Rivers Run Through Him

“What really knocks me out,” Holden Caulfield, the narrator in “The Catcher in the Rye,” says, “is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.”

That perfectly sums up how I felt when Roger W. Thompson’s debut book “My Best Friend’s Funeral,” a coming-of-age memoir, came out a dozen years ago.

As luck would have it, the author lives in Ventura and so instead of making a phone call, for I had never met him, I attended one of his book signings and asked if he wanted to get a beer sometime.

To my great luck, he did.

To my greater luck, we hit it off like trout and mountain streams and ever since have enjoyed “Beer Thirty” (to use Roger’s term) happy hours because (to use my late mom’s reasoning about why weddings should commence on the half-hour) time slows down when the minute hand is sweeping uphill.

Author Roger Thompson at play…

Roger’s second book, a travel memoir titled “We Stood Upon Stars,” made me fall further in love with his elegant prose that makes time seem to slow down as you savor the rhythm and cadence of his sentences that flow like burbling brooks, with eddies here and gentle riffles there, bends and pools elsewhere and hidden beauty and depth beneath the surface.

The above description of Roger’s writing came to me while reading his brand-new book, “The Wisdom of Rivers: Family, Friendship, and the Fly-Fishing Life,” that once again knocked me out.

I am therefore thrilled to be moderating a public conversation and Q & A with Roger at his book launch signing this Tuesday, September 8, from 6 to 8 p.m., at Iron & Resin at 324 E. Main Street in Downtown Ventura.

Norman Maclean’s masterwork “A River Runs Through It” has long been my favorite fishing-themed book, but it now shares top-shelf billing with “The Wisdom of the River.” With both the former novella and the latter memoir, one need not be a fly fisherman-or-woman to be hooked and enthralled.

More than about fishing, “The Wisdom of the River” is about Friendships, Fatherhood, Love, and Faith — these being the four tributaries this hardback gem forks into. Each section features a handful of themed essays, all of which carry faint echoes of Henry David Thoreau and John Muir, and prove the truth of this line by the Muir-bearded Thompson: “In every good fisherman, there is a better storyteller.”

A tall accomplishment considering Roger, a zealous angler since boyhood, has trout streams coursing through his veins.

“Our lives are filled with more important things than fishing,” Roger writes. “Sometimes, it take fishing to figure out what they are.”

“The Wisdom of the River” is filled with important things.

“What began as mine is now ours,” Roger further shares, speaking about teaching his wife, Melissa, and sons, Austin and Hayden, to fly fish. But this Angling Apostle is also talking to all of us who read his poetic prose and vicariously join him on a fishing (and life) journey by turning these pages — “Book Thirty” pages, because they are best read starting on the half-hour so they pass by more slowly.

Yes, what began as Rog’s writing is now ours to relish.

Me, I am doubly blessed because I get to have 16-ounce conversations whenever I feel like it with my terrific friend who wrote this knockout book.

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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.

Still Trying To Be Like My Grandpa

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

(One year ago today, Feb. 28, my father died at age 97. In his honor, from my archives in 2019, here is a column he greatly enjoyed about his own dad. The ending paragraph has been updated.

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Grandpa Ansel, the only grandparent I knew, died when I was only 7, yet he lives on clearly in my memories.

That my son’s middle name is Ansel goes a long way in telling you how much I loved and admired Grandpa. An art assignment when I was in the first grade further fills in the picture.

Grandpa and me and my two older brothers…

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

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

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

Me: “Yeah, he’s pretty ginchy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always, the wind was blowing from the west.

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

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

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

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

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

Growing up, I wanted to be like Grandpa Ansel; six years ago, I truly became like him – a grandpa. With fishing as a metaphor, whenever we are together, I want my dear granddaughters Maya, Auden, and Amara to always feel like the wind is blowing from the west.