In just over one week’s time, on Jan. 21 to be precise, U.S. Postal Service first-class postage for a one-ounce letter will rise two pennies to 68 cents.

My two cents on the rate increase is that it remains a minor miracle, and a major bargain, to have a letter delivered from sea to shining sea, and anywhere between, in only a few days for such a price.

Considering the Pony Express charged five dollars in 1860 for a half-ounce letter, the equivalent to $191 in 2024, 68 cents seems a steal indeed.

Moreover, while the Pony Express was Hermes-like speedy, employing a relay system of fresh wing-footed horses and tireless riders to deliver mail from Missouri to California, a distance of nearly 2,000 miles, as quickly as 10 days, today’s mail travels by Jet Engine 30,000 Horsepower Express.

Along with the postage hike, two recent news items put stamps on my mind. The first was the auction sale of an “Inverted Jenny”—a 24-cent stamp issued in 1918 of which 100 were erroneously printed with the blue image of a biplane upside-down framed by a background of red—for more than $2 million.

More priceless to me personally, however, was the announcement a few days later that the USPS will release early this year a limited-edition first-class Forever Stamp honoring my hero and friend, the late and legendary UCLA basketball coach John Wooden.

Thorough thought went into the stamp’s design. In addition to featuring a head-and-shoulders portrait of Wooden from his coaching days, wearing black-framed glasses and a suit and tie and also wearing a game-face countenance, the background has two generic players—a jump shooter in a white No. 4 jersey and a No. 10 defender in black, the latter being the number of national championships Wooden’s Bruins won during his 27-years in Westwood and the former being the number of undefeated seasons they enjoyed. Additionally, “John” appears in blue and “Wooden” in gold, these being UCLA’s school colors.

It is further worth noting that Wooden, who passed away at age 99 in 2010, becomes only the second basketball coach thusly honored, the first being James Naismith in 1961. This is a rarefied pair as high-flying as an Inverted Jenny—the man who invented the game and the coach who perfected it.

Having been fortunate, blessed beyond measure in truth, to have enjoyed a 20-year friendship with Coach Wooden, here is one of my memories, a collage actually: every time I visited him in his home there would be two plastic tubs from the post office, each about the size and shape of a laundry basket, one brimming with incoming fan mail, the other filled with outgoing replies.

Many fans requested an autographed photograph or copy of his famous Pyramid of Success while others sent magazine covers, trading cards, jerseys, even basketballs for him to sign and send back.

Remarkably, and quite thoughtlessly, rarely was return postage included. No matter, Coach Wooden cheerfully packaged the items up, carted them to the post office and paid the postage himself. Week after month after year, this surely added up to a princely sum, but he was a prince of a man. As he said a million times, “You can’t live a perfect day without doing something for someone who will never be able to repay you.” John Wooden, who walked four miles each morning, also walked his talk.

An estimated 18 million Wooden stamps are set to be issued and I personally plan to buy enough to mail a heaping laundry basket worth of letters.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody 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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Two weeks ago, I gratefully announced the final tally of “Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive” to be a record by more than 100, but it turns out a few smile-givers slipped through the cracks uncounted and I would like to acknowledge them now…

Kids giving to kids always puts birdsong in my heart, so one of my favorite 2023 MVPs (Most Valuable Philanthropists) is Rayo Arriaga Gladish. Great-grandson of Arlys Tuttle, who passed away late last year at age 101, 12-year-old Rayo took the lead for the entire Tuttle family and donated 13 balls – plus two scholarships for the Ventura Youth Basketball Association, which has special meaning since his great-grandfather and husband of Arlys, legendary Ventura High School basketball coach Bob Tuttle, created the VYBA long ago.

“We will be missing my great-grandma this Christmas,” Rayo shared, “and hope to be part of bringing happiness and sports to kids in her memory and spirit.”

In addition to Rayo, thanks goes to Andrea Arriaga, Raymundo and Trudy Arriaga, Toni and Jaime Santana, Gayle and Leo Camalich, Gary Tuttle and Ruth Vomund, Erica and Mark Herring, Carly and Jared Wilson, Mary Antoci, Geoffrey Quemuel, Monica Ruiz and Mark Etchings, Summer Helms, Matt and Aimee Pesendian, and Mary Osborne and Lance Gilbert.

Meanwhile, Matt and Michelle Demaria gave a dozen combined basketballs, soccer balls and footballs; and Linda Peddie, with a shopping assist from her husband Jim while she was battling COVID-19, added four more.

All of which adds up to a revised final count of 1,171 children’s smiles handed out these past holidays.

Meanwhile, I keep thinking about 12 smiles handed out by Steve Askay, a former teacher of both my kids in high school. More especially, I cannot forget the tears in my heart over his donation being in memory of his “beautiful granddaughter Mabel Rae Askay.”

Beautiful is a grand understatement, as evidence by the photographs Steve shared with me. If Hollywood had a casting call for a 6-year-old cherub, Irish as Guinness with long curls the color of a shiny penny, a smile as bright as a full moon, and blue eyes that fairly twinkle, the part would have gone to Mabel with no others needing to audition.

Tragically, the Ventura girl died two summer ago, just weeks after finishing kindergarten, when, in an unbelievably freak accident, she fell off a float during a Fourth of July parade in Mandan, North Dakota, where her family was visiting relatives.

From the cloudburst of tears, remarkably, a Rae of sunshine emerged. For the past two years, her Dec. 10 birth date has been “Mabel Rae’s Day of Kindness” where people have been encouraged to do acts of “extravagant love, kindness and generosity.” There is even a “mabel-ray-shines-on” Instagram account.

Here is the kind of shining girl she was, as shared in her obituary: “Mabel Rae Askay lived her life like a red-haired tornado that fiercely loved everyone she ever came across. She never met anyone, or any of God’s creatures, that she couldn’t be friends with.”

Lynn Bova, Mabel’s kindergarten teacher, echoed this in The Star at the time: “You must imagine the warmth of the sun when she skips into the room. The joy in her sparkly blue eyes, her kindness as she rescues a lost spider or bug that found its way into our classroom, the silliness of her green tongue after enjoying a popsicle, and the love she shared with everyone she met.”

December 10 is a long way off – how much better if we treat every day like Mabel Rae’s Day of Kindness.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody 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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

We love firsts. First place. First in line. First downs. Most of all, perhaps, we love first times.

Especially new parents, who are constantly experiencing firsts. Baby’s first smile. First words. First steps.

First, first, first.

In truth, the firsts never cease. Like chocolates on the conveyor belt in the classic episode of “I Love Lucy,” the firsts keep coming. First day of kindergarten, first solo bike ride, first time driving.

First, first, first.

Sometimes, however, I think we focus too greatly on firsts. Partly this is because firsts are easy—not necessarily easy to accomplish, mind you, but easy to recognize.

Your son has never ridden a bike without training wheels or your hand steadying it from behind and now he does. Let’s go to Ben & Jerry’s to celebrate! Your daughter scores her first soccer goal. Another recognizable milestone: Do you want a cone or a cup?

Of any age, we all have our own conveyor belt of firsts. First rollercoaster ride, first airplane flight; first crush, first kiss; first this and first that, all easy to recognize and store away in a mental scrapbook.

But what about lasts?

“Never thought we’d have a last kiss,” Taylor Swift poignantly sings, and this rings true also for the last time we read a bedtime story to our children or a last time we give them a piggyback ride to bed. But, of course, there was a last “Goodnight Moon” together with my daughter and a last schlep up the stairs carrying my sleepy son, for the girl and the boy are now a woman and a man, themselves parents of little ones.

Lost lasts. How sad that we rarely recognize a last while it is happening and miss out on the chance to press the “record” button on our mental smartphones.

I wish, for example, I could specifically remember the last time my mom, gone three decades now, held my little hand crossing a street—or, older, I helped her cross.

Lasts, lasts, lasts, lost, lost, lost.

Nor can I draw to mind last time I gave my son and daughter baths in the tub. Had I know it was the last time, surely I would have memorized all the details and splashed a little more—no, a lot more!—and laughed louder—much louder!—at the wet soapy floor.

When was the last time I brushed their teeth for them? Read them Dr. Seuss? Played “Sam the Alligator Man” with them, giggling their heads off, wrestling on the floor?

Sometimes, if you are lucky, life gives you a do-over. Indeed, grandchildren afford not only the chance to savor the whole menu of firsts again, but to try to recognize and savor the lasts this go-round. And so it is that I am again reading “The Runaway Bunny” aloud and giving piggyback rides to my three granddaughters.

Come to think of it, unlike firsts, we often have the power to create a brand-new last. Thus, I can read “Goodnight Moon” to my grown daughter a new last time and—if I take Tylenol afterwards—give my 6-foot-3 son a new last piggyback ride.

Two nights hence, we shall sing “Auld Lang Syne” to 2023 and fondly bring to mind some of our long-ago firsts. And as we ring in 2024, it seems to me we should resolve not only to celebrate the firsts that await us, but also to embrace other moments as if they were old acquaintances not be forgot.

Because you never know when the last kiss is.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody 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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Words fall far shy in fully expressing my gratitude to everyone who participated in “Woody’s 2023 Holiday Ball Drive,” but know this: whether you gave one ball, or many, you filled my heart with birdsong.

And no music was sweeter than from Steve McFadden, who gave four balls in memory of his dad, Harold – aka “Coach Mac,” one of my all-time favorite teachers – noting: “It always makes me smile to know a deserving child might have a little better Christmas. My dad would love to be part of your ball drive.”

Here are some more smile-makers…

Shelly and Steve Brown gave half a dozen balls in honor of their six grandchildren, and Jim and Sandie Arthur gave four balls in honor of their daughters and grandchildren.

Steve Askay gave a dozen balls “in memory of my beautiful granddaughter, Mabel Rae Askay,” and Brandon and Tommy Kendlinger, and Elijah Ontiveros, gave 20 “in the loving memory of their cousin and brother, Michael Kendlinger.”

Ken and Elaine Lyle’s grandchildren – Joshua and Brynlee Lyle, and Corbin Spahr – each picked out one ball, and Jerry and Linda Mendelsohn similarly took their grandkids to pick out 20.

Brad and Mia Ditto gave 10 balls in honor of Brad’s late father, Cliff, a former high school coach, and Chuck and Ann Elliott gave 10 “in memory of Jim Cowan.”

The Lance Eaton family likewise donated one ball “in memory of mentor James Cowan; two in memory of Roy Gilmore and our late son Mark; and two more to honor Mickey Perry and our Special Olympian son, Ian.”

Mickey Perry, meanwhile, and fellow legendary basketball coach Joe Vaughan donated 10 balls, as did Ann Cowan to honor her late husband, Jim.

Peggi and Denny Clayton gave one ball; Mike Wildermuth and Georgina Sandy, two; Connie Gajefski, three; George Saunders, four; Bob Vrtis, five; and Bobbie and Dave Williams added six. 

Irma Paramo gave two balls, as did Richard Dreher; Steven and T. Yamamoto gave three; Ben Coats, ten; and Al and Carol Gross donated 11 in memory of Dick Utter, a member of the ’49 Ventura High 30-0 basketball team that won the CIF.

Karen and Dave Brooks, and their trusty canine companion, Watson, also gave 11 balls, and Cristina Kildee gave three “in the loving memory of my furbaby, Bear.”

Kay Giles and Michael Mariani gave six balls, as did Carole Rowland; Tom and Sheila McCollum gave 18; and from my Buena High Class of ’78, Bob Colla Jr. gave two and Robert Schwartz added one.

Steve and Bobbin Yarbrough gave two balls; Thomas and Karyne Roweton, four; Katherine and Frank Anderson, five; Fran and Kate Larsen, six; Laurie Rutledge, eight; and Laura McAvoy and Sol Chooljian added 10.

The Pleasant Valley-Somis-Camarillo Lions Club gave 150 balls; a group of former Marines added 30; and patrons of The Goebel Adult Community Center in Thousand Oaks donated 65.

In another group effort, 287 balls were given by the “A Team” of family members and friends who wished to only have their first names used: Grandma Alma, Nancy and Rick, Connie and Andy, Carmen and Louie, Alma and Tomas, Christine and Tyler, Ruth and Shaun, Alast and Allen, Rachel and Mike, Reina and Michael, Juan, Beth and Stan, Caren and Achilles, Charlene and Phil, Rose and Jace, Dave and Yoda, Kellie and John, Shelly, Michelle and Michael, Beverley and Ricky, Steve, Jesus, Leroy, Dave, Cathy and Carlos, Claudia and Mike, Will and Heidi, Kelly and Lisa, Pamela, Tina and Chris, Lane, Deborah, Maddie, Mary Kay and Steve, Mel and Todd, Dawn and Jim, Donna and Art, and Ilene and Mitch.

Auden McAuley and Amara Woodburn each gave one ball; Anna and Tom McBreen, two; Judy Windle, three; Rick Estberg, four; Kent Brinkmeyer, five; and Glen Sittel gave six in memory of is mom “who was such a great supporter of my youth sports.”

Alicia and Hall Stratton gave five balls, as did Kathy and Ken McAlpine, and Lauren Siegel as well.

Secret Santas gave a combined 63 balls, including 25 in memory of my former Star sportswriting colleague Loren Ledin, a star person who recently lost a warrior’s decade-long battle with cancer.

Mike and Bob Bryan donated 50 assorted balls and, in a closing note of birdsong for my heart, for her fifth birthday Maya McAuley picked out one gift ball for a child she will never know but said she can imagine her-or-his smile.

And now, the final tally for 2023 is … drumroll, please … a whopping 1,142 gift sports balls, surpassing last year’s previous record by more than 100 children’s smiles!

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody 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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Without undue preamble, other than to say I surpassed my annual book-a-week goal this year, here are some favorites from my 2023 reading list…

“What You Are Looking For is in the Library” by Michiko Aoyama is a collection of short stories linked by a hint of magic and a librarian who is large and gruff, but also kind and wise, and is worth looking for on library or bookstore shelves.

“The Prospectors” by Ariel Djankian is a terrific tale switching back and forth between today and the gold rush in the Yukon.

“Let Us Descend” by Jesmyn Ward is a powerful, heart-wrenching story about a young woman who is sold by the enslaver who fathered her and the hellish relocation journey on foot she endures while accompanied by the memories and spirits of her mother and African warrior grandmother.

 “The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store” by James McBride and “Tom Lake” by Ann Patchett both require a little patience early on, in my opinion, but eventually reward the reader fully.

“Saint Monkey” by Jacinda Townsend is a masterful and musical coming-of-age story of two friends told by a narrator whose storytelling voice absolutely sings.

Even though I have never played a musical instrument, I found Glenn Kurtz’s memoir “Practicing: A Musician’s Return to Music” to B-flat out wonderful with the author’s passion contagious. Another musical-themed book, the fictional “Symphony of Secrets” by Brendan Slocumb, is a terrific page-turning mystery.

“The Museum of Ordinary People” by Mike Gayle is far, far better than ordinary, and you do not have to be a runner to enjoy Jeffrey Recker’s “The Humiliation Tour” which is long in both pages (at 460) and laughs (4,600).

Conversely, “Baumgartner” by Paul Auster, about a widower wrestling with memories and grief, and “The Gift” by Pete Hamill, about a GI during Korean War coming home from boot camp to Brooklyn for Christmas, are both thin on pages but thick on beautiful storytelling.

“The President’s Hat” by Antoine Laurain is a fun journey following a hat with a mystical power to change the lives of all who wear it.

“Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” by Gabrielle Zevin is a wonderful and wonderful and wonderful love story while “Tomorrow Will Be Better” by Betty Smith is a story about a lack of love with a protagonist, Margy, you cannot help but love.

John Wooden liked to say that the trouble with new books is they keep us from reading old ones. On the 20th anniversary of its publication, I reread

“Off Season: Discovering America On Winter’s Shores” by local wordsmith Ken McAlpine and enjoyed it ever as much as the first time.

Another local offering, by Ventura native Deborah Holt Larkin, that merits a high recommendation is “A Lovely Girl: The Tragedy of Olga Duncan and the Trial of One of California’s Most Notorious Killers.”

Evidence that good things come in threes, a third local author makes my list with “The Unsold Mindset” by Ventura native Garrett Brown and Colin Coggins.

Runner-up for my favorite book this year is “Remarkably Bright Creatures” by Shelby Van Pelt. My only complaint about this remarkably creative novel is that I wanted more of the chapters narrated by the octopus!

And – drum roll, please – the king of the 62-book-tall mountain I have read this year is “The Kudzu Queen” by Mimi Herman, whose poetry chops shine through with lyrical writing, precise word choices, and vivid imagery in this southern novel that brings to mind “To Kill a Mockingbird,” including young narrator Mattie’s voice that has echoes of Scout.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody 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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

A common parlor game, with the number often varying, is to ask: “If you could invite any three people, real or fictional, to dinner who would they be?”

The other evening, on a date night out with my much-better-half, I would have given most anything, even my delicious appetizer crab cakes, to have Sherlock Holmes, Lieutenant Columbo, and Nancy Drew pull up chairs for I unexpectedly found myself trying to solve The Case of The Mystery Glass of Whiskey.

“Thanks, but that’s not for me,” I told the waitress as she set down a tumbler filled with amber nectar. Gesturing at my pint glass, still nearly full with a tasty local craft brew, I added: “I think you have the wrong table.”

Smiling, she said someone had sent the drink to me.

“Who?” I asked.

Her smiled broadened, taking on a hint of mischievousness: “Sorry, I promised not to tell.”

“But I need to thank them,” I persisted.

“Too bad,” she said, her eyes dancing with delight to be part of the whodunit.

I scanned the restaurant but saw no one I recognized, albeit the mood lighting and too many backs of heads, which is all I saw of half the patrons, made identification rather difficult.

Naturally it would be rude to delay in sampling the gift, for surely the secret Samaritan was surreptitiously watching, so I raised the glass high with a “Sláinte” toast to my unkown benefactor and took a wonderful warm sip.

I am no whiskey connoisseur, although I have toured the Jameson Distillery in Dublin, Ireland – twice, including earlier this year – and if I had to guess I would have ventured it was indeed Jamo.

When, against all odds, the waitress confirmed my stab in the dark was correct, it was a valuable clue. You see, for a recent anniversary gift I gave some dear friends an Irish bottle of Jameson personalized with their names on the label. I looked around again, searching the room more thoroughly, certain I would spot them.

I did not. Surely they were hiding, laughing at my bafflement.

Alas, a quick series of exchanged texts with the husband convinced me that This Hound of the Baskerville was barking up the wrong tree and they were in fact not the playful culprits. By now my wife and I were amused to giggles trying to solve the mystery.

Out of the blue, an “Elementary, my dear Watson!” insight struck me. Yes, whiskey was the vital clue – but not Jameson specifically. Knowing next to nothing about whiskeys, I have more than once asked a close friend, whose blood has surely been aged in oak barrels, for his recommendations.

“Are you out for dinner tonight?” I texted him now, naming the restaurant.

Without delay my phone pinged. The reply was simply a dimly lit photo of my wife and me at our table. A moment later my friend sidled up to share a big laugh and two bigger hugs.

No whodunit was involved in a similar encounter a few days later, in a different restaurant, when my beloved dentist personally delivered a coastal microbrew to me, also with a smile and some shared words. Best of all, he didn’t add a shot of Novocaine to make it a boilermaker.

Between these boozy bookend encounters, at yet another local eatery, a friend in my wider circle dropped by my table to say hello, sans largesse libation. But here’s the important lesson: spirit, not spirits, is what truly matters, for her impromptu visit warmed my chest ever as much as a mystery whiskey.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody 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 SIGNED books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.