George Washington At My Keyboard

February 22, 2020February 22, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

George Washington

Fills In At My Keyboard

Dear readers and fellow countrymen, I cannot tell a lie, most especially on George Washington’s February 22 birth date: I wanted to take the day off from the keyboard.

Hence, our nation’s first president is ghostwriting my column with his own famous words.

While Washington was no Ben Franklin, or “Poor Richard” for that matter, when it comes to witticisms, “The Father of His Country” was nonetheless the father of countless quotes of wisdom and inspiration. To be sure, his words penned by quill lose no value when retyped on a computer keyboard.

To begin, this maxim comes from the very end of Washington’s “110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation” which he wrote down at age 16: “Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.”

“Leave nothing for tomorrow which can be done today.”

“Happiness depends more upon the internal frame of a person’s own mind, than on the externals in the world.”

“Worry is the interest paid by those who borrow trouble.”

“Associate yourself with men of good quality, if you esteem your own reputation; for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.”

“A sensible woman can never be happy with a fool.”

“True friendship is a plant of slow growth, and must undergo and withstand the shocks of adversity before it is entitled to appellation. ”

“A slender acquaintance with the world must convince every man that actions, not words, are the true criterion of the attachment of friends.”

“Undertake not what you cannot Perform but be Careful to keep your Promise.”

“It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one” and, similarly: “99% of failures come from people who make excuses.”

“Decision making, like coffee, needs a cooling process.”

“We should not look back unless it is to derive useful lessons from past errors, and for the purpose of profiting by dearly bought experience. ”

“Put not another bit into your mouth till the former be swallowed. Let not your morsels be too big for the jowls.”

“Perseverance and spirit have done wonders in all ages.”

“Speak not evil of the absent, for it is unjust.”

“Let your heart feel for the afflictions and distress of everyone, and let your hand give in proportion to your purse.”

“The turning points of lives are not the great moments. The real crises are often concealed in occurrences so trivial in appearance that they pass unobserved.”

“The harder the conflict, the greater the triumph.”

“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and the strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these.”

“Be courteous to all.”

“To encourage literature and the arts is a duty which every good citizen owes to his country.”

“I conceive a knowledge of books is the basis upon which other knowledge is to be built.”

Finally, let me close with this maxim I found not in a book, but searching online: “ ‘The Internet is full of many false and unverified quotes.’ – George Washington.”

* * *

Woody Woodburn writes a weekly column for The Ventura County Star and can be contacted at WoodyWriter@gmail.com. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram at @woodywoodburn. His books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

It’s Girl Scouts Cookie Time!

February 15, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Unwelcomed Solicitors,

and Two Welcomed Ones

If you are like me, you have too many salespeople knocking on your front door.

Solar panels, cable TV and satellite services, house painting and more are all pitched. “We can save you money,” they say.

And: “We just installed (fill-in-the-product) for your neighbors and knew we’d be doing you a favor by interrupting your dinner to let you know!”

I try to be polite with my “No, thanks” although the other day I fell short.

The incident occurred shortly after we had a drought-resistant landscape completed in our front “yard.” Featuring a cornucopia of cactuses, succulents, flowers, a new tree, and a dry riverbed of rock, I half-expect a photographer for “Sunset” magazine to ring our doorbell.

Instead, it was a solicitor asking if I wanted him to mow our lawn.

“You just walked past that desert landscaping – do you see any grass?” I asked, sarcasm dripping at a far heavier flow than the new underground irrigation system.

On rare occasions, however, I do welcome a salesperson at my door. Specifically, this time of year when it’s a Girl Scout hawking cookies.

While I’m still waiting for this year’s annual Samoas and Tagalongs sales calls, let me share a memorable visit from a year past. Two or three Girl Scouts, each more adorable than the previous, had already capitalized on my sweet tooth. After nineteen years in the same house, I think the young green-vested army knows I’m a pushover.

Early one evening yet another Thin Mints-selling soldier came knocking. Surprisingly, however, it was a boy selling Girl Scout Cookies.

As if reading my mind, he told me he wasn’t a Girl Scout but his sister was. He was helping her because this was the last day of sales and she hadn’t reached her goal.

“She fell off her skateboard and hurt her hands,” the boy explained.

Perhaps it was a con and I was being played for a sucker, but I nevertheless excused myself to retrieve my wallet. When I returned, the brother had been joined by his sister.

Not only was the skateboard injury real, it was fresh. “It happened today,” she told me, holding out both hands, palms up. Each was badly skinned and looked painful.

I learned that she was 12 and her brother 9. Even better, I learned they were “best friends” according to him and she nodded in agreement.

I glanced over their shoulders at their mother waiting watchfully in the car and called out: “You must be very proud of these two.”

She smiled so widely it was like she shouted, “Yes, of course I am! Thank you!”

I asked the sister and her tagalong – actually, I suppose it was the other way around in this instance – how much the cookies cost, forgetting from my earlier orders that they are $5 each.

I requested two boxes, but after pulling out a $20 bill thought the better of it and said: “Make it four boxes.”

Simultaneously they nearly sang: “Four boxes, really?”

I wish you could have seen the joy on their shining faces. If you had, you would understand why I had third thoughts and added a fifth box of Shortbread to the previous four Samoas.

The bookend smiles widened until they almost touched.

“You know what?” I said, riding their happiness like a surfer on a perfect wave. “Let’s double my order.”

I don’t remember how long it took to finish those 10 boxes of cookies, but I won’t forget that brother and sister. I sure hope they both come knocking on my door again this Girl Scout Cookie season.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Beauty of Sunsets and Perspective

February 8, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

The Beauty of Sunsets

and Perspective

High on my Must-See List is to visit Yosemite National Park during mid-February to witness the “Firefall” display when the water falling over Horsetail Fall seems to magically turn into molten iron ore being poured from a foundry kettle.

This natural spectacle, which lasts about a week of evenings, only occurs when the setting sun’s rays strike the falls at a rare and perfect angle.

While I have not yet seen this trick of light in person, in a way I feel have. After all, I have witnessed countless magical sunsets on our Gold Coast that seem painted by Monet using a palette of flames; mixed oils of reds, golds and oranges.

One such sunset occurred recently and, as usual, social media was ablaze with postings of gorgeous photos snapped by locals. In the comments section, my reply was always the same: “Ho-hum, another Ventura sunset.”

If you live here you will understand my sarcasm. As if one would shrug their shoulders unimpressed while gazing at the Mona Lisa. Indeed, our sunsets are masterpieces of nature. They are like Giant Redwoods – no matter how many such majestic trees you see in a forest, each is individually breathtaking.

The magical sunsets off Ventura’s coast are second-to-none.

To illuminate my point further, let me share a story from a Thanksgiving vacation in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, that my wife and I spent several years ago with her extended side of the family.

Each evening, like most everyone else staying at the resort, we would gather on the beach to watch the sun dissolve into the Pacific Ocean.

“Oooh!” said some with enthusiasm.

“Ahhh!” and “Gorgeous!” others in the chorus sang.

My wife and I remained silent and unmoved.

Perspective is everything. Sure, the Puerto Vallarta sunsets were nice and fine, but in our eyes the Golden Hour was fool’s gold. For starters, the sun sank into a plain horizon. There was no contrast – no Channel Islands – to add brushstrokes of dimension.

Furthermore, because the sky remained cloudless the heavens did not catch fire as happens on our Gold Coast. It was like watching the black-and-white portions of “The Wizard of Oz” compared to the film’s Technicolor scenes.

Not wishing to be sunset snobs, my wife and I kept our critical reviews quiet. Alone, however, we were like old Hollywood actors complaining of modern talent: “In our day, we had movie stars!”

Us: “In Ventura, we have sunsets!”

During the most recent Firefall-like sunset here, I was running at a park as late afternoon began its metamorphosis into evening, turning from a brown caterpillar into a kaleidoscopic butterfly. To be honest, I was blind to the wondrous show taking place.

My spirits were down and so were my eyes. Arthritis in my neck, which required disc-fusion surgery 17 years ago after my car was crushed by a speeding drunk driver, had been acting up worse than usual. Not yet 60, my cervical spine seems to belong to a 90-year-old.

Thus, too stiff on this day to look around to-and-fro, my focus remained steely eyed on the ground a few strides ahead. Then everything changed.

“Wow!” came a voice from a passerby going the other direction. “Look at that sky!”

My eyes lifted as directed and my spirits followed at once. Stopping in my tracks, I admired the Firefall colors being amplified with each passing moment.

Additionally, my dose of self-pity fell away like water over a falls. You see, the man who had awakened me to this pyrotechnic display of nature does his exercise loops around the park in a wheelchair. Suddenly, my sore neck seemed inconsequential.

Perspective is everything, isn’t it?

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Imagining Kobe’s Lost Tomorrows

February 1, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Kobe’s Tomorrows

That Will Never Come

Four times Kobe Bryant held a newborn daughter when she first came into the world, as it should be for a father.

Last Sunday, as it never should be for any daddy, he held one of his girls – 13-year-old Gianna – as she left this world.

At least that is how I imagine the final moments, perhaps mere seconds, transpired as the helicopter carrying Kobe, Gianna and seven other living souls fatally crashed in the morning, in the fog, into a Calabasas hillside.

I imagine that, if the seatbelts allowed, Kobe leaned over and wrapped his long, strong arms around his precious daughter and held her tight in the hands that used to powerfully dunk a basketball.

I imagine this not out of morbidity, but because my heart wishes to believe it. Tenderness before the tragedy.

I imagine, if there was time as the unspeakable horror unfolded, Kobe spoke: “I love you, Gigi.” And I imagine, even through terrified tears, she said: “I love you, Daddy.”

Kobe Bryant and daughter Gianna

I imagine that as he hugged Gianna, Kobe hoped – no, prayed, for he was a religious man – his 41-year-old body would superhumanly serve as a shield to save his little girl.

If there was more time, or perhaps a few seconds impossibly slowed seemingly into years, a million memories flashed through Kobe’s mind. If so, I imagine none of them were of his two decades of supernova greatness in the NBA; not his five NBA titles and two Olympic gold medals; not his 81-point night or career farewell 60-point performance; not his singular honor of having two Lakers jersey numbers – 8 and 24 – retired.

No, I imagine Kobe’s earthly farewell memories would have been of his wife, Vanessa, and their four daughters: Natalia, 17; Gianna; Bianka, 3; and Capri, born last summer. Perhaps he recalled the couple’s first date; saw the girls’ first smiles, first words, first steps; relived his last kisses from all five.

I imagine similar image collages for the other victims: for John Altobelli, 56, his wife Keri, 46, and their daughter Alyssa, 13; for Sarah Chester, 45, and her daughter Payton, 13; for Christina Mauser, 38; and for pilot Ara Zobayan, 50. I cannot fathom the measure of bereavement felt by their loved ones.

Nor can I imagine the grief of Vanessa, losing a child and a husband; of Natalia losing her younger sister and her dad; Bianka losing one of her big sisters and her dad; Capri losing both a big sister and a dad she will never know.

I imagine in a blur of memories, Kobe saw his girls’ birthday parties and Christmas mornings past; saw his honeymoon and family vacations; maybe saw his younger self teaching his girls to swim or ride bikes.

Too, surely, the relived images would have included shooting hoops with his three oldest daughters – basketball was still in the future for infant Capri.

Ah, the future. I imagine also, if there were enough final fractions of time, tomorrows that will never come for Kobe flashed before his eyes – reading bedtime stories to Capri; taking Bianka for ice cream; cheering for Gianna in a WNBA game; walking Natalia down the church aisle and then doing so with Gianna and Bianka and Capri; Vanessa and he becoming grandparents.

Perhaps, even, Kobe imagined his girls-turned-women squeezing his hand on his distant deathbed because that’s how it should be – daughters, and sons, should hold their fathers when they leave the world. Not the other way around.

Heartbreakingly, but lovingly, I imagine Kobe indeed had one of his four daughters holding his hand as he left this world.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Part 2: Hemingway’s “Last Red Cent”

January 27, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Part 2: Hemingway’s

“Last Red Cent”

The stairway to heaven has 19 steps.

Before climbing the outdoor flight leading to Ernest Hemingway’s second-floor writing studio in the backyard, spitting distance away I toured the main house at 907 Whitehead Street in Key West’s Old Town. It is a mansion masterpiece.

The Spanish antiques and African artwork throughout, much collected by Hemingway himself, are stunning. However, I was more captivated by the wordsmith’s seven typewriters – three Underwood models; one Remington portable; two Corona machines, one black and the other forest green; and one Royal – displayed in various rooms.

Hanging out with Hemingway in his Key West home.

The black Royal portable, Hemingway’s favorite, naturally resides in his next-door upstairs studio. The spacious room has robin-egg blue walls and red terra cotta tile floor. Sun pours through ample windows, one of which affords a view of the Atlantic Ocean.

In addition to bookcases fully filled, the décor features taxidermic hunting trophies plus a mounted fish – albeit greatly smaller than Santiago’s great marlin in “The Old Man and the Sea.”

The showpiece of the room, however, is a modest round table the master used as a desk paired with a lone wooden chair. Upon the well-worn tabletop sits Hemingway’s prized typewriter as well as a notebook with a pen resting on its open pages.

When I came through, an orange six-toed cat was also resting on the table-turned-desk. One could imagine the tabby was waiting for its master to return because a sheet of typing paper was in the Royal, as if Papa had just stepped out for a moment.

“There is nothing to writing,” Hemingway famously said. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

Hemingway bled profusely in this den from 1931 to 1939, writing nine books. The prolific period began with “Death in the Afternoon”, included “The Green Hills of Africa” and “For Whom the Bells Toll”, and ended with “Under Kilimanjaro.” His process was to rise at dawn and hunch over his Royal until early afternoon, always quitting while still in the flow so it would be easier start anew the following morning.

The magic one feels standing before the Mona Lisa or the marble David, I experienced here. Oh, how I would have loved to give the Pulitzer Prize winner’s antique Royal a whirl for a sentence or three!

Too, I would have liked to dive into the magnificent swimming pool some two dozen strides from the writing studio and directly below the master bedroom in the main house. Dug into solid coral ground, it took two years to complete and was the only swimming pool within 100 miles.

Measuring 60 feet by 24 feet and 10 feet deep at the south end, half that at the opposite point on the compass, the rectangular pool cost a staggering $20,000 in 1938. Understand, less than a decade earlier the entire home and acre of land was purchased for $8,000.

Hemingway was exasperated at the pool’s final cost and at his second wife who oversaw its construction while he was away as a correspondent for the Spanish Civil War. Upon his return, he is said to have flung down a penny and complained: “Pauline, you’ve spent all but my last red cent, so you might as well have that!”

Offered as evidence that the story is true and not apocryphal, Pauline had a penny embedded heads-up in the cement on the shallow-end deck. Superstitiously, I left a shiny penny behind on top of that famous red cent.

Soon thereafter, I left a few dollars behind in the gift shop for a leather bookmark with the image of a lucky six-toed cat.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Hemingway’s Home Is Cats’ Meow

January 18, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Hemingway’s Home

Is The Cats’ Meow

A seven-block walk from the celebrated red-black-and-yellow concrete buoy marking The Southernmost Point in the Continental United States brought me to the North Star: The Ernest Hemingway Home & Museum.

Inside the brick wall and front gate awaits the home.

Nestled in the heart of Key West’s Old Town, the white-black-and-gold manor at 907 Whitehead Street is where the master wordsmith lived for a prolific writing span from 1931 to 1939. In 1968, seven years after Hemingway’s death, the estate became a registered National Historic Landmark.

Architecturally, the home seems transplanted from the French Quarter in New Orleans with a black wrought-iron balcony wrapping around the second story. Floor-to-ceiling arched windows framed by gold shutters add to the southern charm.

Majestic trees, including skyscraper palms, surround the home. The one-acre lush grounds are in turn framed by a brick wall, tall as a man. Not surprisingly, there is a tale behind the wall.

It seems that when the town’s red-brick streets were being torn up in 1938, Hemingway and some pals, including renowned Sloppy Joe’s Bar owner Joe Russell, surreptitiously followed behind the work wagons helping themselves to Baltimore pavers. After the pilfering was discovered – for the bricks had in fact not been headed to the scrap heap – Hemingway settled up by paying a penny apiece.

A Hemingway portrait greets visitors inside.

The wall had become necessary because of an earlier visit to Key West by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. To capitalize on the event, a map was printed for tourists and among the sites highlighted was Hemingway’s home complete with address. Suddenly, strangers were knocking on the front door and roaming the property uninvited.

Emphasizing the dangers of the period, Hemingway expert Chris Parsons told me in a private visit following a public tour: “Key West was like the Wild West when he lived here. You needed a knife or gun if you went out on street after dusk. Hemingway, of course, didn’t need a weapon because he was larger than life – ”

Nodding towards the brick wall’s entranceway, Parsons added, “ – with a gait wider than that gate.”

Strolling through that gate an hour earlier, I was immediately greeted by a sense of overwhelming reverence. In my mind’s eye, I could see Papa Hemingway; in my heart’s imagination, I felt his presence.

Too, I was greeted on the front porch by a grey tabby rubbing up against my leg. Inside, more cats awaited. In some rooms, the felines seemed as numerous as the butterflies at the nearby nature conservatory.

The famous six-toed Hemingway cats roam everywhere, outside and inside.

It turns out about 60 cats live out their pampered nine lives at Hemingway’s home. To give you an idea, they are even allowed to sleep on the priceless antique furniture that is roped off from the public visitors.

The resident cats are of all shades and colors: gray, black and white, red. Most are likely distant descendents of a Snow White, a rare six-toed cat given as a gift to Hemingway from a local boat captain. Six-toed cats, even black ones, were considered good luck at the time.

Cats normally have five toes on each front paw our tour guide informed us, but the majority of the Hemingway housecats are “polydactyl” meaning they have six front toes. The polydactyls are easy to spot because their paws are so large it looks like they are wearing mittens.

“One cat leads to another,” Hemingway liked to say of his caboodle, although he had fewer back then than the current five dozen.

He also liked to name his cats after famous people, a practice that continues today with Lucille Ball, Winston Churchill and Cary Grant among those all in current residence.

To be continued next week.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Psychedelic Snowfall in Key West

January 11, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Psychedelic Snowfall

in Key West

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

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

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

One of the psychedelic snowflakes in Key West.

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

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

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

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

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

Scarlett, or perhaps Rhett, struts her stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That aptly describes my visit with the butterflies!!!

To be continued next week.

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Kindness Makes Ball Drive Beautiful

January 4, 2020 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Kindness Makes Holiday

Ball Drive a Beautiful Success

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

“Good-Sized” Reading List 2019

December 28, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

A “Good-Sized”

Reading List From 2019

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

On Page, In Person, In Full Blume

December 21, 2019December 21, 2019 by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

On Page, In person,

She’s In Full Blume

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

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

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

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

Lisa and Judy Blume … and me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

WOODY WOODBURN

Writer, "Streaker" & Speaker

Category Archives: Columns

George Washington At My Keyboard

It’s Girl Scouts Cookie Time!

Beauty of Sunsets and Perspective

Imagining Kobe’s Lost Tomorrows

Part 2: Hemingway’s “Last Red Cent”

Hemingway’s Home Is Cats’ Meow

Psychedelic Snowfall in Key West

Kindness Makes Ball Drive Beautiful

“Good-Sized” Reading List 2019

On Page, In Person, In Full Blume