Author Archives: Woody

More Fun than Barrel of Monkeys

by Woody

Some things boggle the mind, such as how in the world is Bingo not already in the National Toy Hall of Fame? By the way, Boggle rightly is not enshrined.

Sand, if you can believe it, was inducted in 2021. Stick (2008) and Cardboard Box (2005) are also in the NTHF at the Strong National Museum of Play in Rochester, NY.

Don’t get me wrong, boxes sometimes provide more fun than the toys that come inside. And don’t shake a Stick at Sand being a blast, although whacking a Stick at a sandcastle is a lot more fun than Barrel of Monkeys, which, for good reason – the reason being it’s boring – is not in the HoF.

And yet I dare say Barrel of Monkeys is more deserving than Rubber Duck (2008), which, in my book, is the most undeserving of all 81 inductees to date. Speaking of books, how did it take 11 years longer for Coloring Book (last year, along with long-overdue Matchbox Cars) to go in than a yellow rubber ducky? Shame on the Fame!

The NTHF’s 1998 inaugural class had no slouches – nor even a Slinky, which had to wait two years before slinking in. The original HoF superstars were Barbie, Crayola Crayon, Erector Set, Etch A Sketch, Frisbee, Hula Hoop, Lego, Lincoln Logs, Marbles, Monopoly, Play-Doh, Radio Flyer Wagon, Roller Skates, Teddy Bear, Tinkertoy, View-Master, Duncan Yo-Yo. Hard to argue with any of them except View-Master in my view.

The Class of 2024, expected to be three strong, will be announced Nov. 9 and my 12-year-old-self has a bone to pick with most of the 12 finalists.

Bop It debuted in 1996 and is honestly more fun after the batteries die and thusly becomes a colorful plastic Stick good for smashing sandcastles or playing fetch with your dog.

Cabbage Patch Kids were born in 1979 and should be banned from any HoF as surely as Pete Rose for forcing parents to gamble on which toy store to stand in line for hours on end hoping to find a CPK doll on the shelves.

I think Library Card should be nominated instead of Choose Your Own Adventure Gamebooks. Connect 4 similarly gets no high-fives from me, nor my vote, as the colored disks are best used as a replacement when a Checkers piece (2003) gets lost.

“Nay!” too for Ken, who is no G.I. Joe (2004); likewise, Little Tikes Cozy Coupe is no Big Wheel (2009); and Slime is no Play-Doh, so I again say, “No-go!”

Baseball Cards are out because they are now kept in protective sleeves, not played with, and certainly not clothespinned into the spokes of a Bicycle (2000) to make it roar like a motorcycle.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is too broad of a nominee, encompassing action figures, TV shows, movies, comic books, video games and much more, so thumbs-down to Turtlemania even though my adult son will be as angry as red-bandanna-ed Raphael.

The Nerf Toys’ arsenal is also cumbersome, but the original 1970 Nerf Ball alone should have long ago joined its cousin the inflatable Rubber Ball (2009) for bringing the playground safely inside without broken lamps, windows, and noses.

Helen of Troy was “the face that launched a thousand ships,” but Battleship is the game that sunk a billion Carriers (occupies five spaces), Battleships (four), Cruisers (three), Submarines (three), and hardest-to-find Destroyers (two)!

Make me King of Playtime and “You sunk my battleship!” wails and shouts of “Bingo!” will fill the air in the National Toy Hall of Fame, and flying Nerf Balls will too.

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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.

Murderous Tale in a Lovely Book

by Woody

Few things bring a newspaper newsroom to a total standstill, the common cacophony of keyboards and chatter suddenly swallowed by an eerie hush.

The Space Shuttle Challenger explosion did so when I was a young journalist; as did the two hijacked jetliners slamming into the Twin Towers 15 years later; as, most certainly, President Kennedy’s assassination did long before my writing career began.

When I tell you a similar pall blanketed the old Ventura Star-Free Press newsroom, back when it was on Ralston Street, back on an autumn day in 1987, that not only were voices hushed, but tears rolled, you will understand something truly dreadful had occurred.

Which is why, to be honest, when my colleagues began bemoaning with disbelief that Bob Hope had passed away, I was slightly puzzled. Granted, he was a Hollywood legend and this was sad news, yet the earth-shattering reaction seemed far beyond proportion.

The reason for my confusion was because I had joined the S-FP staff only a month earlier and, due to unfamiliarity, ignorantly misheard who died. The legend suffering a fatal heart attack, at age 69, was Bob Holt, a longtime reporter and columnist who was every bit as beloved as he was talented, a very remarkable twin feat.

In the ensuing days and weeks I perused back issues of the newspaper, kept in endless binders the size of couch cushions, only thicker, reading some of Holt’s columns. It was readily apparent why he was so admired by writers and readers alike.

For nearly four decades Holt wrote for the S-FP, beginning in Sports, later covering hard news, and also penning a slice-of-life column that frequently featured his two girls, Debby and Betsey, oftentimes to their chagrin.

I bring up Bob Holt today because his eldest daughter, Debby Holt Larkin, has written a new book titled “A Lovely Girl: The Tragedy of Olga Duncan and the Trial of One of California’s Most Notorious Killers.” It is part true-crime story, part memoir through the eyes of 10-year-old Debby in 1958, and fully a page-turner.

Debby will return to her hometown to talk about her book, and about her dad for he is interwoven throughout, at two events: Saturday, Nov. 4, at 10 a.m. inside Ventura City Hall, formerly the courthouse where the salacious trial took place, a trial Bob Holt covered; and Sunday, Nov. 5, at 2 p.m. in E.P. Foster Library.

The poet Robert Frost famously said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” As surely as the account of Olga’s murder, she being a newlywed nurse who was seven-months pregnant, made my eyes spill over, so too did the lovely closing pages with young Debby and her father and two surprise tickets to a Dodgers game, thus proving Mr. Frost correct.

“When it finally came time for me to write that scene, I was very emotional,” Debby shared with me, “which surprised me a little because I’d been thinking about it for so long. I did the draft in one sitting. The words just flowed with tears streaming down my face. By the time I wrote that last sentence, I was sobbing. To this day, I can’t go to a professional baseball game without thinking about my dad at some point – bad call, terrific play. And when they sing ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game,’ it still makes me tear up. He always sang it at the top of his lungs!”

Another song, despite the chronicled tragedy, comes to happily mind page after page: Bob Hope singing, “Thanks for the memory…”

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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.

Measuring Door is a Time Portal

by Woody

“Don’t paint this door,” I told the foreman of the painting crew and, for good measure, attached a sticky note to it: “Please! Don’t Paint Door!”

So you can imagine my reaction a few workdays later upon seeing the door, pintles removed from its hinges, leaning against a wall and freshly painted white as a cumulus cloud. Thundering mad was I with “#$@&!” being my newspaper-friendly reaction.

There is a very good chance you have in your home a similarly prized door – or wall. Specifically, a Measuring Door or Measuring Wall where you mark the rising heights of your children.

The Measuring Wall when I was growing up was actually not in our home but in my great aunt’s kitchen. Her given name was Elizabeth, which became Libby, which to my dad was Aunt Libby, which when he was little came out Aunt Wibbie, which stuck and was what my three siblings and I called her.

We visited Wibbie a few times a year and always she would march us into her kitchen where, one by one, we pressed our backs against the floral wallpapered wall near the refrigerator, wallpaper that still chronicled the growth of the small boy who became our towering dad.

“Stand up tall,” Wibbie would say, herself short by any measure, her directive as unnecessary as telling a kid to “eat your ice cream” because kids always want to be as tall as possible when being measured. As we assumed the posture of Buckingham Palace guards, she would mark our new heights, and the date, in pencil, the point always newly sharpened.

Just as one piece of broken tile is not much to look at, one measuring mark is nothing special – but put many together and you have a beautiful mosaic. Alas, you cannot very well pack up and move a kitchen wall, so when Wibbie passed away our mosaic was surely peeled off or painted over by new homeowners.

You can, however, relocate a door quite easily. And so it is that The Measuring Door for my daughter and son moved with us to a new house during their mid-childhoods, their heights from toddlerhood until they stopped growing at ages 17 and 19, respectively, recorded like clockwork – or, rather, calendar-work – twice a year on their birthdays and half-birthdays, a time-lapse image of two human saplings becoming trees.

Indeed, the pencil markings echo a tree’s growth rings that are broadest near the center of the trunk because the early stage of life is when timber grows most rapidly. Similarly, the distance between growth markings on a Measuring Door or Wall are widest during teenage years.

A tree’s growth rings also tell the story of rain and sunshine with thicker rings, drought and hardship with thinner ones. Growth markings likewise tell this story: that the little brother passed his big sister in height when he was 14 and she was 17, thanks to his biggest one-year surge of five inches; that her biggest leap was at age 12; that she eventually reached 5-foot-10, in thick socks, while he continued to 6-barefooted-3.

When our Mona Lisa of a door was reinstalled you can understand my elation upon discovering that a mustache had not been painted on it after all. The painter instead had taken great care to create a fresh white perfect frame around the priceless pencil marks, marks that now include four-year-old granddaughter Maya and in short time will be joined by her sister, Auden, not yet a year old, and newborn cousin Amara.

Our Measuring Door has become a Family Tree.

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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.

Cooking Up Some Kitchen Sink Soup

by Woody

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

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

Similarly, here is a Kitchen Sink Column of notes and quotes and other stuff…

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I don’t know about you, but bumper stickers never influence how I think about anything – except, sometimes, uncharitably about the driver.

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“I have a burning question,” column reader Albert Rodriguez recently wrote me and before proceeding I was worried he had misfired an email intended for his urologist. He continued: “What is the proper order – reading the book first or watching the movie adaptation?”

As with whether toilet paper should roll over or under, there is only one acceptable answer: book first! If an author oftentimes does not know where a book will go while writing it, a reader most certainly should not know ahead of time.

John Steinbeck’s “Joyous Garde” writing cabin.

Also, while it is irrefutably true the book is always better than its movie adaptation – prove me wrong! – there is great satisfaction in having already read the book and thus being able to say afterwards, with conviction and even a trace of scorn, no matter how terrific the movie: “The book was better!”

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Speaking of books, I am reminded of this observation from writer Donna Talarico: “Simply put, I love books. I own so many. Many of which I have not read (yet). I just need to have them. On shelves. In piles. In random conference tote bags. Paper magazines and newspapers too. Some call it clutter. I call it cozy. It’s comforting to know I am surrounded by pages of stories. And, thus, by storytellers.”

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Oh, yes, as for the TP roll – over, always!

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Driving past as a kid was shooting baskets the other day reminded me of this: One can never leave a practice court without swishing your final shot, a long one at that, and usually with Chick Hearn’s voice in your head counting down the final seconds to the buzzer.

Ditto for leaving a golf driving range without hitting a final shot straight and true, no matter how long it takes.

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A number of my column readers have asked, as mentioned here a few weeks back, why the Woodburn abode is nicknamed “Casa Joyous Garde.”

It is in honor of John Steinbeck, who, at his summer home in Sag Harbor, NY, in the backyard overlooking the gorgeous cove below, had a tiny hexagonal writing cabin he named “Joyous Garde” in honor of Sir Lancelot’s castle.

Since our house is slightly larger than Steinbeck’s 100-square-foot castle, we added “Casa” – although to be honest, in light of Steinbeck’s home recently selling for $13.5 million, his shed-sized Joyous Garde alone is likely more pricey than our entire castle.

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Tragically, these words by Mr. Steinbeck remain as true today as when he wrote them: “All war is a symptom of man’s failure as a thinking animal.”

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Speaking earlier of storytellers, this wisdom comes from the late, great British author Henry James: “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”

I also love this sentiment from singer and composer Melanie DeMore: “Every day I wake up and think, ‘Who am I going to hold up in song.’ ”

The final ingredient in today’s Kitchen Sink Soup: A reminder to be sure to sing to someone, perhaps even yourself, today.

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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.

Caught in a Catch-22 Situation

by Woody

Johnny Carson, doing his Carnac the Magnificent character on “The Tonight Show” many years ago, memorably gave the clairvoyant answer, “Catch-22.” He then opened the sealed envelope and read aloud the question within: “What would the Dodgers do if hit 100 pop flies?”

The joke, hilarious then, would land flat this season with The Boys In Blue having just become only the eighth team in major league history to win 100 games in three consecutive seasons. Moreover, excising the 2020 season that was shortened by COVID-19, the Dodgers have now reached triple-digit wins in their last four full seasons.

Anyway, I found myself in a funny (in hindsight) Catch-22 situation the other day that eventually turned me Dodger Blue in the face. It was regarding a certificate of deposit that had just matured. Despite being with an online bank, to keep the CD from automatically rolling over I was required to make my withdrawal by phone.

After an eternity in the call queue listening to the musical equivalent of Ambien, a representative finally asked for my full name and account number, then had a few more questions.

“Mr. Woodburn, for security purposes, what’s your date of birth? The last four digits of your social security number? Mother’s maiden name?

He was just beginning.

“Mr. Woodburn, what’s your mother’s mother’s sister-in-law’s mother’s maiden name?”

Me: “Ummm…”

Rep: “Lets try a different question, Mr. Woodbum. Who was the first concert you attended?”

Me: “Yes, The Who.”

Rep: “Very clever, Mr. Woodbury. What was the model of your first car and which of the nine photo squares is it touching?”

Me: “I’m talking to you on the phone, not looking at a computer screen.”

Rep: “Well then, tell me: Are you a robot, Mr. Woodstone?”

Me: “No.”

Rep: “A nonstop train leaves Chicago for Philadelphia traveling 60 mph. Another train leaves Philadelphia heading to Chicago at 40 mph. In what city will they pass each other?

Me: “I have no idea.”

Rep: “Perfect, Mr. Woodberry. If you’d gotten that right I’d know you were an AI bot.”

(The remainder of the transcript is cross-my-heart true)

Me: “Can I please cash out my CD?”

Rep: “Not yet, Mr. Woodburn. One final question. I need to send you a text with a security code – is blah-blah-blah your phone number?”

Me: “No, that’s a landline we no longer have. My cell number is blah-blah-blah.”

Rep: “That’s not the number we have listed.”

Me: “I understand that, so please change it to…”

Rep: “As I said, Mr. Woodsworth, I can’t do that without texting you the security code.”

Me: “But you can’t text it to a landline. Use this number I’m calling your from.”

Rep: “Mr. Woodshed, I can only send a text to the number we have on file.”

Me: “How about you email the code to me.”

Rep: “I’m not authorized to do that.”

Me (frustration rising like a home run off Mookie Betts’ bat): “Will you please transfer me to your supervisor?”

Rep: “It’s been a pleasure to help you today, Mr. Woodpile. I’ll transfer you right now…”

The line went dead.

A second phone call was placed, summer turned to autumn while I was on hold, and when my at-bat finally came I swung for the fences: “I’d like to update my phone number.”

Rep: “No problem, Mr. Woodburn.”

Me (happy dancing while the change is successfully made): “Since I have you here, I’d like to cash out my CD.”

Rep: “Of course, Mr. Woodchuck. For security reasons, if two nonstop trains leave Los Angeles and New York…”

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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.

Shower Thoughts of Thoreau

by Woody

A cliché, overworn to threads, has it that something really boring is “like watching paint dry.”

While I have never felt obliged to test the truth of this adage, in my experience watching someone paint can be the diametric opposite of dull. An artist at work on a canvas, or a person painting a wall with a hand so steady he or she doesn’t need painter’s tape to protect the ceiling and baseboards, can be quite spellbinding.

Indeed, when admirable skill is involved, I can sit for a good long while watching a master at task in most any endeavor. I once watched, totally entranced for an hour, a bricklayer methodically and expertly erect a wall – tall and square and handsome.

Shortly thereafter, by coincidence or perhaps serendipity, I came across a passage by Henry David Thoreau that resonated beautifully. Thoreau has a way of doing that. This time it was in “Walden: or Life in the Woods,” specifically in Chapter 13 titled “House-Warming,” where he descriptively wrote in part:

“When I came to build my chimney I studied masonry. My bricks being second-hand ones required to be cleaned with a trowel, so that I learned more than usual of the qualities of bricks and trowels… I filled the spaces between the bricks about the fireplace with stones from the pond shore, and also made my mortar with the white sand from the same place… I was so pleased to see my work rising so square and solid by degrees, and reflected, that, if it proceeded slowly, it was calculated to endure a long time.”

“Casa Joyous Garde,” as our Woodburn abode has been nicknamed, is currently undergoing its own house-warming, to use Thoreau’s hyphenated spelling – or, rather, a modest house-remodeling. And so it is that I watched Thoreau build a chimney “rising to the heavens,” as he noted – or, rather, Adan build two glass-block walls rising to the ceiling for a walk-in shower.

Instead of second-hand bricks, Adan used brand-new blocks, each roughly 8 inches square by 4 inches thick. The blocks, it turns out, are not quite uniform in size, thus adding a degree of difficulty in making the walls flat and true with each horizontal row perfectly level.

Accomplishing this required deftly altering the spaces between – a little extra mortar when the blocks were a tad smaller than their neighbors; slightly less mortar when they were a smidgen larger; with the end work pleasingly rising so square and solid by degrees.

Even watching Adan mix his own stone-white mortar was to witness an artisan at his craft. Much like a baker kneading bread, alternately adding a touch more flour or a sprinkle of water, until achieving the ideal consistency and elasticity, here a texture was required smooth enough for spreading mortar – called “buttering” in mason-ese – onto the blocks, yet thick enough to hold form.

Like Thoreau’s chimney, the glass walls with an adjoining rounded corner proceeded slowly to rise, 84 blocks in all, until reaching a height of nine feet. It is now easy to reflect that it was calculated to endure a long time. Indeed, after the mortar hardened fully, Adan pounded on his handiwork with the heel of his fist – Thump! THUMP! – so hard as to echo loudly, then smiled widely and said proudly: “It’s very strong! Very, very solid!”

Thoreau also wrote, “Do not hire a man who does your work for money, but him who does it for the love of it.” Adan displayed such a love for his work. Likewise, I loved watching him at it.

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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.

Some Very, Very Short Stories

by Woody

“Simplify, simplify,” advised Henry David Thoreau, to which Ralph Waldo Emerson wryly, and wisely, replied: “One ‘simplify’ would have sufficed.”

On a similar theme, Ernest Hemingway is said to have once accepted a bet that he couldn’t write a complete story in a mere six words. Papa triumphed with this mini-masterpiece: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

For fun, I challenged some friends to write their own six-word stories of fiction or memoir. Here are some of their tiny tales…

“She had me with her smile.” By Mitch Gold.

By Steve Grimm: “I asked her, she said yes!”

Conversely, and darkly, by Debby Holt Larkin, author of “A Lovely Girl” and the daughter of the late, great Bob Holt who chronicled this column space long ago: “Wife ran off … need your shovel.”

Even more darkly, a six-word historical novel by Chris Barney: “Rats had fleas. Millions died painfully.”

More happily, by Ethan Lubin: “Former students visited. Made my day.”

“Ignored warning signs, at great peril.” By Joe Garces.

“Caesar had the best,” noted John Yewell: “ ‘I came, I saw, I conquered.’ Of course in Latin it’s only three words.”

“The light is darkness. Oh, Oppenheimer.” By Karen Lindell.

 “Today, tomorrow and whatever comes next,” wrote John Collet and Susie Merry offered: “Small things can bring big happiness.”

Less happily, by Patrick Burke: “Last man down the trail, alive.”

“ ‘You run everyday?’ They are confused.” A mini-memoir by Lauren Siegel, a “streaker” who has run 8,737 consecutive days.

 “I patted her pillow. It’s empty,” wrote James Barney, while Mary Eilleen Distin offered: “He left, and now I’m happy.”

“I moved to NYC at 71.” By Kris Young.

Jeff McElroy flipped the script on Hemingway’s heartbreaking micro-novella, turning it into a much happier one – and in only five words: “Free: Baby shoes, well-worn.”

Seeking even further simplicity, I posed a second challenge of brevity: Write a happy story in only four words…

“I love you, too,” wrote Chulwon Karma Park.

Kathy McAlpine and Betsy Chess both identically authored a classical super small storybook: “Lived happily ever after!” while Allyson McAuley added a slight twist: “They lived, happily, peacefully.”

“Peace love rock roll,” wrote Dick Birney while Carrie Wolfe offered: “Life is unexpected love.”

“The grandkids came over!” wrote Toni Tuttle-Santana and E.Wayne Kempton echoed: “Good to be Grampy!”

By Alison Smith Carlson: “Julie’s cancer was cured.”

In a sequel to his earlier six-word story, or perhaps a prequel, James Barney wrote: “She woke beside me.”

“The cruise is booked!” wrote Karen Biedebach-Berry and Julie Chrisman offered another tale of the sea: “Today I went Paddleboarding!”

Susie Merry wrote a sweet story, “I ate some chocolate,” and John Brooks served up a similar theme for readers’ consumption: “I ate some cannoli!”

“I got over it,” wrote Shaka Senghor and I, for one, want 1,000 more words.

Cindy Hansen wrote, “Hike trees bees breathe,” while Tom Koenig similarly offered: “Warm water beach sand.”

In an inspiring mini-memoir, Todd Kane wrote: “Been sober since 1976.”

“Because she was brave.” By Hannah McFadden.

“We are all together,” wrote Mike Weinberg-Lynn while Robin Harwin Satnick offered: “We happily adventured together.”

“9 o’clock starting time,” wrote Rodney Johnsen, Sr. in a story that may turn less happy by the third tee.

“Fireplace book cooking wine,” wrote Kathleen Koenig while Vicki Means offered: “Feeling safe and sound.”

“Autumn air smells earthy!” By Lisa Barreto.

Julie Hein wrote, “Gave birth; heart grew,” while Edie Marshall also offered a love story: “Found Chuck. Got married.”

Lastly, by yours truly: “Column written for me.”

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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.

Harold & Kumar Go To The Animal Shelter

by Woody

The email began with a warm greeting, even buttered me up a little which is a familiar approach with favor requests, before getting to the main point of pitching a column topic.

The solicitor next mentioned her title, board president of the Humane Society of Ventura County, as if that would impress me and sway my keyboard into benevolence. Taking no chances, Sheila Kane McCollum tried to play on my emotions by introducing me to Kumar and Harold.

Unlike the movie “Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle” and its two sequels, this storyline is not a comedy (although it does feature a buddy road trip). Rather, it begins with a neglect case involving two adult dogs and a pair of puppies. The owners, when visited, agree to surrender the furry four-legged foursome to the HSVC in order to give them all a better opportunity for re-homing.

Shortly after their arrival at the shelter, the two puppies, dubbed Harold and Kumar by the caring staff, became lethargic with pale gums—symptoms of Parvovirus, a highly contagious disease that can prove fatal. Testing came back positive and because HSVC does not have a veterinarian on site around the clock, H & K were transferred to Horizon Veterinary animal hospital for the intensive care they required.

Following the diagnosis it was necessary for all HSVC personnel coming into contact with H & K to wear full Personal Protective Equipment, then sanitize and decontaminate afterwards, as if they were in the ICU treating COVID patients. Similar health safety protocol continued at the animal hospital where Harold remained for six days, and Kumar for more than two weeks, while receiving antibiotics and medication to treat the Parvovirus, as well as IVs for hydration and feeding before finally being able to take solid food.

Such medical attention is expensive, Shelia told me. All told, in fact, Harold and Kumar received more than $15,000 of care—all covered by the Humane Society of Ventura County. Located on four bucolic acres in Ojai, the non-profit organization relies on donors (go to HSVC.org to give) in order to live up to its mission of ensuring the welfare of local animals.

It is no small mission. The HSVC offers on-site shelter and adoption, low-cost spaying and neutering, vaccines, ID chips, emergency services that include animal rescue teams and disaster preparedness, even a free pet food pantry. Mobile vaccination clinics and pet food pantries are also offered. Furthermore, staff provides humane education through classroom visits during the school year and at youth camps in the summer.

Sheila wanted me to write about all this, and more, that the HSVC does. And then, with a final tug so hard as to snap a rock climber’s rope, much less a heartstring, she told me that because of the high cost and amount of woman- and manpower required, at many shelters Harold and Kumar might have been euthanized.

Thanks to the HSVC, however, “Harold & Kumar Go To The Shelter” has a happy ending. Indeed, both puppies now have a new lease—rather, leash—on lifewith adoption and new forever—rather, pardon a second pun, fur-ever—homes in their futures.

I was personally blessed long ago to have had two rescue doggies—Mac and Sammy—who were every bit as adorable and loving as Harold and Kumar. All the same, I regretfully had to tell Sheila I couldn’t help her.

After all, considering that the menagerie HSVC cares for includes horses, I simply cannot run the risk of my column turning into a dog and pony show.

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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 Most Beautiful Last Wish

by Woody

“Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads,” Henry David Thoreau wrote in his masterstroke book, “Walden: Or, Life in the Woods.”

I am not sure if Boris Romanowsky, father of one of my daughter’s dearest childhood friends and thus became my friend as well, ever read “Walden” and yet I imagine he owned a well-loved dog-eared volume. Certainly he shared a kindred zest for nature with Thoreau, as evidenced by Boris’ recent obituary that concluded with the most beautiful last wish of his:

“In lieu of flowers, please spend an afternoon in nature on an ‘easy hike’ and help a friend in need.”

Beautiful Harmon Canyon Preserve … photo by Visit Ventura

So it was that I honored a big man with a bigger heart, who died at age 65 after a lengthy and brave battle with cancer, by going for long walk. Instead of retreating into the woods for a year, as H.D.T. famously did, to see if he “could not learn what it had to teach,” I ventured into the Harmon Canyon Preserve for a couple hours of Outdoor Ed.

The first thing Harmon Canyon had to teach me is it is a gem right here in our backyard, as ruggedly beautiful as Walden’s acres are serenely so. Looking up heavenward from my dusty shoes, the sky on this day was blue jay-blue and dotted with the kind of clouds kindergarteners see as a menagerie of fluffy animals.

No imagination was required to see a hawk in the sky, soaring and circling high overhead, floating with wide wings motionless on an updraft that also carried a faint fragrance worthy of being bottled as perfume.

The gorgeous day deserved to be painted and framed, so perhaps I should not have been surprised to encounter a grey-bearded gentleman who had lugged his oil paints, brushes, small canvases, and portable wooden easel more than a mile up into the hinterland for a plein-air session.

“Are you just getting started?” I asked curiously, and also hopefully, for maybe I could view his work in progress on my return down the path later. Alas, he had been here much of the morning and into the early afternoon and was packing up.

“Would you mind showing me what you painted?” I followed up.

He did not mind at all and retrieved a canvas, about the size of a hardcover book, sandwiched between wooden panels like two protective slices of wheat bread. He removed the rubber bands holding the sandwich together, then displayed a truly fine landscape featuring a grouping of oaks behind and above a dry rock bed stream; the afore-mentioned postcard sky; and three ant-sized hikers in the distance.

“I’m still learning and just try to get a little better each time,” he said with a modesty that underrated his considerable talent. The wisdom in his attitude was as beautiful as his brushstrokes, for shouldn’t we all try to get a little better at something each day?

“There is something in the mountain air,” Thoreau also wrote, “that feeds the spirit and inspires.” Resuming my walk, I was inspired to look around with the imitative eye of an artist and thereafter saw oak trees blackened by the Thomas Fire, testament to the strength revealed in our scars; saw the friendly smiles of fellow hikers, testament that nature’s outward beauty brings out our inner beauty; saw flitting butterflies resembling petals in the wind.

The latter, especially, fed my spirit – testament that in lieu of giving funeral flowers I was receiving the gift of seeing wildflowers thanks to the last wish of a very kind friend.

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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.

Part 2: Easy Listening In Former Speakeasy

by Woody

The worst seat in the house inside “Bill’s Place,” a former Prohibition era speakeasy in Harlem that once again features live jazz, would be better than the best seat in most any other venue.

My son and I, you see, sat in the back row – which was also the front row. As mentioned here last week, the off-the-beaten-path step-down brownstone apartment-turned-revived-nightclub is so shotgun-narrow that a single row of 11 mismatched wooden chairs and stools are backed up against the wall opposite the three-inch-high stage. So close are the seats that when I straightened my legs my feet literally rested onstage.

Standing room allowed another dozen patrons to enjoy the intimate performance by Bill Saxton & The Harlem All-Stars. Saxton is fittingly named for he plays the sax. Moreover, he has done so over the past five decades with the likes of such luminaries as The Duke Ellington Orchestra and The Count Basie Orchestra.

Bill Saxton doing his magic…

“Welcome to Bill’s Place,” said Saxton, the venue’s owner and namesake, and then our memorable evening was underway. Between songs, he regaled the assemblage with tales of nights long foregone, including about legendary songstress Billie Holiday who was discovered right here at age 17 in 1933.

Not even halfway into the 90-minute set, my cane chair had become tortuously uncomfortable, but that and 20 dollars – cash only; no secret password was required, however – was the price of admission. Both costs were bargains for the jam session was so steamy it threatened to peel off the wallpaper.

The intimacy of the room surely made the music sound better, but an equal pleasure was to watch the musicians at such rare proximity and behold Saxton, beads of sweat visible on his forehead just below the brim of his porkpie hat, rhythmically tapping his left foot as he played, his fingers masterfully commanding the keys and pearl buttons of his saxophone, a ring on his right pinkie twinkling like starlight.

To audit even closer and see his fingers flex and release, quick, slow, liquidly; see his cheeks change shapes and color; see his eyes not just close at times, but squeeze tightly shut, lost in the music, was spellbinding.

Similarly, thanks to the upright piano being pressed up against the wall, stage left, the pianist played with his back to the audience thus affording listeners the opportunity to watch his fingers deftly dance and slide and tickle the ivories. Meanwhile, far right on the stage, the blurred, rhythmic hands of the drummer were equally arresting to focus in on.

But most mesmerizing of all, to my eyes, was watching the upright bass player’s fingers strum and pluck the strings; strings that from merely five feet away seemed as thick as bungee cords – or chords, should I say?

What strength in those fingers! What grace, too, as they nimbly moved up and down the neck massaging the fingerboard. His hands, the knuckles enlarged from a billion lifetime notes, are surely as strong as a bricklayer’s yet his calloused fingertips somehow maintain the sensitive touch of a master safecracker’s.

“Easy reading is (darn) hard writing,” Nathaniel Hawthorne said, and music is no different. Hunched over his instrument, the (darn) hard effort of the bassist’s work showed in growing perspiration stains, but the result was easy listening.

“Find a hidden doorway and go inside,” a wise friend often reminds me before I travel. “That’s where you’ll find the truly magical experiences.” He was right once again, for to borrow from a Billie Holiday song, finding the out-of-the-way doorway of Bill’s Place was like finding “Pennies From Heaven.”

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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.