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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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

My maternal grandfather was born in May but was named August. In full, August Heinrich Emil Rahn, which is a stately mouthful of syllables.

However, he felt August was too starchy, which is richly ironic because he was a gentleman who, according to my mom and aunt, would come home from the office and mow the lawn in his tailored wool suit and polished shoes.

Lest you get the notion of excessive genteelness, were it a hot summer day in the suburbs of Chicago he would remove his suit jacket. If very hot, loosen his tie. And on truly sweltering occasions, off came the cufflinks with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

All of which seems like August should have rightly gone by the even more formal variant, Augustus. Instead, even as an executive in the boardroom of Field Enterprises, Inc., he went by Auggie. I think that is extremely cool.

What is not so cool is that I have zero memories of Grandpa Auggie because he died when I was quite young. Today – August 4 – is the anniversary of his death, which made me think I should write about him. After all, I have often done so about my other grandfather, Grandpa Ansel, a small-town physician who, by the way, authored a number of medical journal essays.

But truth be told, if there is DNA in my family tree responsible for me becoming a writer it comes from Grandpa Auggie. For starters, at Field Enterprises he was responsible for putting out The World Book Encyclopedia which was The Google of All Information in its time. Too, he oversaw limited editions of myriad other books featuring sheepskin covers and special color illustrations and linen pages and so on.

And so, thanks to Grandpa Auggie, I grew up in a home filled with his volumes, from A to Z encyclopedias to an exquisite edition about Afrika (not Africa) to a handsome collection of Mark Twain’s works.

Most important of all, Auggie raised my mom to love books. Hence, she read to me when I was little; took me to get a library card before I was in kindergarten; and later encouraged me to become a writer.

While he published books instead of authoring them, Auggie had a gift with his own written words. This I know from my inheritance of a handful of his letters written to my mom, their prose nothing shy of elegant. One is a Robert Frost-worthy poem, in rhyme, for her 21st birthday and another missive shortly before her college graduation contains a passage that is an inner North Star to follow:

“Above all things, Audrey, resolve to be yourself; be fair; be just; always be sure you know the facts; never take things for granted; exercise patience; be tasteful; be kind to other folks and you may be sure the world will be a better place for those who are near and dear to you; learn to develop and use your abilities for your own happiness and the happiness of loved ones.”

Moreover, proving to be a down-to-earth Auggie rather than an austere August, he concluded: “Such has been the philosophy of my life. I may not always have achieved to the fullness I desired. The degree of my accomplishment in this direction I must leave to the judgment of others. My acceptance of this fact is a constant challenge to do better.”

I may not have known him, but I know this: Grandpa Auggie remains one of my greatest role models – except when it comes to mowing the lawn.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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

“Tell me again about the time you partied with Eddie Murphy,” I can ask my little sister and she is apt to ask back, “Which time?”

Or she might simply begin by recalling a quiet one-on-one conversation with the famous comedian-actor, back in his “Saturday Night Live” and “Beverly Hills Cops” days, in his kitchen while the rest of the mansion raged on.

My Li’l Sis also has personal stories about hanging out with Princess Stephanie of Monaco and Prince, not a prince but the Prince of rock-and-roll fame, and Paul Stanley from the rock group Kiss, too; Chevy Chase, John Wayne, Rob Lowe and the most of the Brat Pack; and on and on. She met Hugh Hefner and dated Dean Martin’s son, Dean Paul Martin, and all of these are just off the top of my head.

Interestingly, MLS claims to have been starstruck only once. That was in a small restaurant in Montecito when she found herself seated at a table directly next to Oprah Winfrey.

“Can you believe it? Oprah!” MLS recalls, and yes I do believe it. “Of course I didn’t ask for an autograph because honestly I didn’t want to be disappointed if she wasn’t everything I imagined. Sometimes I think it’s best to think of your idols just the way you want them to be.”

What surprises me is not that My Li’l Sis didn’t ask for a selfie, but that Oprah didn’t somehow invite MLS to join her for lunch.

But my favorite story of My Li’l Sis, of a million memories that make me smile and laugh, is not Hollywood related although it does belong in a rom-com movie.

To set the scene: Owen Wilson (me) has brought his college girlfriend (Rachel McAdams) home for the weekend to meet his family. Around midnight there is a knocking on the front door.

And, “Action!”

Owen groggily answers the door and is greeted by two uniformed police officers (Samuel L. Jackson and Liam Neeson).

Hard cut to Owen knocking on the bedroom door of My Li’l Sis (Reese Witherspoon as Elle Woods in “Legally Blonde”) where Rachel is also staying. Owen mumbles, “Elle, the cops are here for you,” then pads silently back to bed.

Rachel (who became my wife) laughs to this day at how matter-of-fact Owen was, as if real-life episodes of “Adam-12” happened all the time to Elle.

Flashback an hour earlier: Some of Elle’s high school friends dine-and-ditch at a 24-hour diner, the waitress only recognizes Elle, and she thus mistakenly gets blamed.

Cut to the present. I actually misspoke – miswrote? – about that being my favorite MLS story. Rather, it was the time she turned down Christmas dinner at my house and instead spent the evening passing out cheeseburgers and bottled water to dozens of homeless persons who slipped through the cracks of being fed elsewhere.

Despite my misgivings of the dangers it is a kindness she routinely performs, alone, throughout the year not just on holidays. Too, she organizes neighborhood food drives with the donations going to various organizations.

Indeed, My Li’l Sis has the biggest heart imaginable and is the best sister anyone could wish for. She not only reads my column without fail, she texts or phones to praise them all, and often even quotes from them years later. That kind of cheerleading is no small thing.

It is fair to say that in my eyes and heart, MLS, who celebrates a milestone birthday today, is a bigger superstar than any famous celebrity she has ever met.

Happy birthday, Li’l Sis.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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

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

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DIY is Easier Spelled Than Done

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

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

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

Simulation of the problem…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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”

• Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com
• Unsigned paperbacks or Kindle ebook can be purchased here at Amazon

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

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This, That and a Horserace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom, I really need a milkshake”

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

“It’s never too late for a milkshake”

(Smiley face emoji) “Good night sweetie”

“Goodnight Mommy”

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

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

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

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

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

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

This summertime, let’s do better!

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

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

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

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

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

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

And have a masterpiece weekend.

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

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”

• Personalized signed copies are available at WoodyWoodburn.com
• Unsigned paperbacks or Kindle ebook can be purchased here at Amazon