We love firsts. First place. First in line. First downs. Most of all, perhaps, we love first times.

Especially new parents, who are constantly experiencing firsts. Baby’s first smile. First words. First steps.

First, first, first.

In truth, the firsts never cease. Like chocolates on the conveyor belt in the classic episode of “I Love Lucy,” the firsts keep coming. First day of kindergarten, first solo bike ride, first time driving.

First, first, first.

Sometimes, however, I think we focus too greatly on firsts. Partly this is because firsts are easy—not necessarily easy to accomplish, mind you, but easy to recognize.

Your son has never ridden a bike without training wheels or your hand steadying it from behind and now he does. Let’s go to Ben & Jerry’s to celebrate! Your daughter scores her first soccer goal. Another recognizable milestone: Do you want a cone or a cup?

Of any age, we all have our own conveyor belt of firsts. First rollercoaster ride, first airplane flight; first crush, first kiss; first this and first that, all easy to recognize and store away in a mental scrapbook.

But what about lasts?

“Never thought we’d have a last kiss,” Taylor Swift poignantly sings, and this rings true also for the last time we read a bedtime story to our children or a last time we give them a piggyback ride to bed. But, of course, there was a last “Goodnight Moon” together with my daughter and a last schlep up the stairs carrying my sleepy son, for the girl and the boy are now a woman and a man, themselves parents of little ones.

Lost lasts. How sad that we rarely recognize a last while it is happening and miss out on the chance to press the “record” button on our mental smartphones.

I wish, for example, I could specifically remember the last time my mom, gone three decades now, held my little hand crossing a street—or, older, I helped her cross.

Lasts, lasts, lasts, lost, lost, lost.

Nor can I draw to mind last time I gave my son and daughter baths in the tub. Had I know it was the last time, surely I would have memorized all the details and splashed a little more—no, a lot more!—and laughed louder—much louder!—at the wet soapy floor.

When was the last time I brushed their teeth for them? Read them Dr. Seuss? Played “Sam the Alligator Man” with them, giggling their heads off, wrestling on the floor?

Sometimes, if you are lucky, life gives you a do-over. Indeed, grandchildren afford not only the chance to savor the whole menu of firsts again, but to try to recognize and savor the lasts this go-round. And so it is that I am again reading “The Runaway Bunny” aloud and giving piggyback rides to my three granddaughters.

Come to think of it, unlike firsts, we often have the power to create a brand-new last. Thus, I can read “Goodnight Moon” to my grown daughter a new last time and—if I take Tylenol afterwards—give my 6-foot-3 son a new last piggyback ride.

Two nights hence, we shall sing “Auld Lang Syne” to 2023 and fondly bring to mind some of our long-ago firsts. And as we ring in 2024, it seems to me we should resolve not only to celebrate the firsts that await us, but also to embrace other moments as if they were old acquaintances not be forgot.

Because you never know when the last kiss is.

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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.

Words fall far shy in fully expressing my gratitude to everyone who participated in “Woody’s 2023 Holiday Ball Drive,” but know this: whether you gave one ball, or many, you filled my heart with birdsong.

And no music was sweeter than from Steve McFadden, who gave four balls in memory of his dad, Harold – aka “Coach Mac,” one of my all-time favorite teachers – noting: “It always makes me smile to know a deserving child might have a little better Christmas. My dad would love to be part of your ball drive.”

Here are some more smile-makers…

Shelly and Steve Brown gave half a dozen balls in honor of their six grandchildren, and Jim and Sandie Arthur gave four balls in honor of their daughters and grandchildren.

Steve Askay gave a dozen balls “in memory of my beautiful granddaughter, Mabel Rae Askay,” and Brandon and Tommy Kendlinger, and Elijah Ontiveros, gave 20 “in the loving memory of their cousin and brother, Michael Kendlinger.”

Ken and Elaine Lyle’s grandchildren – Joshua and Brynlee Lyle, and Corbin Spahr – each picked out one ball, and Jerry and Linda Mendelsohn similarly took their grandkids to pick out 20.

Brad and Mia Ditto gave 10 balls in honor of Brad’s late father, Cliff, a former high school coach, and Chuck and Ann Elliott gave 10 “in memory of Jim Cowan.”

The Lance Eaton family likewise donated one ball “in memory of mentor James Cowan; two in memory of Roy Gilmore and our late son Mark; and two more to honor Mickey Perry and our Special Olympian son, Ian.”

Mickey Perry, meanwhile, and fellow legendary basketball coach Joe Vaughan donated 10 balls, as did Ann Cowan to honor her late husband, Jim.

Peggi and Denny Clayton gave one ball; Mike Wildermuth and Georgina Sandy, two; Connie Gajefski, three; George Saunders, four; Bob Vrtis, five; and Bobbie and Dave Williams added six. 

Irma Paramo gave two balls, as did Richard Dreher; Steven and T. Yamamoto gave three; Ben Coats, ten; and Al and Carol Gross donated 11 in memory of Dick Utter, a member of the ’49 Ventura High 30-0 basketball team that won the CIF.

Karen and Dave Brooks, and their trusty canine companion, Watson, also gave 11 balls, and Cristina Kildee gave three “in the loving memory of my furbaby, Bear.”

Kay Giles and Michael Mariani gave six balls, as did Carole Rowland; Tom and Sheila McCollum gave 18; and from my Buena High Class of ’78, Bob Colla Jr. gave two and Robert Schwartz added one.

Steve and Bobbin Yarbrough gave two balls; Thomas and Karyne Roweton, four; Katherine and Frank Anderson, five; Fran and Kate Larsen, six; Laurie Rutledge, eight; and Laura McAvoy and Sol Chooljian added 10.

The Pleasant Valley-Somis-Camarillo Lions Club gave 150 balls; a group of former Marines added 30; and patrons of The Goebel Adult Community Center in Thousand Oaks donated 65.

In another group effort, 287 balls were given by the “A Team” of family members and friends who wished to only have their first names used: Grandma Alma, Nancy and Rick, Connie and Andy, Carmen and Louie, Alma and Tomas, Christine and Tyler, Ruth and Shaun, Alast and Allen, Rachel and Mike, Reina and Michael, Juan, Beth and Stan, Caren and Achilles, Charlene and Phil, Rose and Jace, Dave and Yoda, Kellie and John, Shelly, Michelle and Michael, Beverley and Ricky, Steve, Jesus, Leroy, Dave, Cathy and Carlos, Claudia and Mike, Will and Heidi, Kelly and Lisa, Pamela, Tina and Chris, Lane, Deborah, Maddie, Mary Kay and Steve, Mel and Todd, Dawn and Jim, Donna and Art, and Ilene and Mitch.

Auden McAuley and Amara Woodburn each gave one ball; Anna and Tom McBreen, two; Judy Windle, three; Rick Estberg, four; Kent Brinkmeyer, five; and Glen Sittel gave six in memory of is mom “who was such a great supporter of my youth sports.”

Alicia and Hall Stratton gave five balls, as did Kathy and Ken McAlpine, and Lauren Siegel as well.

Secret Santas gave a combined 63 balls, including 25 in memory of my former Star sportswriting colleague Loren Ledin, a star person who recently lost a warrior’s decade-long battle with cancer.

Mike and Bob Bryan donated 50 assorted balls and, in a closing note of birdsong for my heart, for her fifth birthday Maya McAuley picked out one gift ball for a child she will never know but said she can imagine her-or-his smile.

And now, the final tally for 2023 is … drumroll, please … a whopping 1,142 gift sports balls, surpassing last year’s previous record by more than 100 children’s smiles!

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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.

Without undue preamble, other than to say I surpassed my annual book-a-week goal this year, here are some favorites from my 2023 reading list…

“What You Are Looking For is in the Library” by Michiko Aoyama is a collection of short stories linked by a hint of magic and a librarian who is large and gruff, but also kind and wise, and is worth looking for on library or bookstore shelves.

“The Prospectors” by Ariel Djankian is a terrific tale switching back and forth between today and the gold rush in the Yukon.

“Let Us Descend” by Jesmyn Ward is a powerful, heart-wrenching story about a young woman who is sold by the enslaver who fathered her and the hellish relocation journey on foot she endures while accompanied by the memories and spirits of her mother and African warrior grandmother.

 “The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store” by James McBride and “Tom Lake” by Ann Patchett both require a little patience early on, in my opinion, but eventually reward the reader fully.

“Saint Monkey” by Jacinda Townsend is a masterful and musical coming-of-age story of two friends told by a narrator whose storytelling voice absolutely sings.

Even though I have never played a musical instrument, I found Glenn Kurtz’s memoir “Practicing: A Musician’s Return to Music” to B-flat out wonderful with the author’s passion contagious. Another musical-themed book, the fictional “Symphony of Secrets” by Brendan Slocumb, is a terrific page-turning mystery.

“The Museum of Ordinary People” by Mike Gayle is far, far better than ordinary, and you do not have to be a runner to enjoy Jeffrey Recker’s “The Humiliation Tour” which is long in both pages (at 460) and laughs (4,600).

Conversely, “Baumgartner” by Paul Auster, about a widower wrestling with memories and grief, and “The Gift” by Pete Hamill, about a GI during Korean War coming home from boot camp to Brooklyn for Christmas, are both thin on pages but thick on beautiful storytelling.

“The President’s Hat” by Antoine Laurain is a fun journey following a hat with a mystical power to change the lives of all who wear it.

“Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” by Gabrielle Zevin is a wonderful and wonderful and wonderful love story while “Tomorrow Will Be Better” by Betty Smith is a story about a lack of love with a protagonist, Margy, you cannot help but love.

John Wooden liked to say that the trouble with new books is they keep us from reading old ones. On the 20th anniversary of its publication, I reread

“Off Season: Discovering America On Winter’s Shores” by local wordsmith Ken McAlpine and enjoyed it ever as much as the first time.

Another local offering, by Ventura native Deborah Holt Larkin, that merits a high recommendation is “A Lovely Girl: The Tragedy of Olga Duncan and the Trial of One of California’s Most Notorious Killers.”

Evidence that good things come in threes, a third local author makes my list with “The Unsold Mindset” by Ventura native Garrett Brown and Colin Coggins.

Runner-up for my favorite book this year is “Remarkably Bright Creatures” by Shelby Van Pelt. My only complaint about this remarkably creative novel is that I wanted more of the chapters narrated by the octopus!

And – drum roll, please – the king of the 62-book-tall mountain I have read this year is “The Kudzu Queen” by Mimi Herman, whose poetry chops shine through with lyrical writing, precise word choices, and vivid imagery in this southern novel that brings to mind “To Kill a Mockingbird,” including young narrator Mattie’s voice that has echoes of Scout.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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

A common parlor game, with the number often varying, is to ask: “If you could invite any three people, real or fictional, to dinner who would they be?”

The other evening, on a date night out with my much-better-half, I would have given most anything, even my delicious appetizer crab cakes, to have Sherlock Holmes, Lieutenant Columbo, and Nancy Drew pull up chairs for I unexpectedly found myself trying to solve The Case of The Mystery Glass of Whiskey.

“Thanks, but that’s not for me,” I told the waitress as she set down a tumbler filled with amber nectar. Gesturing at my pint glass, still nearly full with a tasty local craft brew, I added: “I think you have the wrong table.”

Smiling, she said someone had sent the drink to me.

“Who?” I asked.

Her smiled broadened, taking on a hint of mischievousness: “Sorry, I promised not to tell.”

“But I need to thank them,” I persisted.

“Too bad,” she said, her eyes dancing with delight to be part of the whodunit.

I scanned the restaurant but saw no one I recognized, albeit the mood lighting and too many backs of heads, which is all I saw of half the patrons, made identification rather difficult.

Naturally it would be rude to delay in sampling the gift, for surely the secret Samaritan was surreptitiously watching, so I raised the glass high with a “Sláinte” toast to my unkown benefactor and took a wonderful warm sip.

I am no whiskey connoisseur, although I have toured the Jameson Distillery in Dublin, Ireland – twice, including earlier this year – and if I had to guess I would have ventured it was indeed Jamo.

When, against all odds, the waitress confirmed my stab in the dark was correct, it was a valuable clue. You see, for a recent anniversary gift I gave some dear friends an Irish bottle of Jameson personalized with their names on the label. I looked around again, searching the room more thoroughly, certain I would spot them.

I did not. Surely they were hiding, laughing at my bafflement.

Alas, a quick series of exchanged texts with the husband convinced me that This Hound of the Baskerville was barking up the wrong tree and they were in fact not the playful culprits. By now my wife and I were amused to giggles trying to solve the mystery.

Out of the blue, an “Elementary, my dear Watson!” insight struck me. Yes, whiskey was the vital clue – but not Jameson specifically. Knowing next to nothing about whiskeys, I have more than once asked a close friend, whose blood has surely been aged in oak barrels, for his recommendations.

“Are you out for dinner tonight?” I texted him now, naming the restaurant.

Without delay my phone pinged. The reply was simply a dimly lit photo of my wife and me at our table. A moment later my friend sidled up to share a big laugh and two bigger hugs.

No whodunit was involved in a similar encounter a few days later, in a different restaurant, when my beloved dentist personally delivered a coastal microbrew to me, also with a smile and some shared words. Best of all, he didn’t add a shot of Novocaine to make it a boilermaker.

Between these boozy bookend encounters, at yet another local eatery, a friend in my wider circle dropped by my table to say hello, sans largesse libation. But here’s the important lesson: spirit, not spirits, is what truly matters, for her impromptu visit warmed my chest ever as much as a mystery whiskey.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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

Some 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.