Author Archives: Woody

Column: Let It Rain

by Woody

Raindrops, Please Keep Fallin’ on Our Heads

Burt Bacharach composed all the right notes, but I think he got the lyrics wrong in his Oscar-winning Best Original Song “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” from the 1969 film “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”

1-rainHe begins: “Raindrops keep falling on my head / And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed / Nothin’ seems to fit / Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling.”

Lamenting rain? Not in California where we need to consider swapping the grizzly bear on our state flag for a Sahara camel. The rain clouds earlier this week fit just fine, thank you.

More Bacharach: “So I just did me some talkin’ to the sun / And I said I didn’t like the way he got things done / Sleepin’ on the job / Those raindrops are falling on my, head they keep falling.”

Sleeping on the job? Our Southern California sun is more overworked than a UPS driver in December. If it weren’t for homeowners living in the dangerous shadows of burned foothill areas, I’d say let our sun sleep on the job like Rip Van Winkle.

The recent rains were a welcomed sight – and sound. There is nothing like falling to sleep with raindrops dancing on the roof. Mozart never sounded sweeter, if you ask me.

As for sights, watching children walking to school in bright raincoats and ponchos or carrying Disney-character umbrellas is the stuff of Norman Rockwell even in 2014. Better yet is to see school kids jumping in puddles and even though you can’t hear their laughter over the noise of your car’s wiper blades you can vicariously feel their joy.

Equally blissful is to be a grown-up acting like a child, stomping in puddles while out on a workout run. I know because I did just that while listening to raindrops falling on my head as a soundtrack instead of the usual playlist on my iPod. Afterwards, I peeled off about 20 pounds of soaked clothes and shoes in the laundry room, all the while feeling like I was 7-years-old again and coming inside from a wet and wonderful day sledding in Ohio.

After a couple of these sloppy runs it was a letdown to have the sun quit sleepin’ on the job.

Bacharach continued: “But there’s one thing I know / The blues he sends to meet me won’t defeat me / It won’t be long ’till happiness steps up to greet me / Raindrops keep falling on my head.”

Here’s one thing I know – rain doesn’t give me the blues. Heck, I even saw a man whose backyard resembled Pompeii after Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 AD, interviewed on the TV news the other night saying that we need the rain and the mudslide won’t defeat him.

The scattered property damages, injuries and traffic problems aside, rain greets us with happiness. The happiness of a couple walking hand-in-hand on the beach promenade; anglers fishing off the pier; surfers doing rain dances on their boards.

Bacharach’s closing verse: “But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turnin’ red / Crying’s not for me / ’Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complainin’ / Because I’m free / Nothing’s worrying me.”

Rain makes me feel like rejoicing, not crying. And I’m far from alone because in the past couple years I can’t remember any Californians complainin’ about rain. To the contrary, conversations and Facebook posts and Twitter tweets celebrate precipitation.

The drought is what worries us. Raindrops make us feel free. We embrace our fresh-scrubbed world because we know the sun will start gettin’ things done soon enough. It’s the storm clouds we need to do some talkin’ to.

When the raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, I feel like singin’. I think Gene Kelly’s character in the 1952 Hollywood musical “Singin’ in the Rain” got it right: “I’m singing in the rain / Just singing in the rain / What a glorious feelin’ / I’m happy again.”

Glorious, indeed. As Eric Clapton sings, “Let It Rain.” Again, soon.

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

Check 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”

 

Column: Holiday Ball Drive

by Woody

 ‘Holiday Ball Drive’ is kids’ stuff

Editorials are generally as disposable as the newsprint on which they are printed, and yet one that appeared in The New York Sun in 1897 might as well have been carved in granite because it remains relevant and favored well over a century later.

BallDriveHeadlined “Is There a Santa Claus” it began with a letter from young Virginia O’Hanlon:

“Dear Editor –

“I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?”

The Sun’s reply included the now famous line, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus,” and continued: “He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence.”

Indeed, how dreary would the world be with no Virginias – and, alas! no Briannas, Sarahs, Mitches and Myas.

In the spirit of love and generosity, “Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive” officially kicks off its annual efforts today to bring a small measure of joy into the lives of disadvantaged children.

The seed for this endeavor was planted about 20 years ago at a youth basketball clinic when former Ventura College and NBA star Cedric Ceballos awarded autographed basketballs to handful of lucky attendees.

Leaving the gym afterward, I happened upon a 10-year-old boy who had won one of the prized keepsakes – which he was dribbling on the rough blacktop outdoor court and shooting baskets with while perhaps imagining he was Ceballos.

Meanwhile, the real Ceballos’ Sharpie signature was wearing off.

Curious why he hadn’t carefully taken the trophy basketball home to put safely on a bookshelf, I interrupted his playing to ask.

“I’ve never had my own basketball,” the boy answered matter-of-factly between shots.

1ballsAt Christmastime, visions of that boy – and other boys and girls like him, who don’t have their own basketball to shoot or soccer ball to kick or football to throw – danced through my head. So I asked you dear readers to help make the holidays happier by dropping off a new sports ball (no batteries required) at a local Boys & Girls Club, YMCA, youth recreation center, fire department, Special Olympics chapter or house of worship. The organization’s leaders will see that the gifts wind up in deserving young hands.

Over the years you have responded like MVPs – Most Valuable Philanthropists – and I am once again asking you to deck the halls with sports balls. If you participate, please email me at woodywriter@gmail.com so I can add your generosity to this year’s tally.

It is not only kids who receive the gift balls, some of the most inspiring donors have been kids, too.

Kids like 10-year-old Sarah and 8-year-old Mitch who emptied their “Jar” of chore money to buy a soccer ball and football to donate.

Kids like 12-year-old Mya who used babysitting money to buy seven soccer balls.

Kids have used their birthday money to buy gift balls and one boy asked his grandparents for a new football – and could he please have it a week early so as to have time to donate it to someone who otherwise wouldn’t get a Christmas present?

Kids like 9-year-old Brianna, who wrote me: “I saw your wish list in the newspaper and I wanted to help. I know how important it is to help others. So this year I saved money by collecting recyclables. So I was able to give: 5 basketballs, 2 footballs, 2 soccer balls, 1 volleyball, 1 bag of baseballs, 1 bag of softballs. I hope this helps.”

What The Sun declared more than a century ago it says here today in The Star: Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and kids like Brianna, Sarah, Mitch, Mya and other amazing kids like them exist.

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

Check 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”

Column: Remarkable Rosetta Feat

by Woody

If We Can Land a Probe on a Comet . . .

Once upon a time, when a machine failed or a product disappointed, the common refrain was: “Geez, if we can land a man on the moon why can’t we . . .”

Well, times have changed. The spacecraft Rosetta, which NASA and the European Space Agency launched a decade ago, successfully rendezvoused with a comet last week.

Rosetta's probe Philae landed on a comet 300 million miles from Earth.

Rosetta’s probe Philae landed on a comet 300 million miles from Earth.

Specifically, Rosetta circled our galaxy a few times with two flybys around Earth and one slingshot pass around Mars in order to use their gravitation pull to gain speed before taking off in chase of a frozen lump of ice and interplanetary dust measuring a mere 2.5-miles in length – which is almost shorter than its official name: 67/PChuryumov-Gerasimenko.

Moreover, 67/PC-G is 300 million miles away from Earth and hurtling through space at a speed of 34,000 miles per hour! By comparison, the average bullet goes a pedestrian 1,700 mph.

After its 10-year journey that covered a total of 3.97 billion-with-a-B miles, Rosetta dropped a probe named Philae aimed at the comet. Philae bounced twice before coming to rest on the target. It was a more challenging feat than teeing off a golf ball at Pebble Beach and making a hole-in-one on the moon.

In addition to sending back photos and scientific data, the mission has also accomplished something else: the phrase, “If we can land a man on the moon . . .” is now as quaint as a rotary phone.

Henceforth, when a product falls short of expectations or a machine falters badly, our complaint should begin: “Geez, if we can land a spacecraft on a comet speeding 20 times faster than a bullet some 300 million miles away, why can’t we . . .”

. . . train ourselves to take reusable bags to stores instead of wasting so much energy fighting over whether plastic bags are a constitutional right or a terrorist plot?

. . . find a cure for the common cold?

. . . create a vaccine, and quickly, for Ebola?

. . . invent a TV remote that my much-better-half cannot accidentally, and routinely, disarm the satellite dish receiver with?

. . . design a microwave oven that isn’t so befuddling to me that I wind up defrosting popcorn and popping frozen bagels?

. . . make newsprint that prevents the ink from coming off on the reader’s hands?

. . . build a home smoke alarm in which replacing the battery isn’t more difficult than solving Rubik’s Cube while balancing on a wobbly ladder?

. . . eradicate spam email and physical junk mail off the face of the Earth?

. . . eradicate concussions and permanent brain injuries from football?

. . . invent a Star Trek-like force shield for automobiles that repulses shopping carts and other car’s opening doors?

. . . re-invent airliner coach seating with knee room for anyone taller than a kindergartener?

. . . invent a method for deboarding a jetliner, after it reaches the arrival gate, with minimal chaos in less time than the flight itself takes?

. . . create a vaccine for rudeness?

. . . discover technology for plastic surgery that doesn’t scream on the patient’s face afterwards: I HAD WORK DONE!

. . . invent turn signals that automatically shut off after a driver has changed lanes and left it blinking for a full mile?

. . . put a woman (democrat or republican) in the Oval Office?

. . . design a pill that dogs like to take instead of having to be wrestled with like alligators until they finally choke the medicine down?

. . . design an easy-to-take pill that makes all breeds of dogs and cats stop shedding all over the furniture, floors and clothes?

. . . decide one way or the other on Daylight Saving Time year-round or not at all and quit this Spring Forward, Fall Back nonsense?

. . . build a transcontinental pipeline to move snow (melted) from the north east to Southern California?

. . . develop a way to pre-empt large earthquakes by dividing them up into orchestrated small shakes?

. . . create a vaccine for procrastination? (Scientists probably plan to work on that later.)

And lastly, “Geez, if we can land a spacecraft on a comet speeding 20 times faster than a bullet 300 million miles away, why can’t we . . . put a man back on the moon – or at least launch American astronauts into space on our own NASA rockets?

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

Check 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”

Column: Tomb of Unknown Soldier

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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Honoring Unknowns Not Enough

When it comes to the greatest streaks ever, Joe DiMaggio’s 56 consecutive games with a hit in 1941 and Cal Ripken’s “Ironman” run of playing in 2,632 consecutive games come quickly to mind.

For team efforts, the Los Angeles Lakers winning 33 consecutive games during the 1971-72 season and the UCLA Bruins’ 88 victories in row from 1971-1974 stand out.

1-tombBut a far more amazing streak has taken place outside the sports arena. It is a streak that truly matters. A streak of 77 consecutive years. And counting.

Beginning at midnight July 2, 1937, The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery has been guarded continuously, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year – 366 days during Leap Years – by Sentinels of the elite Third United States Infantry Regiment “Old Guard.”

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night has stayed them from their appointed duty. When destructive Hurricane Isabel struck in 2003 orders were actually sent to the Sentinels to seek shelter for personal safety, but they disobeyed the command and the streak remained unbroken.

The original Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is a white marble sarcophagus unveiled on Nov. 11, 1921 with the remains of a World War I hero. Because three flat white marble graves with the interments of unknown soldiers from World War II, Korea and Vietnam have since been added, it is often now called the Tomb of the Unknowns.

Inscribed on the raised tomb are the words: “Here Rests In Honored Glory An American Soldier Known But To God.” After DNA testing in 1998 identified the “Vietnam Unknown,” its crypt was changed to “Honoring And Keeping Faith With America’s Missing Servicemen.”

Watching the ritual in person is haunting and heartwarming, both. The on-duty Sentinel marches, almost in slow-motion, 21 steps south in front of the Tomb; crisply turns and faces east towards the Tomb for 21 seconds; turns again to face north and executes a sharp “shoulder-arms” movement switching his or her rifle to the outside shoulder away from the tomb; waits another 21 seconds before marching 21 steps back as the process begins anew in the other direction.

The 21 steps and 21-second pauses symbolize the 21-gun salute, which is the highest of military honors.

Every 30 minutes during summer, and every hour in winter, an elaborate  “Changing of the Guard” ceremony takes place. Visitors are asked to stand and remain silent. In truth, at all times there seems to be a hush of reverence by those in attendance.

The pomp and circumstance continues even at nighttime when the cemetery is closed to visitors because in truth it is not performed for show for the spectators, it is all done as a show of honor for all unaccounted American combat soldiers.

The Tomb of the Unknowns came to my mind this Veteran’s Day as flags flew across Ventura County and the nation. The Sentinels’ nonstop dedication to their sacred mission made me wish we would all show our respect and gratitude to veterans 365 days a year instead of largely only on a handful of days including Veterans Day and Memorial Day and anniversaries such as Dec. 7 and Sept. 11.

Furthermore, it seems an added tragedy that we give more attention to deceased warriors at the Tomb of the Unknowns than we give our living soldiers who come home from battle only to often face a new battle trying to get healthcare through the Veterans Affairs Department.

Granted, restructuring is underway under new VA Secretary Robert McDonald, but this is expected to take a year at the least. With an estimated 22 veterans committing suicide daily we should be attacking this problem with the urgency – and funding – as though it were a terrorist attack on American soil.

John Steinbeck writes in “East of Eden”: “I’ll have you know that a soldier is the most holy of all humans because he is the most tested – most tested of all.”

That test should end when his or her active duty ends. It’s time to start a streak of better honoring and keeping the faith with our known soldiers.

*   *   *

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”

Column: Irish laughs and wisdom

by Woody

By Popular Request, Irish Leftovers

A number of readers kindly said they enjoyed my recent four-column series on my Ireland travels and asked if I might have more stories to share.

In response, here are some Irish sayings I saw in various pubs and on headstones, all bookended between two tales told to me by cabbies.

*

1guinnessAn Irishman pops into a Dublin pub one evening and orders three pints of Guinness. When the bartender brings them the Irishman carefully lines them up and proceeds to take a sip from each glass, one after another, over and over, until all three are empty.

He orders three more pints, prompting the bartender to ask: “Suit ye’self, but mightn’t you rather I bring ’em one at a time so they’re cold and fresh?”

“No, no,” the Irishman replies. “I’m preferrin’ ye bring ’em three at a time. Ye see, me and me two brothers used to meet up and have a good time drinking together. But now one’s in Canada and the other’s in America so we drink in each other’s honor this way once a week.”

“That’s a brilliant tradition,” says the bartender, bringing three more pints on the house.

Months pass and the Irishman becomes well known in the pub for his honorary quirk. One day, however, he orders only two pints.

A somber hush falls over the pub. Setting two beers before the man, the bartender offers his sincere condolences.

For a moment the Irishman is confused but then realizes the mistake and laughs: “No, no, one of me brothers ain’t dead. It’s just that my missus has made ME give up drinking.”

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“May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.”

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“No man ever wore a scarf as warm as his daughter’s arm around his neck.”

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1irishsaying“May the road rise to meet you.

“May the wind be always at your back.

“May the sun shine warm upon your face.

“And rains fall soft upon your fields.

“And until we meet again,

“May God hold you in the hollow of His hand.”

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“Always remember to forget, the troubles that passed away.

“But never forget to remember, the blessings that come each day.”

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“May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night, and a smooth road all the way to your door.”

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“There are good ships, and there are wood ships, the ships that sail the sea.

“But the best ships, are friendships, and may they always be.”

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“May misfortune follow you the rest of your life, and never catch up.”

*

1glassguinnessAn Irish farmer walks three miles into town on a Friday night after a long week in the fields and orders a pint of Guinness. The pub is unusually quiet so he decides to liven things up, announcing to all: “I bet 100 pounds that no one here can drink 15 pints in 15 minutes.”

A man in the far corner seems angered by the broken silence and abruptly leaves. No one steps forward to accept the challenge.

About 20 minutes later the insulted man returns, strides up to the bar and slaps down a 100-pound bill: “I’m in!”

“Fifteen Guinness and line ’em up!” orders the farmer, excitedly. When the glasses are ready he takes out his pocket watch and the contest begins.

The farmer calls out each passing minute and like clockwork the challenger downs a pint every 60 seconds. After 10 minutes he has finished 10 pints, but his pace is slowing.

With the call of “Fourteen minutes!” there remain two full pints.

Just as the bet seems lost, however, the challenger theatrically raises a glass in each hand and triumphantly chugs them one after the other with 15 seconds to spare.

“Congratulations!” says the farmer, handing over 100 pounds. “But I do have one question – where did you storm off to before you came back.”

Came the answer: “One hundred pounds is a lot of money, ye know, so I went to the pub across the street to make sure I could do it.”

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

Check 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”

Column: Three Deadly Syllables

by Woody

Updated Henny Penny Warning

Instead of racing around warning everyone “The sky is falling! The sky is falling!” in a 2014 revision of the tale “Chicken Little,” Penny Henny would be shouting, “Ebola! Ebola!”

To be sure, E-bol-a is a frightening collection of three syllables. However, the sky-is-falling panic in the United States seems a little Chicken Little-ish.

1drinkIn reaction to four cases and one death in America (two of the infections originated here, one in Liberia, one in Guinea) we are moving heaven and earth – and moving healthcare workers/heroes with no symptoms into forced quarantine.

So can you imagine the hysteria if the Ebola outbreak in the U.S. numbered 1,553 reported cases and 926 deaths as in Guinea this year through October 23?

What if Ebola were as epidemic here as in Sierra Leone with 3,896 cases and 1,281 deaths or Liberia’s ground zero with 4,665 cases and 2,705 deaths?

Combined, these three West African hot zones total 4,912 deaths in 2014. That is no small and tragic number, but if Ebola claimed more than twice that many American lives we would unleash unlimited resources in an all-out sortie.

And yet year after year we allow an even deadlier three-syllable collection – drunk driv-ing – to wreck havoc by claiming more than 10,000 lives annually with far too little outcry and fight.

According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration’s latest figures, 10,322 people died in drunk-driving related traffic crashes in 2012 in the United States accounting for 31 percent of all traffic deaths.

Additionally, someone is injured in a drunk-driving crash every two minutes – in less time than it will take you to read this column.

Someone like Anthony Pedeferri, a California Highway Patrol officer from Camarillo who at age 36 was paralyzed from the chest down a few years ago when a drunk driver struck another car that in turn slammed into Pedeferri during a freeway traffic stop.

And every 51 minutes, or in about the time you spend reading today’s newspaper, a life is extinguished by a drunk driver.

A life like Eugene Kostiuchenko, a 41-year-old husband and father and Ventura County sheriff’s deputy from Camarillo who was struck and killed early Tuesday morning by a suspected drunken driver after Kostiuchenko had finished a traffic stop on Highway 101.

A life like Chris Prewitt, a 38-year-old husband and father and local standout educator who while on a training run for a marathon this past April was fatally hit by a DUI driver on Victoria Avenue.

A life like Nick Haverland, a 20-year-old Ventura College student who was killed while riding his bike on a city street when he was struck by a drunk driver with a reported blood alcohol level nearly five times the legal limit.

A life like Victoria Castro-Ramirez, local high school senior who was killed because her own mother got behind the wheel drunk. More tragically, her mother had two previous DUI arrests.

And on and on.

1nodrink.png AMMADDenly, according to Mothers Against Drunk Driving, repeat offenders – as appears to be the case in Kostiuchenko’s tragedy – are responsible for roughly one-third of drunk driving arrests, crashes, injuries and deaths.

If Ebola was on pace to claim 10,000 American lives in 2014, there is no end to the money and measures – from technologies to education to zero-tolerance sentencing – we would employ to eradicate it.

If drunk driving was Ebola, breath alcohol ignition locks for all drunk driving offenders would be mandatory. Heck, every car would have a breathalyzer ignition lock.

If drunk driving was Ebola, people would not be allowed to exit a bar or restaurant without passing a breathalyzer.

If drunk driving was Ebola, we would have a national Drunk Driving Czar.

Two minutes have passed and there is not another new case of Ebola in America, but statistically there is another Anthony Pedeferri.

In the next 51 minutes there will not be another Ebola death in America, but statistically Eugene Kostiuchenko, Chris Prewitt, Nick Haverland, Victoria Castro-Ramirez and a dreadful roll call of Americans will grow by one.

The sky may not be falling, but neither is drunk driving merely an acorn falling on a head.

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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”

Column: Trick-or-Treat thoughts

by Woody

Trick-or-Treat Costs Arm and Leg

 In case it has been sneaking up on you, there are only six shopping days remaining . . .

. . . until Halloween.

Somewhere over the past few decades trick-or-treat has become the warm-up act for Christmas. To give you an idea, the National Retail Federation estimates Americans will spend $350 million on Halloween costumes this year.

Murray as a DISH TV satellite dish (sort of).

Murray as a DISH TV satellite dish (sort of).

Clarification: that’s $350 million on costumes for their pets!

For humans, the projected figure is $7.4 billion for costumes, candy and decorations. Candy alone will run $2 billion – and that doesn’t include dental bills six months down the road.

As far as pets go, I will spend the same amount on my dog Murray – an adorable boxer named in honor of the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Jim Murray – that my parents used to spend on my siblings’ costumes and mine: zilch.

Back in the 1960s, kids made costumes out of boxes and paint, old clothes and sheets, this and that, all mixed with imagination. I’m not even sure you could buy a manufactured costume back then; I don’t think I ever saw a friend or classmate wearing one.

Today the most popular costumes come off store shelves – and off the silver screen. For girls, Elsa from “Frozen” reigns No. 1 according to the NRF while “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” Donatello, Rafael, Michelangelo and Leonardo collectively top the list for boys.

For adults, one of this year’s hot costumes is expected to be Ebola – not people dressed like the wormy virus but instead wearing containment suits.

Instead of sterile costumes from a box, here are some outside-the-box Halloween outfits I’d like to see come knocking on my door next Friday evening:

All the election signs throughout Ventura County dressed up as recycled trash.

Patagonia founder Yvon Chouinard dressed as Administrator of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency.

SoCal weather dressed up as rainy Seattle; our brown lawns costumed as a PGA putting green; our citizens dressed up as the Morton Salt Girl.

The iPhone6 Plus dressed up as a rotary rPhone1960.

Dodgers ace Clayton Kershaw in a postseason game dressed like Sandy Koufax.

Kobe Bryant dressed up in a Lakers playoff jersey without crutches.

The Los Angles Kings dressed up in their old purple-and-gold sweaters with a crown on the chest for the entire season.

The Scratch food truck as the Partridge Family bus.

Camarillo’s Mike and Bob Bryan, tennis’ all-time winningest “Dynamic Duo,” dressed as Batman and Robin even though they will probably have one of their trademark brotherly battles over who gets to be Batman.

Firemen, nurses, cops and teachers dressed up as Justice League heroes like Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash and Green Lantern.

An NFL team dressed up as Los Angeles’ home squad.

Roger Goodell dressed up as the former Commission of the NFL.

My Venturan friend Ken McAlpine, who has written a new thriller novel “Juncture,” dressed up as a New York Times bestselling author.

Jeff McElroy, another friend and author of the surf noir short-story collection “Californios,” same as above.

My dad as the grandpa in the comic “Pickles” and my son as Jeremy in “Zits.”

Congress dressed up with “Will Work For Food” signs.

Oscar-winning Actress Renee Zellweger dressed in a mask of how she used to look.

Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani teenager who was shot in the head by the Taliban before becoming the youngest Nobel Peace Prize winner in history, dressed as the President of the United Nations General Assembly.

Venturan Erin Prewitt, a role model an advocate for forgiveness after her husband Chris was hit and killed by a drunk driver, dressed as Malala Yousafzai.

The Kickstarter campaign at local DATA Middle School to fund painting of a “Make it a Great Day” 50-foot mural on campus that celebrates the spirit of former assistant principal Chris Prewitt, dressed up as a fully funded success. (Info: click here )

Lastly, my dog Murray as a DISH TV satellite dish by wearing the veterinary cone he needed when he had eye surgery a few months ago.

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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”

Column: At Home in Ireland

by Woody

Feeling Home in Distant Land

This is the final of four columns in a series on my recent travels to Ireland.

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In 1792, at age 14 – while claiming to be 18 in order to board a ship bound for America – James Dallas sailed out of Ireland’s Cork Harbor seeking a new life, likely never again to see his Old World loved ones.

1-corkbillboard

A billboard honoring poets in lovely downtown Cork.

Nearly two and a quarter centuries later, I marvel at my great-great-great-grandfather’s hardihood.

James Dallas is the earliest documented branch of my family tree. Visiting his homeland has long beckoned me.

My roots grow deep in the fertile soil near Ohio’s Mad River where James Dallas settled. The next four generations, beginning with my great-great-grandfather John Woodburn (who married James Dallas’ daughter), remained nearby until my dad moved our family to Ventura four decades ago.

Heritage is dear to me: my son’s middle name is Ansel, in honor of his great-grandfather; my daughter’s first name is Dallas. Thus, my summer fortnight in Ireland, and especially five days spent in ancestral County Cork, promised to be a trip for the ages.

Flying 12 hours to London and two more to Dublin, before taking a three-hour train ride to Cork seemed an arduous journey. Yet I could not help think how embarrassingly easy this was compared to weeks at sea in an 18th century ship.

In a movie, I would have arrived in Cork and taken a taxi to a farmhouse, knocked on the front door and been greeted with open arms by a distant blood relative. Real life, of course, is rarely so Hollywood.

For starters, where would I possibly knock?

When asked about the surname “Dallas,” tour guides, locals and even a historian in the Cork City Central Library did not recognize it as Irish. It was suggested the Gaelic name “Dalgash” might have been anglicized upon arrival to the New World.

On a nine-hour bus tour of bucolic southern Cork, our guide/professor Dan O’Brien spent an hour expounding on dairy farming. It was an invaluable lecture.

Dairy cows dot the County Cork landscape -- and milk cans are common as well.

Dairy cows dot the County Cork landscape — and milk cans are common as well.

1-milkcan

Importantly, I learned that dairy farming was “the jewel of the crown” in Cork in the 1700s and 1800s. In fact, Port of Cork was the world’s leading exporter of butter. So it makes perfect sense James Dallas was a dairy farmer.

Making sense of why he left Ireland may be answered by the question in this lyric from an old Irish folk song: “Was it poverty or the call of adventure?”

Likely, both. Three decades of economic difficulty preceded James Dallas’ emigration. Add to this a system of powerful landlords and hardscrabble tenant farmers, and perhaps as much as fleeing hardship James Dallas was running to adventure in America and the opportunity of land ownership.

Gazing out the tour bus window at farm after farm, cows after cows, mile after mile, I wondered if against all odds I was at one moment looking at James Dallas’ boyhood pasture. As Hemingway wrote in “The Sun Also Rises”: “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

Two more pretty thoughts: strolling through historic English Market Cork it came easy imagining James Dallas once shopping here; visiting Guinness Brewery, established in 1759, I could not help but picture my forebearer, even at age 14, drinking a pint of the legendary black stout.

An example of a very old stone fence still standing despite no mortar.

An example of a very old stone fence still standing despite no mortar.

One more prettiness: Hearing Irish accents and pronunciations, like the silent “h” in “th” – tirty, tousand, tirsty – I wondered if James Dallas carried the lilt of a leprechaun.

Prior to arriving in Ireland, James Dallas, born 182 years before I was, had seemed less a real person and more a painting faded a tousand years. But in the context of this ancient land where farmhouses are routinely a century old or more; stone fences built masterfully without mortar stand 300 years later; and castles date back half a millennium, time collapsed and I suddenly felt a closer connection.

Spiritually, I felt his presence.

The day I arrived in Cork a small sign above a house doorway caught my eye – and heart: “Welcome Home.” It brought to mind a poetic thought by Maya Angelou: “When you leave home, you take home with you.”

Traveling to Ireland, I felt this true. Returning to America, I felt it equally.

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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”

Column: Splendid Irish People

by Woody

Ireland takeaway: Splendid People

Third in a four-column series on my recent travels to Ireland to explore my distant family roots and much more.

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            In the southern Irish town of Clonakilty, a plaque below a statue of famed patriot Michael Collins bears the final entry in his diary from August 21, 1922, the day before he was assassinated: “The People Are Splendid.”

Lisa and I at the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher.

Lisa and I at the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher.

During my wife’s and my recent fortnight in Ireland those words proved emblematic. The people we met were splendid, indeed.

And, in deed, from journey’s start to finish. Wheeling our suitcases in downtown Dublin the night we arrived we got lost looking for our hotel. Struggling with a map and double-checking street signs we must have looked pitifully confused even for tourists.

Suddenly four people jaywalked over to ask if we needed help. Instead of offering directions, they walked us to the hotel. A similar kindness later happened when we arrived in Limerick.

Yes, time and again the Irish made even famously amiable Midwesterners seem grouchy by comparison.

At St. James’s Gate Guinness Brewery, Jenny, a lovely young woman whose accent was as thick as she was thin, took a full 10 minutes to ring us up in the gift shop because she was so busy conversing. Learning we were headed to County Cork, her hometown and the land of my distant family roots, she told us about a hidden gem of a café – and drew a map – where we “must” have an authentic Irish breakfast.

In Cork City, the taxi ride from the train station to our hotel proved unforgettable not just because our driver spoke even faster than he drove but because he turned down a tip. I insisted; again he refused, saying warmly: “You paid me fairly. Have a brilliant time!”

Another brilliant example of Irish kindness occurred during a tour of Old Galway City in an open-top double-deck bus. At a stop midway out, two middle-aged women stepped on thinking it was a public bus. Told it was not, they asked where they could catch one because their friend was waiting for them at the city square.

“I’ll take you,” the bus driver cheerfully responded and refused to accept any fare.

Kissing "a tall, dark blonde in a gold dress."

Kissing “a tall, dark blonde in a gold dress.”

On the drive to Bunratty Castle our cabbie, Patrick Murphy – who was as perfectly Irish as his name suggests – patiently explained the native sport hurling. He also told me, with a wink to my wife, of a favorite nearby pub where I could have “an affair with a tall, dark blonde in a gold dress” while waiting for a return taxi.

This, he noted, is how locals order a Guinness in reference to the legendary stout’s ebony color and light head served in a trademark pint glass with a gold-leaf harp logo.

Over and again, we found that even more important than the places you visit are the people you meet. And not just the locals.

Our final night, Lisa and I went to a pub for dinner and surprisingly saw a familiar face. Seated alone was a man who had been on our Cliffs of Moher bus tour several days prior. We invited him to join us.

What a memorable ending to an unforgettable trip the evening became.

A French Canadian from Quebec, Jasan was originally a forestry engineer before switching careers a few years ago at age 60 to become a suicide prevention counselor and university professor on the subject.

The seeds for this fascinating life path detour were planted decades earlier.

About 30 years ago, when a temporary home was needed for an abandoned infant from Senegal in West Africa, Jasan, who is white and has never married, opened his home. Too, he opened his heart and soon legally adopted the boy.

Five years later, Jasan adopted not one more child in need, but eight 10- and 11-year-old girl refugees from Vietnam. The fact that three of his new daughters had relatives who had committed suicide eventually led Jasan into his new career.

“It makes me happy to help others,” Jasan, now a grandfather more than a dozen times over, shared.

Michael Collins was right: People are splendid.

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

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Column: The Path Less Traveled

by Woody

Taking The Path Less Traveled

This is the second in a four-column series on my recent travels to Ireland to explore my distant family roots and much more.

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CollinsStatue

Statue of Irish patriot Michael Collins

A dear friend of mine, a travel writer who has visited the four corners of the globe, always offers this reminder before I embark on a trip:

“Be sure to turn down a hidden alleyway or go inside a quiet doorway off the beaten path because that’s where you’ll find some of the most memorable experiences.”

During my recent fortnight in Ireland I again heeded Ken McAlpine’s wisdom. Hence, in addition to seeing the breathtaking Cliffs of Moher, historic Kilmainham Gaol prison and, of course, the famous Guinness Brewery, I also enjoyed some not-in-a-tour-guide-book experiences.

For example, during a scenic tour of County Cork our bus stopped at Emmet Square where we were greeted by a seven-foot statue of Clonakilty’s favorite son, Michael Collins. After learning about the founding father of the national self-determination movement who was assassinated in 1922, my wife and I went off to explore the town.

Artwork by Kevin Holland

Artwork by Kevin Holland

In an alleyway off the main street I came upon a small music shop. Inside at the back was a half-hidden stairway. I went up to explore. Instead of more handsome acoustic guitars and beautiful African drums, I found myself face to face with a mesmerizing oversized mask sculpture resembling Abraham Lincoln.

A second face was below Abe’s copper countenance – storeowner Mark Holland looked up from his bookkeeping and shared: “I love it, too. Every time I look at it I see it differently and draw a new feeling from it.”

Over the next half hour, while my wife wondered where I had wandered off, I learned that the artist who created the mask – it was anonymous, by the way, not of Lincoln – was Mark’s brother, Kevin.

For good reason the mask carried a price tag of 2,500 Euro (about $3,200 – proving, once again, if you have to ask you can’t afford it) because Kevin is somewhat famous. His numerous public commissioned pieces throughout Ireland include none other than the statue of Michael Collins in Emmet Square.

Irish artisan working at is craft

Irish artisan working at is craft. . .

... and the final piece.

… and the final piece.

A serendipitous secret I collected upstairs off the beaten path: Collin’s shoes were cast from a pair belonging to Mark’s and Kevin’s father.

As my own shoes carried me down a road less taken in Galway Eire, I happened upon a much lesser known artist – an artisan who works with rock instead of metal. A master stoneworker by trade, Michael Daif turns discarded shale shingles into engraved elegance.

For one-hundredth the price of Kevin Holland’s copper mask, I brought home a lovely image of a Gaelic harp, Ireland’s national symbol. Daif skillfully added his name and a personalized inscription on the back.

A different signature, this one in blue ink, came about when my wife and I walked past a small independent bookstore in Dublin one evening, heard laughter, turned around, went inside and followed the voices upstairs.

And so it was we met Irish author Caroline Finnerty, whose book launch party was wrapping up. After a pleasant conversation, she signed a copy of her new novel “Into the Night Sky” as a gift for our daughter.

Frank McCourt & Me

Frank McCourt & Me

Under a sunny afternoon sky in Limerick, a bronze bust caught my eye through a closed wrought iron gate on narrow Hartstong Street in the Georgian Quarter.

On closer inspection, the base below the familiar face read “Frank McCourt 1930-2009” with a feather quill below.

By chance, and by taking a new walking route, we had stumbled upon the Frank McCourt Museum – formerly Leamy School, where young Frank attended and lived in the 1930’s – honoring the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of “Angela’s Ashes.”

Galway Greyhound Stadium was museum-like quiet and seemingly closed the evening we strolled past. Hoping to sneak a peak through a side gate we found it ajar.

Slipping inside rewarded us with the sight of a lone trainer working out a handful of greyhounds.

Witnessing these magnificent animals bounding 40 mph as if on winged paws around the quarter-mile oval in an empty stadium, at brilliant sunset, was art and poetry and another most memorable experience.

Thanks, Ken.

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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”