Category Archives: Uncategorized

An Unknown Hero Among Heroes

by Woody

Woody’s debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Today being the Fourth of July, it seems fitting to share a column about a hero from my Star archives from a decade ago…

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For the first five days of August, I was in the august company of heroes in our nation’s capital.

Heroes like astronauts John Glenn and Neil Armstrong, and earlier fliers like Charles Lindbergh and the Wright Brothers, all in the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum.

Also men and women heroes interred in Arlington National Cemetery, a heartbreaking landscape that is ironically beautiful.

My tour of heroes further included monuments for those who served in World Wars I and II; the Korean War Memorial; and Vietnam Memorial Wall.

In the National Archives I peered at Founding heroes like Benjamin Franklin and John Hancock’s ornate signatures on the original Declaration of Independence.

And, of course, there are the marble heroes in the National Mall: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Martin Luther King, Jr.

Yet the hero who arguably engraved the deepest impression upon me was one I encountered shortly after my late-night arrival when I boarded the train from the airport to my downtown D.C. hotel.

The first few minutes of the ride were quiet, sans the pleasant rhythmic sounds of the track below, when suddenly calm turned to clamor. A passenger two rows ahead of me – a tall, sinewy man in his 20s, bare arms covered with sleeve tattoos, electrocuted blond hair that made Einstein’s look tame – jumped from his seat like a jack-in-the-box and began shouting at a goateed man – about his same age, although shorter and stockier – seated across the aisle.

The goateed man apparently had said something to the mangy tattooed man’s equally unkempt dog. Quick as a hiccup, the two men were standing nose-to-nose as the tattooed man angrily cursed and challenged the goateed man’s manhood.

A young woman facing me across the aisle looked petrified. As the vile racial epithets from the crazed tattooed man intensified, I signaled with my eyes that we should slip out the door at the next stop.

Just then – THUMP! – the goateed man landed a solid punch to the jaw and – THUMP! THUMP! – a second and third blow. Frankly, Gandhi might not have blamed him at this point. Remarkably, the tattooed man’s large dog remained nonviolent.

Before another punch could be thrown, or a weapon pulled out, a bald-headed man sitting with his back to the fray bolted from his seat, spun 180 degrees into the aisle in one fluid motion, took four strides in two blinks, and seized the goateed man from behind. It was as if Batman happened to be aboard the Metro Blue Line.

Sitting beside his gray-haired wife, the bald-headed man, wearing peach slacks and a white sweater, had seemed as unimposing as Bruce Wayne. Rising into action, the human Teddy bear came into focus like a grizzly – or a former NFL linebacker or retired Marine sergeant.

“Knock it off!!! Now!!!” the bald-headed man commanded fiercely with multiple exclamation marks. “Get out of here!!! Now!!! Before you get arrested!!!”

Having stepped between the two combatants, the bald-headed man assumed the wide-footed stance of a heavyweight boxer and slowly and deliberately backed the goateed man towards the closed exit.

At the next stop, the goateed man retreated out the door with haste; the tattooed man and his dog also departed; the bald-headed man returned to his wife’s side; and the rest of us passengers finally exhaled.

When my stop came, I used the exit door further from me but nearer the bald-headed man.

“Thanks,” I said, shaking his hand. “You’re a hero.”

He smiled, humbly, but his wife’s proud smile was as oversized as John Hancock’s “John Hancock.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Sticky, Sweaty, Sleepless, Sublime Nights

by Woody

Woody’s award-winning debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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In the summertime, in my boyhood, in Ohio, humid nights sometimes refused to cool down much from the sunburned daytime making falling asleep next to impossible.

Pop, despite Mom’s pleas, refused to get air conditioning. He also refused to buy electric fans, despite the whining of us four kids, because he was convinced at least one of us would poke a finger through the wire cage guard into the whirling blade and he would have to rush us to the E.R. and personally sew the tip back on.

On the muggiest nights, when our pajamas clung to us like we had the flu and 102-degree temperatures, my siblings and I – and sometimes Mom, but never Pop who apparently could have fallen asleep in a steamy tropical rainforest – would peel off our PJs down to our BVDs and migrate downstairs to the dining room because it had floor-length windows that let in the softest whispers of a breeze. Lying next to the open windows we camped restlessly atop open sleeping bags.

As miserable as those sweltering sweaty sticky sleepless nights were, it’s funny how they are among my cherished memories – “marble-in-a-jar” remembrances, to borrow from last week’s column. In my mind’s eye and ears, I can still see and hear my two older brothers, bookended on either side of me, telling ghost stories and cracking jokes until our little sister would decide the jungle heat upstairs was preferable and left us alone to our tomfoolery. Eventually, of course, our laughter became snoring.

I was reminded of these miserably marble-ous memories after a similarly sleepless sultry night recently at my daughter’s home in the Bay Area. The guestroom, on the first floor and east facing, is generally so comfortably cool I cannot recall ever not needing a blanket even in summertime.

Not this time.

Opening the sliding glass door would have solved the problem for while the day had been hot, the evening cooled down very pleasantly. Alas, the house security alarm was turned on and I did not wish to wake my daughter or son-in-law to deactivate it; they had long earlier gone to bed, as is demanded when you have two young kids who rise and shine before the sun does.

Remarkably, my warmhearted Much Better Half, who favors a thermostat setting of “Igloo,” fell fast asleep in the sweat lodge-like heat as if sprinkled with fairy’s dream dust.

Unremarkably, in the wee hours I had to go to the bathroom – which proved to be a big relief in two ways, because in the hallway I was greeted by temperatures as cool as a TikTok influencer. Returning to bed, I left the guestroom door ajar to let the wintermint air drift in and said hello to dreamland.

Not so fast.

Moonlight now also sliced in through door crack, bright enough to be bothersome. No matter, I turned facing away and shut my eyes tight and…

…tick-tock Tick-Tock TICK-TOCK!

A wall clock in the nearby family room, unnoticeable during the noisy busyness of daytime, in the lonely quiet hours echoed like a pickleball match. It was water torture to the ears, and then…

…snore Snore SNORE!

It would be kind to describe it as a soft humming lullaby, but in truth the snoring was as loud and unmelodious as three young brothers cracking jokes on a hot summer’s night.

I was about to nudge Sleeping Beauty awake when it struck me that she was drowning out the far more annoying clock. Suddenly, I appreciated her snoring as a familiar lullaby indeed and drifted happily to sleep.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Summertime is Marble in a Jar Time

by Woody

My debut novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Today, June 20, is the first day of summer so this column from my Star archives seems fitting…

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This may come as a surprise to readers of this space, but I am not losing my marbles. To the contrary, I am gaining them.

For this I owe my great gratitude to a teacher who interrupted his discussion of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” one long-ago spring afternoon and shared a personal story.

A philosophy, really.

Mr. Hawkins explained he kept a large pickle jar on his dresser and every time something wonderful happened in his life he dropped a marble inside. Smooth pebbles, sea glass, or shiny pennies would also suffice, he noted. His goal was to fill the jar, and hopefully a few more, during his lifetime. The marbles themselves were not the real treasure, however – the act of noticing each special moment was.

All these years later, I can quote by memory only two lines from that Shakespeare play – “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” and “Though she be but little, she is fierce” – but I still collect a rising tide of sea glass and marbles. In doing so, I have come to notice something: summertime is marble time.

As my wise fifth-grade teacher importantly emphasized, something need not be a monumental pinch-me event – hitting a home run, stealing a first kiss, earning a diploma, winning an award – to merit a marble. In fact, oftentimes the simple pleasures are much deserving.

Simple summer pleasures such as…

Gazing at the stars that always seem brighter on a warm midsummer’s night.

A sweet summer romance.

Catching fireflies, catching frogs, catching “running” grunion in the midnight moonlight.

Running in the sprinklers, running your first marathon or fastest 5K, running after an ice cream truck.

Enjoying a Popsicle or ice cream cone that tastes better – and colder – on your tongue on a hot summer afternoon.

Sleeping in a tent, be it in the backyard for a slumber party or on a camping trip.

Visiting any National Park – or ballpark, be it Major League or Little League.

Hiking in Yosemite Valley or the trails of Ventura’s Harmon Canyon.

Climbing Mount Whitney or climbing a tree more lovely than a poem.

Writing a poem about a marble moment.

Skinny dipping in a pond for the first time – or most recent time.

Wine tasting, pub crawling, beach walking.

Spending an afternoon wading in the tide pools, collecting seashells and sea glass, building a sandcastle.

Visiting one of the Channel Islands.

Watching – really watching – a Pacific sunset more beautiful than anything in the Louvre.

Going fishing, even if you bring home nothing more than a sunburn, a smile, and a tall tale about the one that got away.

Teaching your son or daughter to ride a two-wheeler – doesn’t this always happen during the summertime?

Daydreaming while gazing off the Ventura Pier.

Spending a week at your grandparents’ home and hearing stories about what your dad (or mom) was like as a young boy (or girl).

Flying a kite with your grandchild.

Attending your high school reunion or revisiting old memories with a college friend.

A backyard barbecue with friends is always better in the summertime.

Playing outside until one of your parents hollers, for the third time, for you to come inside for the night.

An evening walk hand-in-hand with your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend/child – or hand-in-leash with your dog.

Riding a merry-go-round or Ferris wheel at the fair with your child/girlfriend/boyfriend/spouse.

Watching Fourth of July fireworks.

A picnic with your favorite person in the world.

Be you 6 or 96, don’t be a mortal fool: make a point this summer to recognize – and savor – as many new marble moments as possible.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Dadvice for Father’s Day

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Father’s Day cards will be opened two days hence, so it seems apropos to share a Hallmark-worthy thought from Mark Twain who famously observed: “When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.”

More recently, classical pianist Charles Wadworth, who died two weeks ago at age 96, once expanded on Twain’s quip: “By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he’s wrong.”

Or daughter.

Barry Kibrick, an Emmy-winning TV host on PBS, once insightfully told me of raising his two sons: “I never worried about over-praising them and building up their self-esteem too much because there are plenty of people in the world who will try to tear them down.”

Author Jan Hutchins had a similarly wise dad, sharing: “When I was a kid, my father told me every day, ‘You’re the most wonderful boy in the world, and you can do anything you want to.’ ”

Clarence Budington Kelland, a 20th century novelist who once described himself as “the best second-rate writer in America,” made a first-rate compliment about his own father: “He didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.”

Best-selling essayist Robert Fulghum put it this way: “Don’t worry that your children never listen to you; worry that they are always watching you.”

American inventor Charles Kettering likewise advised, “Every father should remember: one day his son will follow his example, not his advice.”

With attribution unknown comes this pearl: “One night a father overheard his son pray: ‘Dear God, Make me the kind of man my Daddy is.’ Later that night, the father prayed, ‘Dear God, Make me the kind of man my son wants me to be.’ ”

The rock band Yellowcard offers this lovely lyric about the power of a dad as a role model: “Father I will always be / that same boy who stood by the sea / and watched you tower over me / now I’m older I wanna be the same as you.”

Hall of Fame baseball player Harmon Killebrew apparently had a Hall-of-Fame Dad, the son recalling: “My father used to play with my brother and me in the yard. Mother would come out and say, ‘You’re tearing up the grass.’ Dad would reply, ‘We’re not raising grass – we’re raising boys.’ ”

A great attitude for Girl Dads as well, naturally.

Speaking of little girls, John Mayer strikes the perfect chord with these lyrics: “Fathers, be good to your daughters. You are the god and the weight of her world.”

Getting further to the heart of the matter, John Wooden, who believed “love” is the most important word in the English language, opined: “The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother.”

From another basketball coach, the late Jim Valvano: “My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person – he believed in me.”

Wayne Bryan, father of doubles legends Mike and Bob who are even better people than they are tennis players, advises parents: “Shout your praise to the rooftops and if you must criticize, drop it like a dandelion. On second thought, don’t criticize at all.”

In closing, this home-run thought from Hall of Fame singles hitter Wade Boggs: “Anyone can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Lovely ‘Poem’ Turned Into Woodchips

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

From Woody’s column archives, spring 2013, evoked by recently seeing a fallen tree…

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A century and change ago, Joyce Kilmer penned “Trees” with one of the most widely familiar opening couplets in America poetry:

I think that I shall never see / A poem lovely as a tree.

The other morning I gazed out my window and across the street as a lovely “poem” got sawed down, cut up, turned into woodchips, and trucked away. It was like witnessing a theatrical street version of Shel Silverstein’s classic children’s book “The Giving Tree” starring two workmen in white hardhats and optic-yellow vests.

Actually, this story was even sadder for this tree’s limbs would not be used to build a house for the grown boy; its trunk not crafted into a boat to sail the seas. When the workmen’s work was finished, there remained not even a stump to sit and rest upon.

This tree had soared majestically, perhaps 70 feet into the clouds, tall and leafy, with a trunk too thick to reach one’s arms around. Alas, it had become a botanical Leaning Tower of Pisa, cracking and raising a section of sidewalk and in danger of falling across a busy street.

And so at 9 a.m. on a May gray day, a whining chainsaw made the morning more leaden. Standing in the basket of a gargantuan cherry-picker, a workman amputated the large branches one by one by one as he hydraulically rose higher Higher HIGHER.

Far below, the felled branches were cut into manageable lengths and fed into a woodchipper roaring loud as a jet engine. Lines of a lovely “poem” went in, lousy mulch came out.

Lastly, the towering tall barren trunk came down, made not into long lumber for a home or boat, but into short logs to be burned in fireplaces. This was not a heartwarming thought.

Start to finish, what had taken many decades of the four seasons to become living poetry was erased in a less than four hours. It was tree-mendously sad.

Kilmer again: A tree that may in summer wear / A nest of robins in her hair.

No more birds will nest in the lovely tree I used to admire out my kitchen window, looking east, the sun lifting above it in the late mornings of springtime.

The melancholy event gave me pause to think about a handful of memorable trees from my life: the evergreen beside the driveway of my earliest boyhood home that my two older brothers and I attempted blind shots over while playing H-O-R-S-E; the sturdy buckeye, near a swimming pond, with a hanging rope we swung on like Tarzan; the apple tree I picked snacks from on a shortcut home from grade school; the orange tree my two then-young kids and I planted; the giant redwoods we saw, in awe, as a family; and on and on.

I think “poems” fill our lives more than we often realize. We draw trees in kindergarten and as older kids climb trees and hopefully one day we plant a tree in deference to this Greek proverb: “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.”

Kilmer once more: Poems are made by fools like me, / But only God can make a tree.

Afterwards, this curious fool sought to determine how old the tree had been by counting its rings, but the stump was cut off below ground level and covered with dirt.

I may be overestimating by half, but I like to imagine this poetic tree had sprouted in 1913 – the same year “Trees” came into the world.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Dear New Graduates, Be ‘Stonecatchers’

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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With graduation season upon us, I would like to share with the Classes of 2025 an excerpt from my novel “The Butterfly Tree.”

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“Where’re we going, Grandpa?”

“It’s a surprise,” Tavis told his nine-old twin grandsons riding in the backseat.

“Give us a hint,” Moswen pleaded.

“What’re we gonna do when we get there?” Lemuel joined in.

“Catch stones,” Tavis said, sunshine in his voice. “You’re gonna be Stonecatchers.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Lem said warily.

“And fun!” Mos animatedly added.

Tavis glanced in the rearview mirror at the boys; their smiles contagiously jumped to his lips.

“Grandpa, are you a Stonecatcher?”

“I try to be,” Tavis said.

“Do you catch the stones with a baseball mitt?”

“We didn’t bring our mitts.”

“You won’t need your baseball gloves,” Tavis assured.

“Who throws the stones?”

“Do they throw ’em hard?”

“Are the rocks big?”

The questions came like pitches in an automated batting cage with too little time between for answers.

“Time out, time out!” Tavis interrupted. “Listen up and I’ll tell you all about the mysteries of being a Stonecatcher.”

Mos and Lem leaned forward against the restraint of seatbelts, eager to hear a magical tale.

“Stonecatchers don’t actually catch stones,” their grandpa began. “Well, I suppose a long, long time ago they did and that’s where the name comes from. When someone hurled a stone at a person who was unable to defend him or herself, the Stonecatcher jumped in and caught the flying rock.

“But nowadays a Stonecatcher is someone who helps another person who is defenseless or in need – like protecting them from a bully, or buying a homeless person a meal, or donating blood to save someone who’s ill. You can think of a Stonecatcher as a Good Samaritan.

“Lem – Mos – you boys come from a long proud heritage of Stonecatchers.”

“We do?” they said in stereo.

“Oh, yes,” Tavis resumed. “Your many greats-great-grandfather, Dr. Lemuel Jamison, was a Stonecatcher who adopted identical twins when they lost their mother and father. He had actually saved the twins’ lives when they were born and thus they were named Jamis and Lemuel – your namesake, Lem – in his honor.

“Those twins’ real father, Tamás – that’s where your middle name comes from, Mos – was a Stonecatcher by helping your five-times-great-grandfather, Sawney Jordan, escape from slavery on the Underground Railroad. Sawney, in turn, was a fearless Stonecatcher because he swam into bullet fire trying to rescue Tamás who had been shot.

“Yes, the Jamisons and Jordans have been filled with Stonecatchers. Your Grandpa Flynn was a Stonecatcher for America in the Vietnam War. And Grandma Love was a Stonecatcher for your daddy when he was young and lost and needed a roof over his head – and, most of all, needed some love.

“I’m definitely proud of the Stonecatchers your parents are. They’re always helping others in big ways and little ways – sometimes it’s the small acts that turn out to be the biggest ones.

“For example, it’s hard to imagine a simple Hello, how’re you doing today? being important. But to someone who’s having a bad day, that small gesture can mean the world.

“I read a story about a boy who was planning to run away from home because he had no friends. That very day at school, during lunch, a classmate saw him sitting off by himself and went over and ate with him. They had a nice conversation and the dejected boy changed his mind because he no longer felt so lonesome. You see, being a Stonecatcher doesn’t always require bravery – sometimes kindness is all that’s needed.

“Mos – Lem – I expect you boys to be Stonecatchers. I want you to go sit with the person who’s all alone. I want you to cheer for the teammate who rarely gets off the bench. I want you to stand up to the bully who picks on others.

“And right now, I want you to help me paint the kitchen for a lovely elderly lady. Her name is Jewell. That’s how we’ll be Stonecatchers today.”

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Dear newly minted graduates, as you venture out into the world and pursue your dreams, please be Stonecatchers along the way.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Some Things I Think I Know…

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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The mile marker of a birthday is a good time for reflection and so today, four days before beginning my sixty-sixth lap around the sun, here are a few things I have come to know…

Always double-knot your shoelaces.

Never pass up a barefoot walk on the beach.

Love is more powerful than penicillin.

Never ever pass up a chance to gaze at a sunrise, or sunset, or rainbow.

Always take the opportunity to gaze at the stars on a clear night – or at Starry Night and other masterpiece paintings.

Speaking of art and masterpieces, these two bookend John Wooden-isms will carry you far: “Make friendship a fine art” and “Make each day your masterpiece.”

Who you travel with is far more important than where you travel.

All the same, Robert Frost was right: Take the road less traveled by.

Even if wrongly attributed to John Muir, this advice is also right: “Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.”

Don’t save the good china plates and crystal goblets and heirloom silverware only for special occasions.

Do spend as much time as you can with people who lift you up and as little as possible with those who pull you down.

Writing a thank-you note, or handwritten letter, is always a few minutes well spent.

A good many movies and books are too long, but most hugs are too short.

A positive attitude will positively carry you far.

Never pass up a chance to hold hands with a boyfriend or girlfriend, husband or wife or partner, child or elderly.

“I’m sorry” can be as healing as “I love you.”

Don’t let your fears outweigh your dreams.

One minute of encouragement following a defeat or painful failure is worth far more than an hour of accolades and praise after a triumph or big success.

Artificial Intelligence worries me, but not half so much as Real Stupidity does.

The value of a compliment is often underrated by the giver, but is rarely underappreciated by the recipient.

This African proverb is right: “There are two lasting gifts you can give your child: one is roots, the other is wings.”

Do unto others as you would have them do unto your children or grandchildren is a better Golden Rule.

We can always make room for one more at the dinner table, or in our heart.

Maya Angelou was right: “When you leave home, you take home with you.”

The best travels, and life journeys too, often wind about a bit crookedly.

Even a “bad” road trip will give you some good memories to last a lifetime.

It is not truly a favor if you make a person feel like you are doing them a favor.

It takes worn-out running shoes to finish a marathon; worn-out brushes before you can paint a masterpiece; burnt pans to become a seasoned chef; and blistered fingertips to master the guitar.

Some of my very favorite adults seem like they are just tall children.

No matter your age, never pass up a chance to ride a Ferris wheel or carousel.

If you can be world class at only one thing, make it kindness.

JFK was right when he said, “One person can make a difference and everyone should try.”

My dear friend Wayne Bryan is even more right: “If you don’t make an effort to help others less fortunate than you, then you’re just wasting your time on Earth.”

Don’t waste your time on Earth.

Stopping to smell the roses is never a waste of time.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Beautiful Mosaic of Memorial Rocks

by Woody

Woody’s award-winning novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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Some people have rocks in their head.

Others have hearts of stone.

And then there is a recent visitor to Ventura, a man of Baby Boomer age and reportedly from New York, who was caught on video proving he suffers from both sedimentary maladies.

Imagine a vandal toppling gravestones in a cemetery and you get an idea of what this king of jerks from Queens did at the memorial rock garden that graces a raised cement planter along our beach promenade.

Specifically, The Jerk ruthlessly threw into the ocean some of the beautiful rocks decorated to honor lost loved ones. Watching the detestable act, posted widely on social media, made my heart feel like it had been stung by a hundred jellyfish.

If you have never visited this special garden of stones, you are missing out. It is one of the loveliest little jewels of a place you can image, affording a view of the ocean and the music of breaking waves and this sunny greeting on a tiny sign: “Welcome to Haole’s Memorial Rock Garden / Please leave memorial rocks for all to enjoy!”

Haole was a dog, a Yellow Lab albeit with white fur, who was famous because he surfed. Indeed, Haole once appeared on “Good Morning America” and also stars in a book, “Ride the Wave: Love Sofia and Haole the Surf Dog,” which is the true story of how he helped teach a little girl with Down syndrome to “walk on water.”

After Haole died five summers past, the memorial garden was planted with its first rock and today blooms with many hundreds, if not a thousand or more. The mini-markers come in many sizes and shapes, although most are round or oval, and more than a few are heart-shaped. Almost all are pleasingly smooth as if selected with great care.

What makes these stones true gems is they are hand-painted with flowers and hearts, sunsets and rainbows, paw prints and palm trees, angel wings and crosses, with R.I.P. wishes and other heartwarming messages along with the names of loved ones – pets, yes, but also human moms and dads and spouses and siblings and friends. Many are true works of art and all are works from the heart.

Together, this colorful avalanche creates a mosaic worthy of comparison to a stained glass window in a church, which is fitting because this comely corner of the seaside seems like an outdoor temple. As such, it is common to see people – pedestrians and cyclists and rollerbladers; alone and in couples and small groups – stop and visit, pause and ponder, remember and pray. Some search for the rocks they have previously left here while others leave new stones now.

One rock in Haole’s memorial garden is especially dear to me because I know its honoree as well as the artist, my 6-year-old granddaughter, who lovingly decorated it. When Maya learned that my good friend Nick’s dog recently crossed the rainbow bridge, she found a stream-polished rock, palm-sized and oval; cleaned it and painted on swirls of deep blue and sea-glass green, and added white stars; then, in her neatest kindergarten printing, in black marker wrote: “Henry.”

Coincidentally, Henry’s rock was placed at the southernmost tip of Haole’s garden, precisely where The Jerk committed his briny desecration. I went to check and was relieved to find “Henry” still resting in peace in view of the Ventura Pier. I hope the memorial stones that were tossed into the ocean can be, or have been, retrieved at low tide.

One Jerk cannot wipe out Haole’s four-legged legacy.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.

Special Delivery for Mother’s Day

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

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The first Mother’s Day gift I remember giving my mom was a bouquet of flowers fashioned in first grade from colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners, plus gobs of paste, and a bigger glob of love.

Mom, naturally, acted as thrilled as if it were a dozen long-stemmed roses because that’s what moms do.

The final Mother’s Day gift I gave my mom, 33 years ago – more than half my lifetime – was a store-bought bouquet. More importantly, I delivered the lovely flowers in person; most importantly, they came with a hug. She might have preferred a single dandelion and a bouquet of hugs.

These bookend reminisces bring to mind a story I once heard, perhaps apocryphal, that seems fitting to share ahead of Mother’s Day.

Harry was an extremely successful, and extremely busy, businessman. The Friday before Mother’s Day, when his secretary phoned in sick, he suddenly realized he had forgotten to have her order flowers for his mom. He would now have to take care of the matter himself and made a beeline on foot to a florist shop two blocks from his office.

The owner began to show him a variety of special arrangements, but Harry was in a hurry. Truth is, he was always in a rush. In the business world, after all, time is money. He hastily ordered one dozen long-stemmed red roses to be delivered two days hence on his mom’s doorstep 200 miles away.

“Those are for my mom,” Harry noted, adding: “Give me another dozen of the same, wrapped to-go, for my wife.”

Exiting the shop, with his attention already focused again on work, Harry collided with a young boy stooped down to lock up his bicycle.

“You nearly tripped me!” Harry snarled.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the boy apologized, then added bravely: “Can you lend me three dollars?”

“Don’t you mean give you three dollars?” Harry acerbically corrected. “You aren’t planning to pay me back. Why do you need three dollars anyway?”

“Today’s my mom’s birthday and I want to buy her a beautiful flower,” the boy explained. “But I don’t have quite enough money.”

Harry’s heart softened, slightly, and he asked the boy where he lived.

“About five minutes that way,” replied the boy, pointing down the street.

By now Harry had pulled out his wallet, withdrew three singles from within, then a new idea came to him. He put the crisp bills back and plucked one of the roses from the bouquet for his wife – surely she would not notice – and handed it to the boy.

“Give this beauty to your mom,” Harry offered with a wink.

“I’m gonna take this to her right now!” the boy said and promptly hopped on his bike and began to ride off – in the opposite direction of where he had indicated that he lived.

“Hey, son, I thought your house was that way,” Harry grumbled, gesturing.

“It is,” the boy replied. “But the cemetery is this way – my mom died last year.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Harry said, his voice cracking.

Eleven heartbeats of silence passed, one for each rose in Harry’s hand, before he spoke again. Handing the boy the remainder of the bouquet, he said: “Please put them all on her grave.”

“Really? Wow!” said the boy, his face beaming. “Thanks, mister!”

After the boy pedaled away Harry wheeled around and went back inside the florist shop.

“I need to cancel that out-of-town delivery I just ordered,” Harry said. “Instead, I would like two dozen roses right now, please, to-go. I’ve decided to deliver them today personally.”

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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

Music To This Beach Boy’s Ears

by Woody

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.

From Woody’s column archives, winter of 2021, evoked by last week’s nighttime spring showers…

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Ask one hundred people to name their favorite piece of music and you are likely to get a different answer from each, from the Beatles to Beethoven, from country to classical, from Amadeus to Zeppelin.

This question came to mind the other night as a much-needed Southern California rainstorm was drumming madly on my rooftop and rat-a-tat-tatting against my bedroom windowpanes. Buddy Rich nor Keith Moon ever played more magnificently.

Rain is such a lovely lullaby, I thought, and before fully drifting asleep, cocooned warm and dry beneath a Hudson Bay blanket, I considered nature’s songs further. Reaching back in time, back to my youth in Ohio, back to humid summer weekends at our family’s modest cabin with a nearby pond and a not-far-off lake, I conjured up another magical melody: the chirping of crickets; joined occasionally by bullfrogs croaking their basso notes a short walk away; and in the distance, much less frequently, eerie-but-beautiful lonesome howls of coyotes.

Moreover, instead of counting sheep to fall asleep one could count a cricket’s chirps for 15 seconds, add 40 to that number, and arrive at an approximation of the outside temperature in degrees Fahrenheit.

Winter nights, where winters are truly winters, have their own soundtrack for inducing slumber. If you listen closely, eyes-closed closely, I swear you can hear snow falling. Rather, I suppose, one actually hears an absence of noise as the snow muffles out all but the loudest of sounds. All the same, it is a beautiful lullaby indeed for as Mozart noted: “The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.”

Nearly as hushed as snowfall and softer than tap-dancing rain, with a cadence slower and more soothing than a cicada’s summer song, is to fall asleep to the whispered breathing of someone next to you. Here, too, the music is in the silence between notes, between inhalations and exhalations.

And yet, pressed to choose only one song to drift off to, I will opt for a percussion performance of waves crashing on the beach. Even in daylight, this is my favorite music, but at nighttime the ocean’s anthem is mesmerizingly magnified tenfold.

One of the magical properties of music is that it is a time machine. Hearing a specific song can instantly transport us back to where we were—and who we were—when we first heard it and listened to it frequently.

Such was the case for my wife’s recent birthday when our family, all seven of us, rendezvoused at a rented beach house in Avila Beach—or “Vanilla Beach,” as three-year granddaughter Maya renamed it—for a weekend celebration.

During the daytime, the cymbal-like crashing waves were largely drowned out by talking and laughing and all other goings on of life. But at night, after the moon rose and Goodnight Moon had been read to Maya and we had all later likewise retired to bed, the surf raised its volume pleasantly. Again, the music was as much in the silence—the sea rising into a gentle swell, rising into a wave, rising into a vibrating crest—between muffled oceanic thunderclaps.

Again I was transported back in time, back to 1972, back to age 12 when I spent the full summer at Solimar Beach with my godparents. For a kid from the Midwest who had never before seen any ocean, falling asleep nightly to the Pacific’s pacifying cadence was even better than listening to a rooftop symphony of rain or a concert of cicadas, coyotes, and bullfrogs.

All these years later, the surf’s song remains my favorite lullaby.

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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is now available in paperback and eBook at Amazon (click here), other online bookstores, and is orderable at all bookshops.

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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.