Category Archives: Columns

Trying To Be Like My Grandpa

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Still Trying To Be

Like My Grandpa

            October 5 was the birth date of my Grandpa Ansel, the only grandparent I knew, so he is especially on my mind today. I was only 7 when he died, yet he lives on in my memories and core values.

An art assignment when I was in the first grade goes a long way in telling you about my grandpa.

“And who is this?” asked Miss Bower, studying my crayon portrait response to her prompt: “Who is the most important person in the world?”

“My grandpa,” six-year-old-me replied, matter-of-factly, as though it were so obvious no answer should have been required.

“All your classmates drew portraits of President Johnson,” Miss Bower noted, adding: “Your grandpa must be very special.”

Me: “Yeah, he’s pretty ginchy.”

To be honest, the thought of drawing a portrait of the President of the United States never crossed my mind. In truth, I wondered why my friends had not drawn pictures of their grandpas.

Grandpa Ansel with me (red shirt) and my two brothers.

After all, it wasn’t the President who patiently showed me how to bait a fishhook. Certainly the President had never set down his fly rod to calmly help me untangle a bird’s nest of fishing line in a backlashed spinning reel.

It wasn’t the President who taught me other important things a boy needs to know, like how to skip flat stones across the water; how to whistle; and how to pound nails without bending them.

The President never gave me a ginchy handcrafted wooden toolbox for my fifth birthday – or taught me funny old-fashioned words like “ginchy” which means “cool.”

“Grandpa, how come you don’t use worms like I do?” I once asked while “helping” him tie a fly in his basement fantasyland workshop of tools and endless jars filled with fishhooks, feathers, fur and other paraphernalia.

“Oh, it takes a mighty skillful fisherman like yourself to catch a fish with a worm,” he answered. “That’s why you always catch big fish while I catch the little ones. I’d better stick to using flies if I want to have a chance to keep up with you.”

“Okay, Grandpa – but if you change your mind, I’ll share my worms with you.”

Grandpa shared lots of important things with me, like how to look a man in the eye when you shake hands; The Golden Rule; and that little boys in Russia are the same as little boys in America, this being during the Cold War.

“Which way is the wind blowing?” I would ask Grandpa whenever we went fishing. Before answering, he would moisten his index finger in his mouth and then dramatically extend it high in the air as I mimicked him.

Upon seeing which side of his finger-turned-weather-vane dried first, Grandpa would whistle-hum happily before responding: “I do believe it’s blowing from the west.”

Always, the wind was blowing from the west.

Always, this excited me and I would then recite by heart a poem Grandpa had taught me:

“When the wind is from the north, / The wise fisherman does not go forth.

“When the wind is from the south, / It blows the hook into the fish’s mouth.

“When the wind is from the east, / ’Tis not fit for man nor beast.

“But when the wind is from the west, / The fishing is the very best.”

Growing up, I wanted to be like Grandpa Ansel; ten months ago, I truly became like him – a grandpa. With fishing as a metaphor, I want my granddaughter Maya to always feel like the wind is blowing from the west when we’re spending time together.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

Autumn Comes Knocking

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Autumn Comes Knocking

On The Front Door

            Were you, like me, caught off guard by a guest who came knocking on your front door this past Monday?

Even though I was expecting her, she still seemed to arrive surprisingly early. Yet when I checked the clock – the calendar, actually – it turned out she was perfectly on time: September 23.

Yes, autumn is here.

Truly, I should have heard her pull into the driveway. After all, for the past few weeks dawn has suddenly had a pleasant chill to it.

At the least, I should have heard her walking up the front sidewalk a moment before she knocked. I mean, the setting sun has seemed in a race lately to bring twilight noticeably a little sooner each evening. Goodness, I’ve even had to turn on my car headlights many evenings, something that in summer only seems necessary on a late night out.

Oh, how I love summer and will miss her dearly. In the eyes of my youth, it was without question No. 1 of the four seasons. Top two reasons: warm weather and no school.

Presently, however, if you asked me my favorite season I could not say. It is a fool’s errand of a question, a Sophie’s choice. It is like asking me to choose between Steinbeck, Hemingway and Twain. Impossible.

Spring, for starters, is blooming flowers and flying kites and, as Tennyson observed, when young men’s fancies turn to thoughts of love – so what’s not to love about the season?

Yet summer is beach outings and pool parties and vacations of travel and ice cream cones and bike rides – again, what’s not to love?

Winter, meanwhile, is cozy fires and family gatherings, sledding and snowboarding, mistletoe and Auld Lang Syne, and the New Year’s promise of approaching spring – how can you not love all that?

Thus, my favorite season is whichever one is currently visiting. And right now that is autumn. Many call it “fall”, but I think “autumn” is lovelier. By either name, its arrival brings with it …

A crispness in the air, even on our Golden Coast, that is invigorating.

Markets and coffee shops offering limited-edition Pumpkin Spice This, Pumpkin Spice That, Pumpkin Everything!

Hayrides and pumpkin patches and children spending half an hour, or longer, selecting The Perfect Pumpkin for a jack-o-lantern with all the care of a bride choosing her wedding dress and shoes.

Linus and The Great Pumpkin.

Carving jack-o-lanterns, going trick-or-treating, and having an excuse as a grown-up to dress up like Batman or Cat Woman.

Comfort foods such as homemade soups, chili and cornbread, marshmallows toasted over a fire, pumpkin pie/bread/pudding/cookies/coffee.

Leaves that show their true colors, not in the widespread explosions of oranges and reds and golds that our East Coast and Midwest friends enjoy, but in a way our limited-edition outbursts of Monet-worthy leaves-scapes here make them all the more precious and beautiful.

Speaking of leaves, autumn’s arrival always transports my mind’s eye back to a giant pile of leaves that took forever to rake together. It was in my friend Dan’s well-wooded backyard, back in Ohio of my boyhood, back when I was about 8.

Above the pile of leaves rose a colossal tree and from a strong branch hung a rope tied to an old tractor tire. We took turns pushing each other on that tire swing, soaring higher and higher still, before launching ourselves airborne and flying towards a giggling crash landing on Mother Nature’s leafy mattress of red and orange and gold.

Yes, right now I love autumn best.

Until winter rings my doorbell on December 21.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

This, That, Baseball and Batman

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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This, That, Baseball and Batman

Shooting from the hip on a hair-triggered keyboard…

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            Will self-driving cars be programmed to leave turn signals on mile after mile just for old time’s sake?

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For the love of Lou Boudreau! (Google him) I beg Cody Bellinger and all Major League batters to please, when the defense puts on an infield shift, poke or slap the ball to the opposite field and take all the singles you can get until they stop shifting!

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            Add baseball: My much-better-half was watching her beloved Dodgers on TV the other night and after the broadcast duo blathered on blah blah blah even more than usual, in rare total exasperation she sighed, “God, I miss Vin Scully!”

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            Speaking of The Golden Voice and my wife…

Nineteen summers ago was Scully’s 50th season behind the mic and in the press box before a game I asked him for an interview in the coming days.

True to his word, he phoned me at home a couple days later to set something up and my wife answered the phone.

“This is Vin Scully,” the caller said, needlessly identifying himself because his voice was unmistakable. “May I speak to Woody?”

Unfortunately, I was out and more unfortunately had not mentioned that I was expecting the call.

Most unfortunate of all, my wife assumed it was one of my goofy friends imitating Scully and joked in reply, “Who is this really?” and then playfully hung up.

The classy Scully phoned right back, to the great chagrin of my wife, who instantly realized her mistake and apologized before telling him when she expected me home.

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            More Scully. My writing idol, Jim Murray, was receiving an honor at the Beverly Hills Hotel and because of some good luck I was in attendance.

And because of some beverages, I was later in the men’s room when in walked Scully. He greeted another person who was leaving and his trademark voice echoed off the tiled walls as rich and melodic as a cello in Carnegie Hall.

I remember laughing to myself, imagining Scully doing the play-by-play right then and there: “Kirk Gibson steps up to the urinal, takes his stance…”

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            One final Scully memory. At the end of my interview with him in the press box hours before the first pitch, I sheepishly asked Scully to do a play-by-play radio call with me at bat. He asked who I wanted on the mound and without hesitation I said the great Bob Gibson.

Oh, how I wish I’d used a tape recorder for interviews back then instead of notepads. No matter, in my mind’s ear I can still hear the imaginary broadcast as “Woodburn fouls off another fastball and works the count to deuces wild – two balls, two strikes, two out with two men on.”

I still half-expected Scully to impishly have me strike out, but instead my Major League career batting average is a perfect 1-for-1 with an RBI line-drive single to left field in Dodger Stadium.

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            For some of us, who wore a bath towel pinned around their neck throughout kindergarten, today is a super holiday: Batman Day.

This year’s official occasion marks the 80th anniversary of DC Comic’s Dark Knight and will be celebrated around the world. Indeed, the Bat Signal will be lighted in Tokyo, Berlin, Paris, Barcelona, London, Montreal, Mexico City, New York, Los Angeles – and perhaps a kindergartener-still-at-heart’s home in Ventura.

Let me close with this wisdom from a poster that says it all: “Always be yourself, unless you can be Batman, then always be Batman!”

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

Friendship Turns Back Calendar

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Familiar Laugh is

a Time Machine

H. G. Wells knocked on my front door Sunday morning and when I opened it the pages of the calendar flipped backward, months, years, four decades in all, in an instant.

Greeting me was my college roommate from freshman year. In 2019, I was 18 again.

Fingerprint analysis could not have been more accurate in identifying Matt than the proof provided by his smile. Father Time may have stolen his bushy, dark curls and added lines of wisdom to his countenance, but his grin was as broad and radiant and familiar as ever.

In the only photograph I have of Matt, for there were no ubiquitous cell phone cameras always at the ready in 1978, he is flashing his trademark electric grin as sun-bleached-mop-haired me goofily flashes a peace sign of rabbit ears behind his head.

Goofing it up as UCSB freshmen with my roommate Matt Bell.

In my mind’s eye – rather, mind’s ear – there is something even more identifying than Matt’s smile: his laugh. DNA profiling could not be more precise for identification. It is a hall-of-fame laugh, part cackle, part music.

Matt freely played that music again Sunday morning and it was more wonderful than Cheap Trick and Tom Petty and Pink Floyd making our dorm widows rattle on a Friday night.

Words of hello being insufficient after so long apart, we promptly embraced on the front doorstep – perhaps for the first time ever because college roommates in the ’70s didn’t generally hug.

The next two hours passed like two minutes as we played catch-up on our lives, our long marriages, his three children and my two plus a granddaughter, our jobs – he’s a high school principal in Northern California – and on and on. The eggs and pancakes and coffee grew cold half-untouched because the air was so warm with conversation and memories and laughter.

It’s funny sometimes what memories pop to mind. Matt was on UC Santa Barbara’s gymnastic team and while I recall him being dizzying good on the rings and pommel horse, my favorite feat of his was when he walked the entire length of our dorm hallway on his hands while the rest of us cheered as though it was the Olympics.

Matt remembered stories I had forgotten and vice-versa. Most of them I dare not share in this space, but here’s one more that I will. I had sophomorically sabotaged his toothbrush with soap and Matt retaliated ingeniously by somehow putting a small measure of sunscreen inside my tube of Crest.

As I spit and rinsed, rinsed, rinsed, Matt guffawed. I squeezed away a third of the tube to get rid of the contaminated portion and started brushing again. Again, I gagged. This happened a third time as well.

By now Matty sounded like Muttley the cartoon dog. I believe it was the only time either of us got even halfway upset at the other – in truth, I think I was mad at myself for falling for the well-played prank over and over.

Now I’m mad at myself for falling out of touch with Matt after graduation. More so, however, I’m thankful for the miracle of social media that allowed us to reconnect after 37 years.

To give you one more snapshot of what a masterpiece reunion we had, and to further encourage you to reach out to a friend you may have lost contact with, Matt and I were so busy enjoying ourselves that we forgot to take a picture together. We plan to remedy that soon.

It has been said that it takes a long time to grow an old friend, but it can also happen over breakfast.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

Memories Tragically Go Unmade

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Buoyed in Boat Tragedy

by Two Uplifting Emails 

Making memories, that is what the 39 people aboard the Conception were doing.

Certainly most of the 33 passengers were off the Santa Cruz Island coast specifically to go diving, and the crew of six was on hand to give them the opportunity to do so, but above all they were all out there on our postcard waters to make memories.

In the aftermath of the tragic below-deck nighttime fire that claimed the lives of all 33 patrons and one crewmember, I was reminded by a reader of a recent column of mine that the trip to sea was about making memories.

Coincidentally, Sheila Kane McCollum wrote of our scenic underwaters:

“Tears streamed down my face this morning as I read about your ‘Daddy Dates’! Your recounting of your time with daughter Dallas brought to mind so many cherished memories of my own times with my wonderful dad.

“After my brothers (four and five years my senior) moved away, I took up scuba diving so Dad and I could have that to share. We spent many weekends out at Channel Islands exploring the reefs and searching for the elusive lobster.

“Because I had gone on a rafting adventure, my dad suggested we do a trip together. We drove up to Kern Valley and spent two days rafting and camping at night on some hard earth. I can’t say he loved the rafting as much as I, but we both thoroughly enjoyed our three days together, laughing and making these memories.

“Dad has been gone more than 20 years, but my memories bring him back with love, admiration and appreciation.”

When Sheila’s email arrived, a week before the stunning Conception catastrophe, it brought a smile to my heart. To figuratively see her take down a flowered box from the top shelf in her closet, set it on her bed and remove the lid, and unwrap the tissue paper that has kept safe these memories of her dad for two decades, is lovely.

Two weeks later, that image also makes the heart weep for all the memories of a dive trip that won’t be unwrapped and retold, smiled at and enjoyed, 20 years from now.

The grief, even for those of us who may never have heard one of those memories shared, is leaden. There have been far too many unbearable tragedies locally, from the Thomas Fire to the Borderline shooting to the Conception.

And yet another reader, also in a recent email, added some thoughts as a buoy. Responding to my column about playful kids at a summer camp, Diane Sweet wrote:

“I have enjoyed your columns for years and now look forward to my Saturday laugh or cry as I read your banter, philosophy, and encouragement. Today was exceptional as I was with you on the playground and talking to the kids – albeit I would not be running!

“I am celebrating my 70th birthday this week, and I totally agree with you and Walter Hagen, ‘Don’t hurry, don’t worry. You’re only here for a short visit. So don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.’

“I know 70 years sounds ‘old’, but it has gone quickly! I am continually trying to ‘enjoy the moments’. I have a beautiful and fragrant ‘Yves Piaget’ rosebush that I bought at a farm in Carpinteria that I just stop and smell whenever it’s in bloom. The sweet scent reminds me how precious and temporary life is and I don’t take it for granted.”

Perhaps that sentiment – and fond memories – is all we have to hang onto when our hearts collapse in sorrow.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

 

Amber Rubarth is in the House

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Small Audience,

Big Enchantment

            Picking up where I departed last week, serendipity smiled and Amber Rubarth sang and my daughter and I had a strawberries-in-wintertime “Daddy date” in August.

My travel writer friend Ken likes to remind me, “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.”

Heeding this sage advice, my daughter-who-now-has-a-daughter and I drove down a main thoroughfare in Fremont to a series of smaller and smaller streets with slower and slower speed limits, and eventually turned into a hidden neighborhood. After parking, we strolled in search of an address and at last went inside a quiet doorway.

It was not pure serendipity that guided us off the beaten path. My son had learned of a “house concert” featuring Amber Rubarth. Knowing how dearly his sister delights in Amber’s music, he bought two tickets with one stipulation: I must keep the destination a surprise.

Amber and Dallas after the “house concert.”

Mission accomplished. Not until she stepped inside the front door and was greeted by a host – and a table stacked with CDs and vinyl LPs – did my daughter realize she was about to see Rubarth in a private concert.

In my quarter-century as a sports columnist, I sat courtside at Lakers games and saw Pete Sampras from the first row; I stood on the field a yard behind the end zone for an entire 49ers-Rams playoff game and walked inside the ropes following Jack Nicklaus and Tiger Woods; and on and on, but I have never been closer to the action than at this concert.

My daughter and I sat left of the stage in the front row – which was also the back row. Well, if there had been a stage. Rubarth, an award-winning singer-songwriter, occupied a card table-sized patch of hardwood floor. If I straightened my legs, I literally ran the risk of tripping Amber if she took two steps in our direction.

It bears mentioning that everyone had amazing seats as there were by actual count only 23 people in attendance. Inside a lovely living room with a vaulted ceiling and a grand piano in one corner, the gathering sat on a couch, a love seat, kitchen and dining room chairs, and in the center back row – which was the third row – high-backed barstools.

With no mic and amplifier required, Amber’s voice seemed impossibly twice as pleasant as on recordings and three times more so than in a large venue. It was wondrous to close one’s eyes and get lost in her singing and guitar playing. But it was even more mesmerizing to watch her at her craft; to see her graceful fingers flex and dance; see the currents of emotions flow across her face with the changing notes; have her warm gaze catch yours and hold it, all from a few feet away.

Before songs, Amber shared their meanings and peeled open her life at the times she wrote them. After songs, she asked audience members about themselves. It wasn’t a concert so much as an intimate party.

Often ignoring her play sheet that rested on the piano, Amber frequently opened the floor for requests. Near evening’s end, my daughter asked for “Song to Thank the Stars” which she danced to at her wedding three years ago. Amber said it was one of her favorites as well and began to strum and sing.

One lyric: “I need a song to thank the stars / That you are mine.”

My feelings precisely as I enjoyed an enchanted summertime “Daddy date” with my grown-up little girl.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

Never Too Old For “Daddy Date”

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Serendipity Smiles …

… And Also Sings

“Strawberries in wintertime” is a favorite phrase I use for an unexpected delight, its origins dating to when I was age 10 and visited California for the first time during Christmas break.

A highlight surpassed perhaps only by my Ohioan debut swim in the freezing ocean near the Ventura Pier was gorging on a flat of sun-warmed strawberries from a roadside stand in Saticoy. In the Midwest we only ate strawberries in summertime.

All of which is to put into perspective a strawberries-in-wintertime treat I recently enjoyed. Or, I suppose, it was Christmas in August. Semantics aside, here’s the specifics: my adult daughter and I went on a “Daddy date” as she has called our just-the-two-of-us outings ever since kindergarten.

Oftentimes, with Mom and Brother staying home, we would go out to dinner and my lovely date always insisted on wearing a pretty dress. In turn, I would bring her flowers and open the car door for her because both were things she should expect boys worth dating to do when she got older.

Our “Daddy dates” have continued for nearly three decades, through high school and college and grad school; even through her finding a date who not only opened her car door and gave her flowers, but gave her a diamond ring. She, in turn, gave him a daughter eight months ago.

Singer-songwriter Amber Rubarth

Being a mom and wife and author can leave little time for being a daughter, and thus our most recent “Daddy date” was indeed a strawberries-in-wintertime evening together.

Backstory. Three years past, my daughter and I flew to Seattle solely to attend a concert by one of her favorite musicians, Amber Rubarth. The award-winning folk singer-songwriter has provided the soundtrack of my daughter’s life since teen-hood when she first saw Rubarth play in the intimate confines of ol’ Zoey’s Café in Ventura.

During life’s sunny days, my daughter beamed listening to Rubarth’s songs. More importantly, during stormy nights of tears, she drew strength and inspiration from Rubarth’s penetrating lyrics.

My daughter’s husband, who had never strummed a guitar, spent six months learning one song to play when he proposed – “Quiet” which Rubarth recorded in duet with Jason Mraz. Not surprisingly, at my daughter’s wedding the bride and groom danced to Rubarth’s “Song to Thank the Stars.”

What is surprising, however, is that on that wedding day Rubarth posted a Tweet to her many thousands of Followers: “Congratulations @DallasWoodburn on your big day!! So happy for you two!”

Rubarth knew about the nuptials because a year earlier, after seeing her in concert, my daughter cathartically wrote an essay – a letter, actually, addressed “Dear Amber Rubarth” – expressing how important the singer’s music has been to her. She then sent it off into the ether of the Internet like a message in a bottle.

One paragraph tucked inside the corked glass read: “I felt myself in your songs. I felt understood. I listened to your beautiful, fragile, strong voice sing bravely and vulnerably about love and hope and healing, and for the first time in quite some time I felt excited to fall in love again. I felt like the world was indeed a wondrous place and that there was magic out in the future waiting for me.”

Through magic, the heartfelt words unexpectedly reached Rubarth and were strawberries in wintertime to her ears. She emailed Dallas and a small friendship was born.

All the same, Amber did not know Dallas recently moved to Fremont nor did Dallas know Amber was about to play a concert there. At the last moment, serendipity smiled and sang.

To be continued next week.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

 

Run Turns Into Schoolyard Recess

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Distance Run Turns Into

Schoolyard Recess

            “Hi!” a girl, perhaps entering third grade when the new school year begins, called out enthusiastically.

I was circling a half-mile loop around soccer fields during my daily run on a recent weekday afternoon while a youth summer camp was in full swing. About three-dozen kids were enjoying recess-like activities including tag, jump rope and various games with balls.

“Hi!” the same girl repeated, now waving, on my next loop as if seeing me for the first time. A couple of her friends joined in: “Hi” and “Hey Running Man!”

“Hello!” I replied, adding quickly as I passed, “are you having a fun summer?”

“Yessss!” they sang in chorus.

In fits and starts, as I passed by I continued a conversation with what was now five girls sitting in a circle on the grass having snacks: “When does school start?”

Gleeful again: “Next week!”

Next lap: “Are you excited for school?”

“Yessss!” again in song.

I do not like to stop during a run, but on the next lap I did so briefly to ask the five girls, “What grades are you going to be in this year?”

The answers, one by one around the circle, all accompanied by smiles: “Third, fourth, fourth, second, third.”

Off I resumed, my stride feeling as light as Hermes with his winged feet.

Next time around, I was greeted by a boy holding his palm up to give me a high-five; the following loop, a line of kids did so.

It is my experience that the best runs transform themselves from effort into play. In other words, they become recess. For the better part of the 22 laps of this 11-mile run, I was a fifth-grader lost in recess fun.

I say fifth-grader specifically because my teacher that year, Mr. Hawkins, used to join us on the playground and grass field. Some days he would shoot baskets with us; other times we would run pass patterns and he would throw football spirals to us; too, he was pitcher for both teams in softball games.

On this day, I became Mr. Hawkins – albeit in Nikes and T-shirt instead of wingtips and his familiar square-ended knitted necktie. On one loop, a boy camper handed me a football and ran out for a pass. Slowing, but still on the run, I threw wildly.

Half of a mile later, I took another handoff but this time I stopped, planted my feet, and threw a touchdown spiral to make Rams quarterback Jared Goff – or Mr. Hawkins – proud.

Another loop around, a girl tossed me a foam Frisbee. I caught it, but my return toss sailed off-target in a side breeze and she giggled. I retrieved the errant disc and this time made an accurate throw that was rewarded with a happy young smile.

There was more fun. On a couple laps, I found myself with running companions for about 100 meters and was reminded of the races we had with Mr. Hawkins to the far fence on the playground grass.

The order of events this day is beyond my recall, but they included jumping rope until I missed; playing dodge ball when a basketball-sized fuzzy tennis ball was rolled at my feet – “Good jump, Mister!”; and being asked by a girl to spray sunscreen on her back.

This day, I did not care what pace my GPS running watch showed.

This day, I recalled the words of golfing legend Walter Hagen: “Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. You’re only here for a short visit. So don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.”

This day, I stopped to play.

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

Help For “Sobsmacked” Columnist

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Readers Fill In For

“Sobsmacked” Columnist

I planned to take a stroll down Nostalgia Lane today with a column about the Ventura County Fair, which concludes its 144th edition on Sunday, but Dayton and El Paso on the heels of Gilroy made me feel an obligation to write yet again about the gun-fueled cancer that is killing America.

But I have no new thoughts, only my same old rage. Feeling sobsmacked – my word for being gobsmacked to tears – I instead will turn this space over to some emails from my readers.

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“I liked your perfect games column with the 1956 Don Larson World Series no hitter and first moon landing correlation,” wrote Alex Jannone. “I listened to one (Larson) and watched the other.

“With the final out approaching, as a wash-up boy I was washing up old Potter printing presses with benzene and no gloves – benzene and inks with chromate not only thickens your fingers and hands, but your mind too – in the downtown NY printing district at Canal and Hudson streets. Silence, then a roar from the mixed bag of Yankee and Dodger fan listeners as some other presses stopped to listen.

“With the first moon landing 1969, I was comfortably watching in my living room with my wife and small children in Commack, Long Island. Nice memories to bring back.”

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“ ‘Gobsmacked’ – now there’s a word we don’t often see/read and much less hear!” Rick Throckmorton began, quoting in extreme brief from my column sharing a tall tale about a talking dog told to me by Starr Thompson.

“I, too, have the immense pleasure of knowing Starr. We are members of the ‘Quiet Birdmen’, a national aviation group with roots to post-WWI.

“Starr, certainly a member of The Greatest Generation, is quite the story teller. I’m proud to know him!”

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            Bill Waxman poignantly found new words that I could not about America’s mass shootings, sending me his poem titled “Only in America”:

“And today we awoke to the familiar refrain / Of families reeling in their grief and their pain

“Dozens of lives the gunmen have claimed / While our leaders scramble for someone to blame

“Statements are issued, just more prayers and thoughts / That get lost in the nightmarish echo of gunshots

“Once again, there will be no action taken / To prevent the horror of El Paso and Dayton

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“There is now no safe place to go / Malls and churches, a cool movie show

“Outdoor concerts, and yes, too, our schools / Our numbness to violence has rendered us fools

“There’s no common ground for common sense / There’s no leadership coming from Trump and Pence

“Time alone won’t correct the aberration / Of the terror that stalked El Paso and Dayton

–

“What if every elected official / Simply did what they know to be beneficial

“What if every one of them all across the nation / Simply said no to NRA political donation

“What if they all simply took a stand / To ensure that all assault weapons were banned

“Maybe then our collective conscience would awaken / To the needless carnage in El Paso and Dayton

–

“From Gilroy to Parkland, from Sebring to Vegas / The political will to do something evades us

“From Aurora to Penn State, we’re at a loss for an answer / And we sit back and ignore this fast spreading cancer

“We wring our hands, we continue to be vexed / We don’t believe that we might be next

“Until the next time, when we see we’re mistaken / We learned not the lessons from El Paso and Dayton.”

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …

For Sale: Talking Dog

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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Treated to Unexpected

Tall Tale in Bookstore

Once upon a time, only a few weeks past actually, I was treated to a story in a bookstore, which is a very good place for stories.

In particular, it was Mrs. Figs’ Bookworm in Camarillo, which is just about the best place in the world for stories because its owner, Connie Halpern, makes storytimes come to life when she reads aloud to children ages 1 to 102.

This story, however, did not come from Connie’s lips. Rather, it was told by 96-year-old Starr Thompson. In addition to being a Bookworm regular, Thompson is a former Flying Tiger as evidenced by the blue-and-orange ball cap he was wearing.

After serving in the Air Force in both WWII and Korea, Thompson joined the First American Volunteer Group (AVG) of the Chinese Air Force. These “Flying Tigers” were composed of U.S. military pilots recruited by President Franklin Roosevelt’s orders in 1941 before Pearl Harbor.

I did not write down the facts as I listened, only later, so if I get anything wrong the errors are mine. If I retell matters accurately, all credit goes to Mr. Thompson. And so, as memory serves…

A young man was driving through rural Ohio – which, coincidentally, is where Connie Halpern grew up, further proving truth is stranger than fiction – and a yard sign in front of a farmhouse caught his eye: For Sale / Talking Dog / $50.

The man put on the brakes, made a U-turn and pulled into the driveway.

“Hello,” greeted the farmer from a rocking chair on the porch. “You lost? I seen ya turnaround. Need directions?”

“No, no, I’m not lost,” the visitor answered. “I saw your sign about the talking dog and was curious – what’s the gimmick?”

“Ain’t no gimmick,” said the farmer.

The visitor rolled his eyes and turned to leave, but before he had taken his first footstep of retreat the farmer rejoined: “He’s ’round back. Go see for yourself.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, the visitor headed to the backyard where he found a Labrador, chocolate in color, sleeping in the shade of a buckeye tree. The dog raised its head as the visitor approached.

“Can I help you?”

The visitor twisted his neck to look at the farmer who had followed behind him, but there was no one there.

“I said, can I help you?” the Labrador repeated.

The visitor nearly fainted in his tracks. Upon regaining his senses, like a dazed boxer during a referee’s ten count, the visitor stammered: “You … really … can talk?”

“Of course I can talk,” the Labrador replied. “Have a seat and I’ll tell you even more.”

The gobsmacked visitor plopped down on the grass.

“I used to work at the airport sniffing for drugs and listening to conversations,” the Labrador continued. “If I heard something suspicious, I’d go tell my superior. Travelers can be an annoying bunch, though, so after a while I quit.

“Before long, I found I missed the excitement so I got a job with the FBI sniffing for explosives. I loved the thrill of it, but it’s a young dog’s game so last year the FBI forced me to retire – put me out to pasture here.”

The visitor, hardly able to believe his ears, returned to the front porch and said in astonishment: “My god, your dog is amazing! He’s worth a million dollars, at least, so why are you selling him so cheaply?”

“It’s all BS,” the farmer said, curtly. “Buster didn’t do any of that airport security and FBI stuff like he claims. He’s a good-for-nothing liar.”

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FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

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” …