassment Paul might have felt for giving such a crummy gift, but simply didn’t want to feel left out.

When the recess bell rang, Mrs. Bauer asked me to remain behind for a moment. I sat nervously at my desk having no idea what I had done wrong. When we were alone, my teacher sat beside me and said, as I remember it: “I’m proud of you for not showing your disappointment – that would have hurt Paul’s feelings. You gave him a very nice toy and you should be happy about that.”

Mrs. Bauer’s message, which I naturally didn’t understand at the time, was that it truly is better to give than receive.

Later, I became friends with Paul and a few times spent the night at his house. I remember his socks always had holes in them; he shared a tiny bedroom with two sisters; and he had no dad – not because of divorce, rather death.

Skiing Santa wasn’t stupid, I came to realize many years later; it might have been all Paul had to give. That perspective is a far better gift than a Matchbox Mustang.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Holiday Ball Drive Heroes

December 7, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Holiday Generosity

Bounces And Rolls In

Jim Parker, my former longtime colleague in the Star sports department, lived up to his nickname “Swami” by peering deeply into his crystal ball and donating a basketball two days before my column ran kicking off Woody’s Annual Holiday Sports Drive.

Another past colleague, Derry Eads – whose nickname “Deuce” is itself a nickname for “Swami II” given to him because he followed Parker as our high school football prognosticator – shortly thereafter also donated a basketball.

In the spirit of the Star’s Bellringer campaign, I’d like to publicly thank some more kind givers who have helped get the ball rolling to give smiles to some local disadvantaged youth.

Rebecca Fox, like numerous others this year, made her donation in honor of the late Jim Cowan, a longtime Ventura County Superintendent of Schools, who annually gave ten basketballs to the cause. Wrote Fox: “Jim Cowan was my first boss when I started working for the Ventura County Office of Education in 1979. He was a great boss – kind, supportive and well-respected. In honor of him I have donated a soccer ball. So glad you started this great tradition of giving back to our youth.”

Dan and Judy Dugan dished out a big assist of five basketballs.

Leslie Seifert-De Los Santos also gave five basketballs in honor of her late father, Arthur Seifert, sharing: “He was literally a lifelong basketball player. Even in his late seventies, he could be found on basketball courts throughout the county, playing pick-up games with people much younger than himself, laughing and encouraging others. He loved watching the Lakers play throughout the years and, even when wheelchair bound, he would be cheering and ‘coaching’ from his seat.”

Alan and Kathy Hammerand donated two each basketballs, soccer balls and footballs; Jean Warnke added one football and basketball; and Bobbie and Dave Williams kicked in one soccer ball and football.

Allison Johnson dished out one basketball “in honor of my brother, Michael Demeter, who played four years of college ball at Cal Lutheran University.”

John Manion donated one basketball and one football, and recalled watching Jim Cowan play on two state championship teams at Ventura College: “When I was 11-12, I would go to all the Ventura JC basketball games. I went both years they had those great teams. The first year they were great, but the second year with the addition of Ernie Hall, they were so much fun to watch.”

Linda Calderon donated five basketballs while Irma Paramo and her husband donated four more basketballs.

Don Rodrigues donated six basketballs in Cowan’s memory: “He was a great guy, friend and highly respected in our community.”

Susan Adamich donated half a dozen basketballs, sharing: “Jim Cowan was a very dear man and always welcomed me into their home – his daughter Janice and I have been friends for over 40 years! I am happy to honor him by giving something special to kids.”

Ann Cowan, Jim’s widow, carried on her husband’s tradition of donating 10 basketballs, sharing: “It was such a big part of ‘getting ready for the holidays’ for Jim and the family is very proud of that legacy.”

There is still time to drop off a new sports ball at a local Boys & Girls Club, YMCA, church, youth group – or to Jensen Design & Survey (9 a.m. to 5 p.m. through Dec. 20) at 1672 Donlon St. in Ventura and I’ll take it from there. Online orders can be shipped to the same address.

Also, dear readers, please email me about your gift at woodywriter@gmail.com so I can add your generosity to this year’s growing tally.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Mister Rogers and Mr. Wooden

December 1, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Matching bookends:

Mister Rogers and Mr. Wooden

The recent release of the movie “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” starring Tom Hanks, made me wish I had met Mister Rogers.

After a moment’s mild envy I realized, in a manner, I did for I was blessed to know Mister Wooden. Indeed, John Wooden and Fred Rogers were in many ways matching human bookends.

Mister Rogers famously used puppets for teaching.

Both famous men humbly considered themselves teachers at heart; were kind to their core; and felt “love” was the most important word in the English language. Daily, Rogers swam 20 minutes and Wooden walked four miles. Both personally answered every fan letter they received. Both made being “old-fashioned” cool.

While I never visited “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood,” I dropped by Mister Wooden’s neighborhood in Encino many times. One visit, when I took my two young children to meet Wooden, reminds me especially of Mister Rogers. After all, one of the highlights featured a stuffed animal.

After leading my then-8-year-old son, 10-year-old daughter and me into the living room, the first thing Wooden did was excuse himself to retrieve something off a shelf in his study. One of his ten NCAA national championship trophies? A Coach of the Year or Hall of Fame plaque? Or perhaps he was getting down one of the many humanitarian awards that had him sharing august company with such notables as Mother Teresa, Jimmy Carter, and Melinda Gates?

“Heavens sakes, no!” to borrow one of Wooden’s favorite phrases of exasperation. Instead, the acclaimed “Wizard of Westwood” returned carrying a small, stuffed gorilla about the size of a teddy bear. It was wearing a red vest with a matching bowtie. And the fancy anthropoid could talk.

“You’re a genius!!!” the talking stuffed ape in the fancy red vest said enthusiastically, his words of praise meriting three exclamation marks at the least.

My son and daughter visiting with Coach John Wooden.

“Excellent thinking!!!” it continued.

“You’re brilliant!!!”

“Grrreat idea!!!”

“That’s fabuuulous!!!”

“That’s awesome!!!”

“Outstanding!!!”

My son and daughter laughed, as did I. Wooden smiled at them before giving me a knowing wink. What appeared to be a child’s toy to others, The Greatest Basketball Coach Who Ever Lived saw as a teaching tool.

“This is The Self-Esteem Ape,” Coach explained softly and warmly – in a Mister Rogers-like voice I now realize – as he cradled the stuffed animal given to him by his daughter Nan. “When our self-esteem is a little low, we all need to be picked up a little.”

John Wooden, like Fred Rogers, was a Self-Esteem Wizard.

A photograph of my kids sitting on Coach’s lap reveals how completely comfortable they felt in his company from the start. Both kids have taken a framed print with them to every college dorm room, apartment and house they have lived in since. Indeed, both cite that as one of the most magical days in their lives.

During our two-hour visit, Coach talked to my kids about basketball for about five minutes and spent the rest of the time sharing stories about his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. About Nellie. About his idols Abraham Lincoln (“There is nothing stronger than gentleness”) and Mother Teresa (“If you can’t feed a hundred people, feed just one”). About his famous Pyramid of Success.

And about his father Joshua’s “Two Sets of Threes: Don’t whine. Don’t complain. Don’t make excuses. / Never lie. Never cheat. Never steal.”

Escorting his three visitors outside to the front gate at the conclusion of the rose-petal-pressed-in-a-scrapbook-like afternoon, Coach Wooden added a fourth Never:

“Never forget,” The Wizard of Self-Esteem told my kids, a hand on each of their shoulders, “how special you are.”

Sounds like Mister Rogers, doesn’t it?

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

Author Archives: Woody

Imagining Kobe’s Lost Tomorrows

Part 2: Hemingway’s “Last Red Cent”

Hemingway’s Home Is Cats’ Meow

Psychedelic Snowfall in Key West

Kindness Makes Ball Drive Beautiful

“Good-Sized” Reading List 2019

On Page, In Person, In Full Blume

Junky Skiing Santa Proves Priceless

Holiday Ball Drive Heroes

Mister Rogers and Mr. Wooden