Tag Archives: Books

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.

Toasting My Favorite Books This Year

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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“Do you want sixteen ounces?” the waitress at a local craft brewery asked. “Or twenty?”

“Sixteen’s good,” I said before Gary Tuttle, my happy hour companion, followed with his ale selection, specifying: “I’ll have the twenty.”

When in Rome – or drinking with a long-distance legend who surely wore Adidas Rom running shoes in the 1960s: “Make mine a twenty, too,” I revised.

“Then I want twenty-four ounces,” Gary interjected playfully…

…and yet, in a nutshell, the humorous interaction unveils the serious competitive spirit that made Ventura’s native son a two-time NCAA steeplechase champion, three-time American record holder, and runner-up finisher in the prestigious Boston Marathon.

A new book that prominently features Gary throughout – “Running Behind The Redwood Curtain” written and compiled by Vince Engel – has a gem of a story that pairs perfectly with our beer orders. It took place Gary’s senior year at Humbolt State and, edited slightly for space, here is how he tells it in the pages:

“At 9:30 p.m., as I was preparing for bed, Vince made an announcement: ‘It’s the end of January and I have been sneaking daily peeks at your (Gary’s) running diary. For the first time in our five years of running together, I have tallied more miles in a month than you. I have one more mile total – I finally beat you in total mileage for the month.’

“I said nothing, but after a glance at the clock I began to put on rain sweats and running shoes. Vince’s smug smile turned to chagrin as he stammered, ‘What are you doing?’ I replied, ‘I’m going for a two-mile run in the rain – January has two and a half hours remaining.’

“Vince, with a worried smile, responded: ‘It’s pointless – I will just run with you, we will get wet and cold for no good reason, and I will still have one more mile than you.’

“I replied, ‘Darn, you’re right. I guess I will run hard for all two hours and thirty minutes left in January. I just need to beat you by over one mile to win the mileage – you are the middle-distance runner, I’m the distance man, so you know I will do it. Be prepared for the toughest run of your life.’

“By now Vince is getting very upset with me. ‘Can’t you just let me win once?’ he said.

“I said, ‘Nope. Are you coming?’ ”

After running the two extra miles needed, alone in the rain, Gary stayed up guarding their front door until midnight to make sure Vince didn’t sneak out to one-up him. Tuff plus mettle equals Tuttle.

While “Running Behind The Redwood Curtain” is not for everyone, hardcore running fans, and especially fans of Gary Tuttle whose storytelling highlights the 459 pages, will definitely enjoy it.

Of the 59 other books I crossed the finish line reading in 2024, here are my top recommendations, beginning with three nonfiction home runs: “Home Waters” by John N. Maclean; “The Bookshop” by Evan Friss; and “Perfect Eloquence: An Appreciation of Vin Scully” edited and compiled by Tom Hoffart, whose own chapter introductions alone are grand slams.

On the fiction bookshelf, shamelessly I shall lead off with my own debut novel, “The Butterfly Tree: An Extraordinary Saga of Seven Generations,” sharing company alongside “The Adventures of John Carson in Several Quarters of the World” by Brian Doyle; “Lillian Boxfish Takes a Walk” by Kathleen Rooney; and “A Walk in the Sun” by Henry Brown.

Also, “Water for Elephants” by Sara Gruen; “Horse” by Geraldine Brooks and “The Horse” by Willy Vlautin; “Wandering Stars” by Tommy Orange and “Night Came With Many Stars” by Simon Van Booy; “North Woods” by Daniel Mason and “Kingdom in the Redwoods,” a middle-grade novel by Keven Baxter; and “Kunstlers In Paradise” by Cathleen Shine.

Bookend thin-paged offerings that measure up big are “Until August” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and “Crossing Delancey” by Susan Sandler.

Lastly, let me raise a toast – with 20 ounces, not 16 – to my runner-up and favorite novels I read this year: “James” by Percival Everett and, with understandable bias and unimaginable pride, “Before & After You & Me” by my daughter Dallas Woodburn.

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“Woody’s Holiday Ball Drive” ends soon! New sports balls can be dropped off through Dec. 13, or online orders delivered to, Jensen Design & Survey at 1672 Donlon St. in Ventura, 93003. Please email me about your gifts at woodywriter@gmail.com so I can add your generosity to this year’s tally and acknowledge you in a future column.

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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.

Part 2: The Man Who Loves ‘Ulysses’

by Woody

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

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There was no tinkling bell above the door. Instead, my entrance was greeted by a singsong voice as warm as a Writers’ Tears toddy: Helloooo, and where are you from?”

It was not the last music the proprietor of Sweny’s small bookshop in Dublin, Ireland, would treat me to. Shortly thereafter, he retrieved a handsome guitar and sang—in Gaelic, so I have no idea what the words meant, much like reading James Joyce can sometimes feel; yet nonetheless, again like Joyce’s prose, was lovely to the ear.

Patrick Joseph Murphy, introduced in this space two weeks past, is as Irish as his name suggests; so Irish his family founded iconic Murphy’s Stout Brewery in County Cork, some 150 miles southwest from Dublin, in 1856, its dark nectar becoming the first beer transported around the world on refrigerated ships; so Irish his accent makes you think of leprechauns.

Patrick James Murphy, proprietor of Sweny’s bookshop, in song…

In appearance, however, “P.J.”—as he prefers to go by—brings to mind America and Hollywood and “Back to the Future” movies, specifically the charismatic mad scientist, Dr. Emmett Brown, with longish wild electrified white hair and the enthusiastic verbal energy of a lightning bolt.

Also like Doc Brown, and in a nod to his fourth-great-grandfather Frederick William Sweny, who originated the store as a pharmacy in 1853, P.J. always wears a white lab coat at work. Too, on this day, P.J. wore an easy smile and a bowtie as colorful as a stained-glass window.

His family continued to own and run “F.W. Sweny & Co. Ltd. Dispensing Chemists” through 1926, at which time it remained a pharmacy in other hands until 15 years ago when it was sold to become—“Great Scott!” as Doc Brown would say in exasperation—a dispenser of upscale coffee. Unable to bear that thought, P.J., then in his late 60s, reacquired the store and turned it into a bookshop devoted solely to famed Irish writer James Joyce, who frequented the original Sweny’s and included a lengthy encounter within in his epic novel “Ulysses.”

At well over 700 pages, treading fully through the tome is the literary equivalent of climbing Mount Everest; many who begin the journey do not reach the summit—or final page. P.J. admits he quit in the early going the first time, at age 18, he set out to conquer the voluminous volume. Many years later, he tried again and succeeded, and has kept climbing as untiringly as Sisyphus ever since.

At last count, P.J. has scaled Mount “Ulysses” a staggering 73—yes, seventy-three—times! Adding to this Herculean erudite feat, he has done so in all seven languages (English, Portuguese, French, Italian, Spanish, German, Russian) he speaks, often reading aloud to groups he hosts at Sweny’s nearly every evening. Not surprisingly, he readily quotes passages from the novel at length from memory.

“I’ve earned an unofficial PhD when it comes to Mr. Joyce, I should think,” Professor P.J. noted. “I’ve read everything he wrote, though of course ‘Ulysses’ is my favorite.”

Later, during our hour-long visit, he cajoled: “After being in Dublin, you must read ‘Ulysses.’ It’s all about Dublin. After you finish it you can come back from California and we can talk about it more.”

With a wink, P.J. added a nudge: “ ‘Ulysses’ is best enjoyed with the book in one hand and a whiskey in the other.”

“That’s a lot of Jameson,” I laughingly replied, then asked for a shorter Joyce recommendation. Thus I purchased a copy of “Dubliners” that, at only 202 pages, was no threat to push my suitcase overweight as would “Ulysses.”

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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.

Encore Excerpt From ‘The Butterfly Tree’

by Woody

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

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A good many readers in response to the column two weeks ago excerpted from my new novel “The Butterfly Tree: An Extraordinary Saga of Seven Generations” asked for more. Who am I to argue with taking the day off? And so, from the opening chapter, an encore:

Ka-BOOM!

Thunder exploded, its volume deafening, its lightning flash brilliant as the Biblical bolt that blinded Saul, shooting down from the heavens with the earthshaking power of a million hatchet blows. The blade of electricity cleaved The Black Walnut Tree as effortlessly as a honed hunting knife slicing a stalk of celery.

A life of 231 years ended in a split-second.

The regal tree was sliced cleanly in two, from leafy crown to grassy ground, the splayed halves as identical as a left and right hand. The newly exposed surfaces seemed as if a master cabinetmaker had spent endless hours sanding, varnishing, buffing.

In death The Black Walnut Tree had been a lifesaver, shielding a clan of Roma migrants from being lanced by the thunderbolt. The ensemble, encamped along the riverbank in March 1852, had sought shelter beneath the tree’s colossus canopy—most importantly, Aisha Beswick, who was in labor with her first child. Huddled alongside Tamás, the expectant father, was Dika, Aisha’s mother and a revered fortuneteller.

Half an hour before the fateful lighting strike, as moody clouds roiled ominously darker, darker, closer, closer, Dika bemoaned, on the edge of weeping: “The peril is great for Aisha and the baby. We must fetch a doctor or they shall both die, this I know.”

Without hesitation, Hanzi volunteered for the emergency errand. The teenager, as if a descendant of the wing-footed Greek messenger god Hermes, raced two miles to town with such swiftness that the falling raindrops seemed to miss him.

*

Aisha’s contractions became more frequent, more fierce, more worrisome.

The apocalyptic sky was having its own contractions, three-hundred-million-volt flashes of lightning followed by deafening whipcracks.

“Oh, Lord, please watch over my child,” Dika said softly, head bowed, “and keep safe my precious grandbaby.”

Dika’s prayers seemed suddenly answered with Doc’s hasty arrival, but just as he set down his medical bag—

—Ka-BOOM!

The fateful thunderbolt smote The Black Walnut Tree like a mighty swing of Paul Bunyan’s giant axe. Miraculously, no one was killed by the lightning strike, nor injured by the falling twin timbers. All, however, were dumbstruck with fright.

All, except Doc.

“Gentlemen, I need you to hold a blanket overhead—like a tent,” Doc calmly directed the gathering. “We want to keep our expectant mother here as dry and comfortable as possible.”

As this was being done, Doc removed his raincoat and favorite derby hat, dropped to one knee, went to work.

Another wave of contractions washed over Aisha and she wailed loud as a thunderclap.

“Omen bad,” Dika sobbed, staring at the felled tree halves. “Two sunrises this poor child will not live to see.”

Not a believer in prophecies, Doc was deeply concerned nonetheless. His heart raced like Hanzi’s feet had for this was the first baby—the very first—Dr. Lemuel Jamison would endeavor to deliver all by himself.

Only two weeks earlier, Doc had completed a nine-month obstetrics internship at Cincinnati’s Commercial Hospital that was affiliated with The Medical College of Ohio from which he graduated top of his class.

During his internship, Doc delivered countless babies. Always, however, there had been an experienced obstetrician by his side, ready to help—or take over fully—if things turned dicey.

Things were dicey now.

And about to turn dicier.

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Excerpt from “The Butterfly Tree” by Woody Woodburn, BarkingBoxer Press, all rights reserved, now available at Amazon and other online booksellers, and many bookshops. Woody can be contacted at woodywriter@gmail.com.

Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

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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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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Excerpt from ‘The Butterfly Tree’

by Woody

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

“Life imitates art,” Oscar Wilde famously asserted and his words proved eerily accurate a month ago when my 97-year-old father, a surgeon turned patient, was battling cancer to the courageous end.

One night, after Pop’s breathing had grown shallower by the day and more and labored by the hour, I read him the excerpt below from my newly released novel “The Butterfly Tree: An Extraordinary Saga of Seven Generations.”

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“What I want you to promise me,” Doc said—breathe—“is that you’ll grieve only one day for me.” Breathe. “After one day, dry your eyes and focus on always remembering our good times together”—breathe—“and never forgetting how much I love you.”

Tears bathed his twin sons’ cheeks.

“There’s something I never told you”—breathe—“and probably should have,” Doc, now 83, continued weakly, pneumonia’s grip growing strong. With effort he proceeded to share the depths of his long-ago widower’s bereavement and suicide attempt, including the exploding ether bottle that awakened him the night his house burned down. “So you see”—breathe—“you boys saved my life.”

“We had no idea,” said Lemuel.

“We’ll still never say who really started that fire,” Jamis said, impishly.

“I have my suspicion,” Doc retorted, winking intimately at Jay-Jay.

Turning serious again: “As I’ve often told you, try to make each day your masterpiece. Breathe. If you’re successful doing that most days, day after day and week after month after year”—breathe—“when you get to the end of your adventure you’ll have lived a masterpiece life. Breathe. I’ve made some flawed brushstrokes, certainly, but all in all, I’m pleased”—breathe—“with my life’s painting. Yes, I feel happy and fulfilled. My only real regret”—breathe—“is that it’s all passed by so swiftly, in a blink it seems. Breathe. I feel like I did when I was a kid on the pony ride at the fair”—breathe—“I want to go around one more time.”

Jamis leaned over and hugged Doc, embracing his Pops longer than he ever had, and still it was far too brief. Lem, lightly stroking Doc’s left arm, suddenly realized the brushstroke-like birthmark resembled Halley’s Comet—The tail of a comet that Grandma warned us would bring tears, he thought.

Doc slept for most of the next two days, awaking only for short spells—including evening shaves from the town barber, Jonny Gold. Breathing became more labored as his failing lungs slowly filled with drowning fluid. During Connie’s illness long before, and again with Alycia’s not so long ago, Doc lovingly told them it was okay to “let go” rather than suffer. But he found it impossible to grant himself similar merciful permission.

Jamis and Lem gave it instead.

“Keep fighting if it’s for you, Pops,” Jamis said, his tone tender as a requiem. “But if you’re doing it for Lem and me, we’ll be okay—go be with Aly and Connie. We love you beyond all measure.”

“We’ll never forget your love,” Lem whispered, his lips brushing his namesake’s ear.

Doc opened his eyes, blue-grey like the ocean on a cloudy day, and with clear recognition grinned fragilely at Jamis, then at Lem, letting them know he heard their lovely words. His eyelids lowered shut as he squeezed his sons’ hands and whistle-hummed, almost inaudibly, before being gently spirited away.

*

When I finished reading, and then echoed the twins’ words with my own, my dad opened his ocean-hued eyes, briefly; smiled, faintly; gave my hand a tender squeeze, lengthily; and death imitated art before my next visit the following day.

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            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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Essay copyrights Woody Woodburn

Excerpt from “The Butterfly Tree” by Woody Woodburn, BarkingBoxer Press, all rights reserved, now available at Amazon and other online booksellers and many bookshops. Woody can be contacted at woodywriter@gmail.com.

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‘The Butterfly Tree’ and enchanted Table

by Woody

“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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A kitchen table, it has long seemed to me, is arguably the most valuable, regardless of monetary worth, piece of furniture in a home.

A fancy hutch, for example, is for displaying things safely out of harm’s way and itself not to be touched; a bed, where dreams are dreamt, is a private retreat out of sight; an heirloom rocking chair soothes mother and child, but is outgrown too soon.

A kitchen table, however, brings families together for years and decades, even lifetimes. It is where the day’s events are touched upon; where dreams are shared, and celebrated when realized; where tears are soothed. At a kitchen table we eat and talk, laugh and play board games, do homework and hobbies, have birthday and holiday parties.

I bet dollars to Sunday morning pancakes if you close your eyes you can see your own kitchen table from childhood, still remember the seating positions of every family member, with memories as warm as fresh-baked cookies.

Author E. A. Bucchianeri wisely observed: “There are times when wisdom cannot be found in the chambers of parliament or the halls of academia, but at the unpretentious setting of the kitchen table.” At the unpretentious kitchen table of my youth I don’t remember dreaming of writing a novel—but at a similar table in my adulthood, many years later, I would one day sit and write one.

Two bolts of inspiration occurred between these bookend tables. Firstly, Chuck Thomas, my late mentor, friend and predecessor in this space, two decades ago planted the seed by encouraging me to write a novel. Intrigued, I did not feel ready.

But the seed had been planted—a black walnut it would prove to be—and was later given water when a reader of my sports columns, someone I did not even know, sent me an out-of-print novel, a novella actually. “The Snow Goose” by Paul Gallico was instantly, and remains, one of my all-time favorite books.

Importantly, the gift-giving reader—shame of me for losing his name—enclosed a letter praising my writing for having the same heart and emotion as “The Snow Goose” and, echoing Chuck, implored me to try my hand as a novelist. Serendipity added this wink: Mr. Gallico was a sports columnist before leaving the press box to write “The Poseidon Adventure” and “Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris” among other literary gems.

And so I began thinking about writing a novel. Thinking, only, for a good long while. Until a few years ago when serendipity winked again and I happened to catch an episode of “Antiques Roadshow” featuring a handsome kitchen table that had been in a family for a handful of generations. It proved of only modest value, yet naturally was priceless to its owner.

The very next antique profiled was a handmade basket, two centuries old, and my thoughts transported back to a class on Native Americans I took in college. Specifically, I recalled that when deliberating an important matter they consider the impact the decision would have seven generations into the future.

Ka-Boom! A third lightning bolt. I would write about seven generations of a family that have sat around one kitchen table. Moreover, the Table itself would be a character, hence uppercase T. Too, it would have magical qualities, hence its wood must come from an enchanted Tree.

Fittingly, perfectly really, it was upon my current kitchen table this week that I opened a box filled with my newly published debut novel. Next week, an excerpt from “The Butterfly Tree:An Extraordinary Saga of Seven Generations.”

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            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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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.

Endings Prequel: Opening Sentences

by Woody

Last week’s column featuring some memorable ending sentences I have “collected” while browsing bookstores brought numerous requests for a bookend prequel of opening lines that really knock me out, to paraphrase Holden Caulfield.

Speaking of Holden, J.D. Salinger’s “The Catcher in the Rye” has this all-time great introductory line: “If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.”

Speaking of “David Copperfield” by Charles Dickens: “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.” Also, from his “A Christmas Carol”: “Marley was dead, to begin with.”

“The Satanic Verses” by Salman Rushdie: “ ‘To be born again,’ sang Gibreel Farishta tumbling from the heavens, ‘first you have to die.’ ”

Add death, from “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.”

From “Charlotte’s Web” by E.B. White: “ ‘Where’s Papa going with that axe?’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.”

Short but not so sweet. “The Color Purple” by Alice Walker: “You better not never tell nobody but God.” In “Beloved” by Toni Morrison: “124 was spiteful.” And “Fahrenheit 451” by Ray Bradbury: “It was a pleasure to burn.”

Bookend numbers of note. “The Lord of the Rings” by J.R.R. Tolkien: “When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.” And in “1984” by George Orwell: “It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”

Succinct trio. “I am an invisible man,” from “Invisible Man” by Ralph Ellison. “Slaughterhouse-Five” by Kurt Vonnegut: “All this happened, more or less.” And “Catch-22” by Joseph Heller: “It was love at first sight.”

Poetically from “The Red Badge of Courage” by Stephen Crane: “The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.”

Speaking of fog, I love this darkly vivid opener from “Fog” by Venturan author Ken McAlpine: “They ran across the sloping deck like marionettes, arms and legs akimbo, and when the waves caught the sailors their arms jerked out, snatching at the night, before they disappeared without a sound.”

Also from the ocean. “Their Eyes Were Watching God” by Zora Neale Hurston: “Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board.” And from “The Old Man and the Sea” by Ernest Hemingway: “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish.”

“Peter Pan” by J. M. Barrie: “All children, except one, grow up.”

Lastly, the first line of the first book I remember checking out long before I grew up, “Where The Wild Things Are” by Maurice Sendak: “The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another his mother called him ‘WILD THING!’ and Max said ‘I’LL EAT YOU UP!’ so he was sent to bed without eating anything.”

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Woody’s debut novel “The Butterfly Tree: An Extraordinary Saga of Seven Generations” will be published in late March.

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.

Sharing a Collection of Last Lines

by Woody

A while back, while browsing a second-hand bookshop, specifically our local treasure Bank of Books – by the way, is any perfume more lovely than the musty-woodsy-vanilla-fresh-rain scent that wafts up from the open pages of an old book?—I came upon a copy of “Anna Karenina.”

I have long meant to tackle this classic tome by Mr. Tolstoy, long being the operative word for it is pushing 600 pages, and on this encounter I simply read the opening sentence—“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way”—and then flipped to the ending: “My life now, my whole life, regardless of all that may happen to me, every minute of it, is not only not meaningless, as it was before, but has the unquestionable meaning of the good which it is in my power to put into it!”

And so began my habit of wandering through bookstores and partaking of the first and last lines, or paragraphs, of novels—ones I have already read and also those I wish to one day do so in full.

Just for fun, and to give myself the day off from writing my own last line for this column, here are some endings I have jotted down in my collection…

From “Where the Wild Things Are,” the first book I remember checking out of the library as a kid, the last page reads: “and it was still hot.”

“Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows”: “The scar had not pained Harry for 19 years. All was well.”

“The Catcher in the Rye”: “It’s funny. Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

“A Prayer for Owen Meany”: “Oh God—please give him back! I shall keep asking You.”

“Beloved” concludes powerfully and unforgettably with simply the novel’s title: “Beloved.”

Two more succinct endings are “I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep” from “Gilead” and “Are there any questions?” from “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“To Kill a Mockingbird” closes: “He turned out the light and went into Jem’s room. He would be there all night, and he would be there when Jem waked up in the morning.”

“The Great Gatsby” famously ends: “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

No title is needed to identify this couplet finale: “For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

From “The Road” comes this poetic prose: “In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”

“The Green Mile” ends: “We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.”

Death, the narrator of “The Book Thief,” concludes: “A LAST NOTE FROM YOUR NARRATOR. I am haunted by humans.”

“Adventures of Huckleberry Finn”: “I got to light out for the territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can’t stand it. I been there before.”

“The Sun Also Rises”: “ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it pretty to think so?’ ”

“The Grapes of Wrath” closes with this indelible image: “She looked up across the barn, and her lips came together and smiled mysteriously.”

“Travels with Charley”: “And that’s how the traveler came home again.”

And in “brown girl dreaming” Jacqueline Woodson ends with this verse: “gather into one world / called You / where You decide / what each world / each story / and each ending / will finally be.”

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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.

Part 2: Books That K.O.’d Me In 2022

by Woody

When a book really knocks me out, to paraphrase Holden Caulfield in the knockout novel “The Catcher in the Rye,” I like to pick up another offering by the same author. This habit served me well in 2022 during my annual quest to read at least one book a week for the calendar year.

Paul Gallico originally knocked me out many years ago with “The Snow Goose,” a novella I have reread umpteen times, and this year I visited him anew with “Mrs. Harris Goes To Paris.” This slim book was so thick with fun that I instantly picked up its sequel, “Mrs. Harris Goes to New York,” which was about twice as long and I think I liked it twice as much simply because I had already fallen in love with the feisty and lovely Mrs. Harris.

“84, Charing Cross Road” by Helene Haff is another absolutely charming little book that will be especially loved by those who adore bookstores. This London “Road” led me to Haff’s “Q’s Legacy: A Delightful Account of a Lifelong Love Affair with Books,” a sequel that is actually a prequel. Both are quite enjoyable, but if you only read one of the two go with “84.”

I’m not sure which I favored more from Antoine Laurain – “The Red Notebook,” a mystery and love story kneaded into one, or “French Rhapsody” about the members of a band that missed out on a record label deal because a letter was lost in the mail only to be delivered 33 years later.

Speaking of music, Jennifer E. Smith’s “The Unsinkable Greta James,” about an indie rock star whose star has fallen and who has had a falling out with her widower father and finds herself on an Alaskan cruise ship with him, was in the running for my favorite book of the year. Three more contenders were “The Violin Conspiracy” by Brendan Slocumb; “Cloud Cuckoo Land” by Anthony Doerr; and “The River Why” by David James Duncan.

The beautiful writing in “The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey” by Walter Mosely led me to his imaginative and powerful short story collection “The Awkward Black Man.” Two more short-stories home runs are “The Angel of Rome: And Other Stories” by Jess Walters and “Liberation Day” by George Saunders.

Six more high-fives: “The Bartender’s Tale” by Ivan Doig; “The Cicada Tree,” a debut novel set in the South by Robert Gwaltney; “The Reading List” by Sara Nisha; “Under the Wave at Waimea” by Paul Theroux; and “Catcher’s Keepers” by J.D. Spero, imagining what if Holden Caufield had met John Lennon’s killer before the assassination happened. Also, with the disclaimer that he’s my second cousin, the novel “Cutter” by J. Woodburn Barney.

“What The Wind Knows” by Amy Harmon is an engaging time-travel story anchored around the Irish Revolution in the early 1900s. Speaking of Ireland, I happened upon Irish writer Claire Keegan’s “Small Things Like These” which led me to her “Foster.” Both novellas are very short, and very good, with hints of “David Copperfield.”

The new novel “Demon Copperhead,” meanwhile, carries more than a mere hint in its 560 pages. Naming a title character so closely to Charles’ Dickens’ famous orphan protagonist, with an echoing theme, sets a high bar but Barbara Kingsolver’s masterful storytelling is tall to the task.

Indeed, excluding my daughter Dallas’s two 2022 releases – the YA novel “Thanks, Carissa, For Ruining My Life” and adult short story collection “How to Make Paper When the World is Ending” – “Demon Copperhead” knocked me out more than any other book in 2022.

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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.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com

Turning The Pages In 2022

by Woody

Amos Bronson Alcott, an 18th century teacher and writer – and, famously, father of Louisa May Alcott, who wrote the very good book “Little Women” – once observed: “That is a good book which is opened with expectation and closed with profit.”

In 2022, in my annual quest to read a book a week, I have to date triumphantly opened 59 covers with expectation but admittedly closed quite a few without profit. Moreover, because I tend to be as stubborn as a grease stain in my insistence to always finish a book, I closed a fistful feeling a debt of time wasted.

But my hardheadedness has its limits and twice this year I gave up on novels after about 50 pages. After all, as French essayist Joseph Joubert wrote, “The worst thing about new books is that they keep us from reading the old ones.” Surely the same is true of books, old or new, that are the reading equivalent of scrubbing a floor.

I’m sure you are wondering the titles of the two books I threw the sponge in on. My lips are sealed for I would sooner insult a meal at friend’s home than publicly disparage a book. Most likely the blame lies with my finicky palate, not my hosts’ culinary skills; on my reading tastes, not the author’s storytelling.

Mark Twain was of the same mind, although with exceptions, noting: “I haven’t any right to criticize books, and I don’t except when I hate them. I often want to criticize Jane Austen, but her books madden me so that I can’t conceal my frenzy from the reader; and therefore I have to stop every time I begin. Every time I read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ I want to dig her up and bat her over the skull with her own shin-bone.”

Hence, I offer this enthusiastic book blurb for both of the books I abandoned: “Mark Twain would surely compare (title here) to ‘Pride and Prejudice’!”

When I do close a book with profit, I generally will try another one by the author – and, oftentimes, another and another and so on. Indeed, it is a delight to discover a writer you haven’t before read who gives you such a thrill you gobble up the rest of their titles like a literary Pac-Man. Brian Doyle did that for me late last year after reading, and recommending here, “One Long River of Song”. This year I devoured six more of his offerings, all of which I enjoyed, notably the novels “Mink River” and “Martin Marten” and most especially “Chicago: A Novel”

On the other hand, if I feel like swinging a shinbone as Mr. Twain did, I will usually leave the author be. One exception, however, is Elizabeth Strout. Despite being greatly disappointed with “Oliver Kitteridge”, for which she won the Pulitzer Prize, I in turn read “My Name is Lucy Barton”, “Olive Again” and “Oh William!” and liked them no better.

I finally concluded Elizabeth Strout is my Twain-ian Jane Austen, a widely popular taste I can’t seem to acquire. This pained me because I’ve seen Strout speak in person and found her extremely engaging.

My wife, however, adores Strout’s writing and for her birthday I gave her Strout’s latest bestseller, “Lucy by the Sea”. One evening, out of curiosity, I took a peek at the opening page…

…and kept turning the pages late into the night, captivated by this COVID-19 tale. Indeed, it is one of my favorite books this year. Next week, I will fill up a short shelf with some more profitable reads.

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There is still time to become an MVP by dropping off new balls (no batteries required!) at Jensen Design & Survey at 1672 Donlon St., Ventura CA 93003 (weekdays from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.); or have online orders shipped to this same address; and I will take it from there.

And please be sure to email me at woodywriter@gmail.com about your gift so I can add your generosity to this year’s tally and thank you in an upcoming column.

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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.

Personalized Signed copies of WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and  “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” are available at WoodyWoodburn.com