Author Archives: Woody

DIY Easier Spelled Than Done

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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DIY is Easier Spelled Than Done

In the middle of the night the toilet wouldn’t stop running. In the midst of a drought, this was doubly troubling.

Jiggling the handle in an effort to make the flap in the tank seal tightly failed, so I removed the back porcelain lid…

… and was awakened from my 3 a.m. grogginess by a squirt gun-like stream of cold water in my face.

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Simulation of the problem…

The main thingamabob – closer inspection in the light of day would reveal it to technically be called an “anti-siphon fill valve” – was busted. I turned off the water supply valve and went back to sleep.

Before proceeding, I should mention that my DNA lacks DIY. This is apparently a common affliction for those with QWERTY genes. For example, the late, great Jack Smith, a general interest columnist I grew up reading, used to boast in print that his handyman talents around the house began and ended with replacing burned-out light bulbs.

I am more handy than that, albeit barely. If my wife argues with this contention it is because she has forgotten the time I put in a new garbage disposal.

Actually, if Mrs. Woody badmouths my handyman skills it might be because she does remember the garbage disposal that took me an entire weekend to install and, factoring in the cost of getting stitches to my hand, was far more expensive than hiring a plumber.

So, understandably, days passed before I finally attempted to tackle the broken toilet. I was mustering the courage. And making sure my healthcare premiums had been paid.

Inside the L.A. Coliseum-sized big-box improvement center, I eventually wandered upon the correct aisle only to be overwhelmed by all the choices. I felt like a new jogger walking into a running specialty store for the first time.

The next day, I returned to The Coliseum Depot armed with a picture of the broken siphon on my phone. I selected a “Made In USA” brand that looked similar, thus doing my part in making sure another American manufacturing job doesn’t go down the toilet.

Successfully opening the Rubik’s Cube-difficult plastic packaging without slicing a finger open made me considered the entire project a roaring success already. Knowing that the task ahead was still fraught with peril and challenge, however, I did something completely out of character: I read the enclosed directions, all 297 steps. (Confession: there were only eight steps – but each had three parts.)

Here is a recap of my one-hour task that would have taken a plumber about four minutes, tops:

— I ripped a patch of skin off my thumb unscrewing a stubborn mounting nut that I couldn’t reach with a wrench – happily my injury required only a Band-Aid, not sutures;

— a brief waterfall flooded the bathroom floor because I overlooked Step 1. c) “Flush to drain water from tank”;

— now soaking wet, and flummoxed by the three parts of Step 7 that involved marking the water level in the bowl with a pencil, I simply guessed at the ideal setting for the refill adjuster dial;

— I set a personal record with only three new parts unexplainably left over upon completion;

— the yoga-like contortions required in the tight quarters resulted in a tweaked back, meaning a visit to the chiropractor will negate my DIY savings from not hiring a plumber.

Still, all in all, the repair was well worth doing myself because hiring a plumber for a fix-it this easy would have been about as embarrassing as bringing in an electrician to change a light bulb. Even Jack Smith wouldn’t have done that.

Just don’t tell Mrs. Woody it wasn’t Juno rocket science. She bragged to her mom about my newfound DIY prowess and is now calling me “Bob Vila.”

She’s just pulling my chain, of course. I recently happened upon a fascinating TV show called “Barnwood Builders” and my smart-aleck much-better-half said to me, “Isn’t it a bit ironic for you to be watching the DIY Network?”

Ouch. My next middle-of-the-night project may be to leave the toilet seat up.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck 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”

Celebration and heartache

by Woody

This essay originally appeared on July 7, 2013

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STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Streaking Forward While Looking Back

Later this afternoon I will celebrate a happy anniversary.

Too, I will mark a polar one.

Freud would surely argue the two are related. And while this did not occur to me for quite some time, it now seems obvious if not undeniable.

First, the celebratory anniversary. Or, as the United States Running Streak Association – yes, there is such a thing – terms it, “streakiversary.” Today my consecutive-day streak of running a minimum of three miles (with an average of 8.6 miles daily over the span) will reach 10 years – or 3,653 days in a row thanks to three leap years.

If this strikes you as silly or insane or stupid, you are probably right on all counts. However, there are no less than 152 runners who are certifiably (according to the USRSA) crazier than me – including eight Americans with streaks surpassing 40 years!

I did not set out to become a “streaker.” As a person caught red-handed in a love affair or addiction – and a running streak is no doubt a little of both – might guiltily explain: “It just happened.”

It happened in response to a life-changing event. Early on I believed the tragic catalyst was my being rear-ended at a stoplight by a drunk driver speeding 65 mph. The result was a ruptured disk in my neck requiring surgery to fuse two vertebrae.

The result also was permanent nerve damage and chronic pain that stole my recreational passions of tennis and basketball. So when my gifted neurosurgeon Dr. Moustapha Abou-Samra, a fellow marathoner, finally gave me the go-ahead to resume distance running I grabbed hold as if it were a life preserver in a choppy ocean. Each run gave me a daily dose of empowerment over my physical losses from the car crash.

Like a U.S. postal worker, I have not been detoured by rain nor sleet nor snow. I have run through injury and illness and at insane hours to accommodate family plans, work, time zones. Hopping off a plane in London, I kept The Streak alive by running three miles in the airport terminal at 11 p.m., causing one Englishman to holler: “Hey, bloke! You must be a Yank cause you’re bloody crazy.”

Perhaps, although psychoanalysis might reveal something different at play. Indeed, while I did not realize it for two years, it now seems beyond coincidence that my streak began on July 7, 2003. That was the due date of my wife’s and my third child.

A baby lost to miscarriage. Was the streak’s birth a subconscious response to death?

The pregnancy was a surprise, a wonderful one, and because my wife was 44, of high-risk. After she made it safely into the second trimester we finally exhaled, allowing ourselves to get fully excited.

Then the heartbreak of no heartbeat.

It is likely a self-protective mechanism to try to rationalize a miscarriage as “being for the best because something was terribly wrong.” Doctors, family and friends offer similar solace. And maybe the mind buys into this, but the heart does not.

We had chosen not to know the gender, perhaps another grasp at self-protection. Again, the heart has its own mind. A few years later my wife had a powerful dream in which she watched a child on a playground swing. The girl, the same age our child would have then been, was happy. Rather than being overwhelmed with renewed grief, my wife felt comforted.

I had no similar night vision.

However, I have had many a daydream on runs while looking at kids – girls and boys – who are about the same age as my streak and thinking: That’s how old our child would now be.

Last week, I had a sleep dream. Surely it was influenced by my wife’s from six years past, as well as by the approach of my 10-year streakiversary – and hence the 2003 summer birthday that never was. In the dream I am running on the San Buenaventura beach bike path, one of my very favorite routes, alongside a child of about age 10.

SHE is smiling and happy.

I will think of her as I extend my streak today, my eyes likely salty as the sea.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Time Machine on Two Wheels

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Summer Time Machine on Two Wheels

Summertime is a time machine. Just as hearing an old song can transport one’s thoughts back to his or her youth, so can summertime sights (barbecues, bikinis, bursting fireworks) and smells (sunscreen, chlorine, freshly mowed grass) make the calendar pages leap backwards.

Although summer has no monopoly on it, I recently saw a time-machine sight that is far more common during summertime than the other three seasons combined: a kid learning to ride a bicycle.1bikeridekid

This milestone typically plays out on a neighborhood sidewalk, quiet cul de sac, or empty parking lot. A father, or mother, holds the bike seat from behind to provide balance – and, at first, a little propulsion – while quick-stepping alongside as the child pedals.

To describe what universally happens next, I will share a specific scene I recently watched unfold. A young girl, maybe 6 and wearing a pink bike helmet that bobbled because it was too big, was on a bike that somehow seemed too small.

The dad kept the bike upright by holding the seat with one hand while the mom watched and cheered and took video. With each attempt, the tiny bike seemed to wobble a little less; the little feet pedaled more surely; and the girl’s frown of fright turned into a growing smile of happiness and confidence.

Also with each attempt, the dad’s stride quickened slightly; his grip on the bike seat grew less vise-like; and his smile, too, widened.

There were falls, of course, but no scraped knees because the father was wiser than I had been when I was in his shoes. He was teaching his daughter on a soccer field. What a brilliant way to minimize the fear of falling than to have soft grass to tumble on.

Grass, however, is more difficult to pedal on than pavement. This hindrance was overcome by doing the rides on a very slightly downhill section – the equivalent of the Wright Brothers always heading into the wind for extra lift at Kitty Hawk.

On one of the young girl’s attempts, as magically as when Orville was airborne for the very first time, she was suddenly defying gravity on two-wheels. At first, of course, she did not know that her dad’s hand was no longer helping her stay upright. And so the dad and mom felt the magic of the moment first.

Indeed, only when the daughter noticed her dad was no longer beside her did she realize she was flying solo. Shortly thereafter, the downhill turned flat and she ran out of steam and toppled over. By then she had traveled maybe 120 feet, as Orville did on his maiden flight, but each ride thereafter went further and longer until perhaps reaching the 852 feet that Wilbur achieved on that 1903 historical day.

The time machine sight of this girl’s personal Kitty Hawk sent me back to my own 1965 historical day. My two older Woodburn Brothers combined forces to teach me. I’m not sure their motivation was kindness so much as that if I learned to ride I would then need Doug’s hand-me-down bike; Doug would inherit Jim’s; and Jim would get a new one.

They took turns running alongside holding the seat to help me balance until – like the little girl above, and like you, and like your own children – after a while everything clicked and I was soaring solo. It is remarkable how something impossible can become second nature in an instant.

My brothers cheered me on as I rode off down the street and proceeded around the block. When I came back around they were both gone – Mom had called us inside for dinner and they had not waited for me.

Unfortunately, they had neglected to teach me how to use the coaster brakes. So around the block I went a second time, and a third, and still no one came out to help me stop without falling.

Falling, of course, is how I finally stopped. I came inside with a red badge of courage on my knee from the sidewalk. Goodness, that was a masterpiece summer day.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

This, That, and Streakin’ Woody

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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This, That and a Horserace

“This is delicious,” I told my daughter. “Where did you get the recipe?”

“It’s my own,” she answered. “I basically clean out the refrigerator. I call it ‘Kitchen Sink Soup” because I put everything in it but the kitchen sink.”

Today, I serve you a “Kitchen Sink Column” of notes, quotes and other stuff . . .

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A shoutout of admiration to Brian FitzGerald, the longtime track-and-field coach and athletic director – and English teacher – who announced his retirement after 36 years at Rio Mesa High School.1masterpiece

Like many of the best coaches, FitzGerald always considered himself first and foremost a teacher – his “classroom” just happened to be a running track.

Because the lessons he taught his athletes, which included my own son in youth cross country, were about life even more than running, FitzGerald’s retirement made me think of the scene in “Dead Poets Society” when the prep-student played by Ethan Hawke stands atop his desk and salutes his departing teacher, played by Robin Williams, by quoting the title of a Walt Whitman poem: “O Captain! My Captain!” One by one, fellow students do the same.

FitzGerald’s students and athletes might change this heartfelt salute to, “O Coach! My Teacher!”

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“You can’t lead people unless you love people, and you can’t save people unless you serve people.” – Tavis Smiley, in his commencement speech to DePauw University’s Class of 2016.

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Add Smiley: “Today is not refundable. Make the most of it!”

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I love the wisdom in this text conversation that my friend Pattie Braga shared, calling it: “Lessons from my daughter posted at 1 a.m. (4 a.m., my time).”

“Mom, I really need a milkshake”

“What?!? It’s too late to be eating. And pull up your shirt” (responding to an attached photo of her daughter with a milkshake).

“It’s never too late for a milkshake”

(Smiley face emoji) “Good night sweetie”

“Goodnight Mommy”

Lesson II: It’s also never too late to text your mom.

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“Insanity,” Albert Einstein said, “is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Insanity is also doing nothing – about gun reform – over and over again and expecting different results.

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Add guns. Here’s a wild thought: Since women were denied the right to vote until the 19th Amendment was added in 1920, and since men have a near monopoly as perpetrators of shooting crimes, how about revising the Constitution to allow only women the right to bear arms for the next 144 years?

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Donald Trump using a teleprompter looks like he’s watching a tennis match in slow motion. Just saying.

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Stunning and sad statistic: Fewer than half of U.S. children under age 5 are read to daily.

This summertime, let’s do better!

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A few weeks past, I asked you readers to help choose a name for the thoroughbred racehorse that I have been given the opportunity to christen in my honor.

The ballots stampeded in, more than 100 in fact, and out of the gate it was neck and neck and neck between Streakin’ Woody, Runs On Guinness, and Masterpiece Day.

A few write-in votes were also cast, including: Horsey McHorseface from Amy Bruder; Be Quick from Paul Olmsted in reference to John Wooden’s maxim, “Be quick, but don’t hurry”; Streakin’ Day from Ginger White; Streakin’ Woody Runs On Guinness Creating A Masterpiece Day from Kym King; and Woody’s Masterpiece Guinness Streak from Diane Underhill.

As the count continued, Runs On Guinness ran out of steam and Masterpiece Day and Streakin’ Woody streaked to the front. They traded the lead a few times and here is the announcer’s call coming down the homestretch:

“Streakin’ Woody and Masterpiece Day. Masterpiece Day by a length, now two, now three. Masterpiece Day pulling away. Streakin’ Woody is falling off. Masterpiece Day by six lengths, now seven. It’s a masterful run and Masterpiece Day wins it!”

Masterpiece Day must now be officially approved by a governing board. I’m also still waiting to meet “my” horse. Stay tuned.

And have a masterpiece weekend.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Alcatraz Escape Buoys Spirits

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Brief ‘Escape’ from Tragic Numbness

Back and forth, forth and back I pondered: do I write about The Latest Mass Shooting In America or do I not?

After all, my words run on the Op-Ed pages. On the other hand, for the most part I try to make my column an uplifting retreat.

Back and forth. I actually began writing a column leading off with my Facebook post from Sunday morning: “Numbness on top of numbness on top of numbness. My heart weeps for the Orlando victims and for young singer Christina Grimme and for every victim of gun violence daily in America, in classrooms and in churches, in nightclubs and in movie theaters, in and in, on and on.”

My remarkable friend Nate Higgins

My remarkable friend Nate Higgins

Then I had a change of mind. I decided to write about something else that happened last Sunday morning, not at 2 a.m. on the East Coast but at 6:30 a.m. on the West Coast; with texts and a phone call not of terror, but of triumph; a brief escape from the heart-numbing sorrow via the “Escape from Alcatraz” swim in hand-numbing frigid water.

Here is a text my friend Nate sent me Saturday night: “Regardless of what happens tomorrow morning, I’m most proud of the preparation I’ve made. Anything can happen on race day.”

Later, this text: “If my stroke is good and I don’t get hypothermia, and I time the current right, I think I have a good shot. Won’t be easy though.”

I first met Nate, now 31, a few years ago at a Thanksgiving dinner table. Ever since I have been thankful my son’s grad school classmate and friend is my friend as well.

I would like to say I have become a mentor to Nate, but the greater truth is he teaches and inspires me.

Here is an example of the example Nate sets: on the dawn boat ride out to Alcatraz Island, instead of focusing on his own daunting task ahead he encouraged others facing their own challenges.

Nate knows about challenges. He certifiably had more to overcome than any other of the 2,400 Alcatraz competitors for he was the only one who arrived for the swim in a wheelchair.

Twelve years ago, at age 19, Nate had a summer job painting houses. A fall resulted in a complete spinal cord injury at T2-T4 and left him a paraplegic.

A former high school wrestler – and track and cross-country runner – Nate refused to be pinned on the mat by the tragedy. He turned his athletic energies to becoming a Paralympic swimmer and has represented the U.S at the Parapan American Games among other lofty competitions.

As fiercely as he worked in the water, Nate also did so in the classroom. After graduating from Gonzaga University, he earned an MBA at USC in 2015 as a recipient of a “Swim With Mike” full-tuition scholarship for physically challenged athletes.

While his accident took much from him, Nate dedicates himself to giving. He speaks to youth groups; serves on a philanthropic board; and with no obligation to do so has made a personal commitment to repay his $160,000 “Swim With Mike” scholarship – he is a fourth of the way to success.

Nate was nervous if he would be successful in the 1.5-mile Alcatraz swim, but those who know him were confident he would punch a shark in the nose if required. Indeed, despite fierce currents that pushed him far off course and water choppy enough to make a seal seasick, Nate persevered.

“I have never had to dig this deep in an open water swim,” Nate said, his voice on the phone buoyant. “I am really proud of the resolve I showed. This was, without a doubt, the most difficult swim I’ve ever done.

“That being said, our journey is only as good as those we have the privilege of spending it with. The success I enjoyed today was simply a byproduct of so many friends, family, and mentors that have been there through thick and thin.”

Humble and heroic. Now you know why I call him “Nate the Great.”

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Ali and the “Little Man”

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Great Memories of ‘The Greatest’

The moment was magical then and a full two decades later the memory remains magical still.

After spending six hours speaking about tolerance and understanding to students at a handful of inner-city schools in Los Angeles, Muhammad Ali ended the day in a private room with VIPs and media.

Finishing a chicken drumstick, Ali wiped his fingers clean and held up the napkin for all to see.

“What color is it?” he asked, all eyes now focused on him.1aliquote

“Red,” the roomful of people answered as one.

Using his left thumb, Ali carefully stuffed the napkin into his closed right fist.

“What color is it?” he asked again while playfully sprinkling invisible magic dust over his fist.

“Red” the chorus repeated. Ali smiled mischievously, his eyes dancing with delight, as he opened his right hand to reveal . . . ta-da . . . nothing!

“My handssss is sooo faaast you can’t even see ’em!” he crowed in a loud whisper, displaying both empty hands.

Ali, 54 years old on that December day in 1996, was already struggling fiercely with Parkinson’s – the disease that eventually claimed his life eight days ago at age 74. But for a few minutes he turned back the calendar pages, performing a couple more magic tricks and even throwing a few lightening punches while briefly shadow boxing.

Another Ali memory, this one from six months earlier at an autograph show in the Anaheim Convention Center. I was doing a column on Ali interacting with fans and I brought along my 6-year-old son. On the long drive there, I schooled the boy about “The Greatest.”

We sat next to Ali as he signed myriad pictures, posters, magazines and boxing gloves. Finally, I told my son it was time to leave.

“Not yet,” he balked softly. I’ve gotta say ‘Bye.’ ”

Ali heard the little boy’s protest and turned and for the very first time in an hour the man who used to “float like a butterfly” emerged from his cocoon of total silence.

“Hi, Little Man,” Ali whispered, spreading his arms wide as wings.

The 6-year-old Little Man, shy back then, instantly stepped forward and was wrapped in a clinch. Goodness it was cool.

But the real Kodak moment was yet to come.

After a standing eight count, maybe even a full ten seconds, Ali freed the Little Man and held out his right palm in the universal “give me five” position.

The boy, who at that age smacked hands hard enough to shatter metatarsals, gently slapped Ali’s palm before extending his own tiny hand for The Champ to return the gesture.

Ali took a swipe . . .

. . . and missed.

At the very last instant, the Little Man pulled his hand away like a matador’s red cape teasing a bull.

“Too slow,” the Little Man teased, his two missing front teeth causing the words to lisp. Like, “Tooooth looow.” Like Ali’s own voice that now lisped slightly.

Like two 6-year-olds, they laughed together at the tomfoolery.

Still roaring in delight, Ali once again opened his arms and the Little Man once again stepped into them, except this time the shy boy squeezed back, and tightly. Ali’s eyes caught mine and I swear to this day they twinkled.

It was a long hug. A Hollywood-ending hug. A hug from “The Greatest” that the Little Man, now a 6-foot-3 tall man, still remembers dearly and surely will until he is an old man.

As we walked hand-in-hand away after saying goodbye to Ali, my son stopped and looked up at me and here is what he said through a Christmas-morning smile in his two-missing-teeth lisp: “You know, Dad, you’re right – he really is ‘The Bestest.’ ”

One final memory. Inside that VIP room, six months later, Ali motioned for me to come over.

“You got a boy?” he asked faintly, holding out his hand, palm down, hip-high in a gesture of height.

I nodded, stunned he could possibly remember.

“Too slow,” Ali said, pulling back his hip-high hand, laughing, and then he signed an autograph: “To Greg – Love, Muhammad Ali.”

Rest in peace, “The Bestest.”

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

B-Day Gift is Unbridled Success

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Birthday Gift is Unbridled Success

Weddings, it strikes me, are a lot like locusts – more accurately called 17-year periodical cicadas.

Except this genus is the 30-year periodic wave of matrimonial invitations.

The first wave for my wife and I struck after college when many of our friends tied the knot and now the second wave is rolling in as the adult children of these couples are exchanging vows – usually beautiful, heartfelt, poetic vows they write themselves, the young showoffs.1woodyHorse

Anyway, the RSVP of a recent wedding invitation requested an interesting fact about each of us. For my much-better-half this was difficult because there are so many from which to choose – such as putting up for three decades with a knucklehead husband who suggested her fun fact should be that she is lousy at picking out birthday gifts for her husband.

Admittedly, this was a stupid thing for me to suggest. But, in my lame defense, it is true.

What is also true is that it is my own fault because a not-so-fun fact about me is that I am impossible to shop for. I refuse to make a list of gifts I would like nor do I drop subtle hints. Worse, I have been known to buy something for myself just days before my birthday – more than a few times causing my miffed wife to return what she bought me before I even open it.

Even when she is on the mark, I generally exchange it for a slightly different model, different color, different size.

“I love it! Thank you,” I will say, adding: “Did you keep the receipt?”

“Of course I did,” she replies, rolling her eyes but showing great restraint in not adding, “you ungrateful blockhead!”

Adding to the friction is that the interesting fact about me I suggested putting on the wedding RSVP is that one of my superpowers is giving great presents. I think outside the gift box; I listen for hints given so softly you need a stethoscope to hear them; and if all fails, I buy what they ask for.

Last weekend I celebrated my birthday – somewhere between how old I act (about 8) and how old my musical tastes, such as the Beetles’ song “When I’m Sixty-Four,” suggest I am. Usually my wife is stressed out for all of May because she has no clue what to give me besides a stink eye.

I don’t help matters by teasingly asking if I am going to like what she’s getting me. This year she was giddy with confidence.

“You are going to love it!” she said. “I tore up the receipt! And don’t bother guessing because you won’t come close.”

“Mom really came through,” both kids assured me. “You’re going to love it!”

They have all said this before and been wrong. This year they were wrong only in understatement. The long shot made it to the winner’s circle. My wife gave me a gift so thoughtful, terrific and outrageously unique that it makes my gift-giving superpowers seem like they have encountered Kryptonite.

My wife thought outside the box – and inside the barn. She got me a thoroughbred racehorse.

Actually, better than that. She got me the opportunity to name a racehorse in my honor. This is superior because I get a thoroughbred I can thoroughly call my own without having to pay for hay, housing and vet bills.

This is a big responsibility that I want to share with you dear readers. So I’m asking you to vote for one of three names. My win, place and show finalists are, in alphabetical order:

Masterpiece Day – paying homage to my favorite John Wooden maxim, “Make each day your masterpiece.”

Runs on Guinness – anyone who knows me knows I am a fan of “the good stuff.”

Streakin’ Woody – this is a nod to my running streak of 4,717 consecutive days as of today.

Please email your vote (or a write-in name) to me at woodywriter@gmail.com

After the ballots are counted, I think I will change my RSVP interesting fact to: “Named a thoroughbred racehorse (Fill-In-The-Winning-Name).

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

An Unstoppable Educational Journey

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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An Unstoppable Educational Journey

For a family celebration a decade past, we went to a restaurant at the Ventura Harbor and in addition to chips, salsa and albondigas soup followed by tacos, enchiladas and fajitas, our waitress served us something that wasn’t on the menu: a role model.

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Francelia Teran on her proud graduation day

We didn’t realize this at that moment, but over time as we got to know this waitress more personally it became clear that Francelia Teran is as inspiring as any superstar you will find on a bedroom poster.

“She-roe” is the term coined by Maya Angelou to describe women like Fran.

Earning a college degree is a lofty achievement under any circumstances, but Fran’s journey to the stage at CSU Channel Islands last Saturday to receive her Bachelor’s degree in Psychology was lengthier than most. Her pomp-and-circumstance walk required overcoming arduous circumstances.

For one thing, her father died when Fran was 14. The second shoe dropped a year later when her mother walked away from the family.

“I became a hard worker at a young age,” Fran recalls of her childhood in Mexico City. “When I came to America, I learned the language and my educational journey began.”

Faced with detours, she refused to be deterred.

“I am a strong, sensitive, and productive woman,” Fran says, and proudly. “I have encountered in my life many issues, but that hasn’t stopped me with my education.”

Indeed, working the long, late hours of a waitress and then coming home to read an assignment for class, or study for a test, or write a research paper into the wee morning hours before going to bed, and then rising early to go to classes requires determination, dedication, and sleep deprivation.

On top of work and school, Fran’s full plate has also included being a wife and mother. And despite the burden of college tuition, she has continued to send financial assistance to her extended family in Mexico City.

“I believe there is only one way to accomplished a dream,” Fran explains, flashing her familiar radiant smile. “By taking the action of doing it.”

She took action and earned an Associate Science degree from Ventura College in 2009 and then a second degree at VC in Psychology in 2013 before transferring to CSUCI.

In addition to the time demands of family, work and classes, Fran faced a language challenge. While she proudly considers becoming bilingual one of her greatest accomplishments, the truth is that reading textbooks and literature assignments, and writing papers and answering exam questions, in English is a barrier for ESL (English as a Second Language) students. Time, and nuance, gets lost in translation. In this light, her success in the classroom merits bonus acclaim.

But Fran would sooner serve the wrong order than serve up an excuse.

“I don’t let life issues stop me with my education,” she says. “The journey has been long. My son now is 17 and I have the great love of my husband. We encountered many struggles economically, socially, racially, and culturally. However, we are hard-working people.

“My main goal is to serve as a role model for my son and also for many Hispanic women like me. If I can do this, anyone can do it regardless of their migratory status, economic issues, and the language barrier.”

Last Saturday evening, Fran’s family, friends and co-workers – actually, “family” seems to describe them all – filled the second-floor patio of Margarita Villa to celebrate her accomplishment. The cold sea breeze blowing in was no match for the warmth of the occasion.

“Today, I am not only celebrating my graduation from Channel Islands University,” Fran told her well-wishers. “Today, I am making a difference in my community, in my life, and in my son’s life. I am an example of breaking the barriers. I want to be a good example for my son, for my nieces and nephews, and for many women who work hard.

“I believe in dreams, but I also believe in working to obtain something,” she continued. “You can absolutely not accept ‘no’ as an answer when you have a dream.”

Inspiring advice from a Fran-tastic role model.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

Don’t Like This Writer? You’re Fired!

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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Don’t Like This Writer? You’re Fired!

Editors note: Woody Woodburn is taking the day off. He has asked publicist “John Miller,” who reportedly worked for Donald Trump in 1991, to fill in today.

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The Ventura Star will be great again next Saturday because Woody Woodburn will be back with his column. Believe me, Mr. Woodburn is a great writer. Some people, many people, tell me he’s a very, very, very great writer.

Mr. Woodburn has all the best words. Long words, short words. Four-letter words and ten-letter words. You pick a number of letters, and he has a tremendous word.

Publicist "John Miller"

Publicist “John Miller”

A lot of people, smart people, people who read books, and I mean read a lot of books, thick books with many, many, pages, these really, really smart people tell me even Papa Hemingway was not as great a writer as Big Daddy Woody.

These same people, again I’m talking the smartest people, tell me Mr. Woodburn not only writes the best words, he writes unbelievable sentences and fantastic paragraphs. That’s the truth.

Think of the greatest columnists ever: Jim Murray, Red Smith, Ernie Pyle, Dear Abby. They couldn’t carry The Woodman’s laptop. Believe me.

What about the Ventura Star’s other columnists, you ask? Well, Colleen Cason, I’ve seen her type at her keyboard and she’s low-energy. Without three cups of coffee and a Red Bull she’s a total disaster.

Bill Nash’s columns are 10 percent shorter than Mr. Woodburn’s columns so obviously they are 10 percent worse.

Rhiannon Potkey and Jim Carlisle? Sports is called the newspaper toy department for a reason. That makes them Toys R Us writers.

And I’m not even going to mention Pa Ventura. But other people tell me Pa is really, really not a talented columnist. Pa-thetic. A real lightweight. Frankly, he’s a nasty guy.

Nobody, believe me nobody, has more respect for women readers than Mr. Woodburn. Women readers love him. And I’m talking beautiful women readers. Gorgeous women. Miss USA reads Mr. Woodburn’s columns, that’s the truth.

When you see the name “Woodburn” splashed above a column, you know it’s going to be classy and flashy and the best in the world. And Mr. Woodburn doesn’t just write columns – his name is on books, too.

Of all the books written in history, and I’m talking the greatest books ever, only The Good Book (The Bible) and The Great Book (“The Art of the Deal”) are better than “Wooden & Me” and “Strawberries in Wintertime.” And Mr. Woodburn’s next book, whatever it is, will be amazing. Believe me, absolutely amazing!

When you talk about writers, not just newspaper writers but writers of books, Mr. Woodburn is Mark Twain, John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway and J.K. Rowling rolled into one. Mr. Woodburn is huuuge like Shakespeare.

Speaking of huuuge, Mr. Woodburn’s Fitbit numbers make an Olympic marathoner envious. He also surfs the biggest waves, skis the tallest mountains and is more interesting than The Most Interesting Man in the World.

But back to writing. Mr. Woodburn leads all the Amazon.com polls. He has huuuge numbers, believe me. Any best-seller’s list that doesn’t rank Mr. Woodburn’s books at the very top is rigged. Totally corrupt.

Let’s be honest, a lot of writers are really not very smart people. But Mr. Woodburn’s IQ is high, SpaceX rocket-ship high, high like Einstein’s IQ, but with words instead of math numbers. This allows Mr. Woodburn to write some of the best words and sentences ever.

Mr. Woodburn’s energy is also high. He types lightening fast, believe me. You wouldn’t believe how fast he types. He has big hands yet his fingers dance on the keyboard like Fred Astaire.

I have heard from lots of people, you really wouldn’t even believe how many people, who say reading is dead. Reading’s best times are in the past, they say. But they are as stupid as our China trade deals. The Woodster is making reading great again.

Next Saturday’s column by Mr. Woodburn is going to be amazing. Phenomenal. Amazingly phenomenal. Believe me. Check it out and you won’t believe how very, very tremendous it is.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”

“Get To” Slam Dunks “Have To”

by Woody

STRAW_CoverWoody’s highly anticipated new book “STRAWBERRIES IN WINTERTIME: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” is NOW available! Order your signed copy HERE! 

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“Get To” Better Perspective Than “Have To”

Abraham Lincoln put things into perspective as wonderfully as anyone, as he so often did, when he observed: “We can complain because rose bushes have thorns, or rejoice because thorn bushes have roses.”

A recent lunch companion, also making the point that proper perspective is everything, put it this way: “I felt sorry for myself because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”1masterpiece

His words were more than repeating a familiar maxim because he has helped people in danger of losing their feet. Specifically, he has treated Ethiopian villagers suffering from mossy foot, a disease that causes massive swelling of the feet. It is not only physically debilitating, it can cause the afflicted person to become a social outcast.

Cleft palate is another physical ailment that can turn a life upside down – and something that another of my recent luncheon companions has helped treat in Kenya.

In fact, most of the ROMEOs – Retired Old Medics Eating Out – who invited me to eat out with them at their monthly get-together have in the past made humanitarian medical trips to Africa.

Now in their 70s, 80s and 90s, these retired local physicians seem to rejoice that thorn bushes have roses.

“I am at the point in my life where I really do see each day as a masterpiece,” one told me, echoing a John Wooden maxim.

Another shared this: “I have my aches, but at least I’m still alive to ache.”

A couple hours later, the blessing of feeling aches hit home when I saw a friend who had just finished a swim workout. I asked him how the pool temperature was and he replied matter-of-factly: “I don’t know – because of my paralysis I can’t feel the water.”

Perspective refocused.

It was also refocused during my daily run recently when a nagging injury flared up. As my pace slowed and my muttering sped up, I crossed paths with a friend and stopped to say hi.

After our brief visit, I had a new perspective on my tight hamstring because my friend is battling a real foe, cancer – again – yet his smile and upbeat nature would never reveal as much.

As my Grandpa Ansel liked to say, “Most of us don’t have to look very long before we see someone who has bigger challenges than we do.”

Same run, now with a renewed bounce in my stride, I came upon a retired couple I often see walking their dog. Lucy, a border collie, has been very frail in recent months and now she was not with them.

Again I paused for a quick visit and while my worst suspicions proved true – Lucy died a couple weeks ago at age 15 – the couple was very happy to introduce me to their new adorable border collie puppy, Finley.

Once more I restarted my run with a refocused perspective.

Here is how a dear friend shifts her perspective when she feels like complaining about having to exercise, or having to cook dinner, or having to go to a work meeting she wishes she could skip.

“I change the ‘have to’ to ‘get to,’ ” she explains. “I ‘get to’ go to the gym. I ‘get to’ cook a meal I like. I ‘get to’ go to work. A lot of people have an ailment that prevents them from exercising. A lot of people are homeless and don’t have a kitchen. A lot of people want a job.”

Another friend was dreading a visit to the doctor to have blood drawn the other day. Her high anxiety was because she has tiny veins that nurses never seem to hit cleanly until the third or fourth try.

But a friend of hers provided a new perspective, an I ‘get-to’ perspective, by pointing out what a privilege it is to have access to healthcare. Think of the refugees in the Middle East, the friend said.

Or African villagers with mossy foot.

At the ROMEO lunch, I ordered a turkey sandwich with no mayonnaise. Instead, it came with extra mayo. It was delicious.

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Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com.

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”