Tag Archives: mothers

The Typhoid Mary of Happiness

by Woody

I passed a strange rubicon earlier this week on the 34th anniversary of my mom’s passing where I have now lived longer without her than with her.

If your own mother is still alive, I hope this excerpt from the sports column I wrote back then in The Star will inspire you to reach out to her – today – with a phone call or a visit.

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I feel like Lawrence Taylor just sacked me from the blind side. Like Mike Tyson punched me in the stomach. Like I hit he wall at Indy. Like Nolan Ryan pegged me with a fastball.

All at once.

I have the worst boo-boo in the world. And there is no one to kiss it and make it feel better.

My mom died of a heart attack the other night. Real sudden death, not a tie-breaker. God must be impatient. Must have wanted some lovely dinner company.

I don’t mean to inflict my grief on you, dear readers. Yet I must; this is one column I have to write.

I would not be a writer if it were not for my mom. My paternal grandfather was a physician, and my dad and two older brothers are as well. Doctoring is the family business, so to speak. But Mom nurtured in me the courage to take a road less traveled by, and as the poet Robert Frost said, “and that has made all the difference.”

She was my biggest reader fan, my mom was. Without question. Full stop.

Life will never be the same. I cannot believe I will never hear her honey-sweet voice on the other end of the phone line, calling just to say she liked my column that day. Even if Mom knew I would be dropping by later, she would call. She wanted to lift my spirits right now, not later.

You remember funny things at a time like this. Small things that somehow seem so very big.

For some reason, out of a million golden memories, I keep thinking about a spring day when I was in second grade. At morning recess my best friend had a new magnifying glass and we were using it to burn holes in dead leaves – it was the 1960s and kids could do that.

At lunch (we went home in those days) I was a little sad that Dan had a cool magnifying glass and I didn’t. So Mom drove me to the five-and-dime and at afternoon recess I did not have to wait my turn to burn holes in leaves.

That was my mom. She never wanted any of her loved ones to be sad, not even a tad so, not even for a moment. She wanted us to be happy, not tomorrow but today. At this recess.

Mom was the Typhoid Mary of Happiness. Blood didn’t course through her veins, champagne did. She was the pinnacle of kindness. The Golden Rule brought to life.

She died two days ago, just 60 years old. Oh, but she lived them all. Mom managed to dish out five lifetimes worth of love.

She had these big blue eyes, bluer than the ocean, movie-star blue, that were happy and joyful and warm all the time. She never went a full minute in her life without smiling.

She was the laughter and smile that lit up ever room she entered. Everyone became a nicer person when she was around. And happier. It was contagious.

No one told a story like Mom could. Her tales were almost as exaggerated as her love. “Mom never lets the truth stand in the way of a good story,” we always said.

The word “lady” was invented to describe my mom. She used her best crystal and fine china all the time. Why save it? If you broke something valuable, she would insist it was already chipped anyway.

She liked linen napkins and Wedgewood and wine and Waterford, yet also liked paper plates and beer in a bottle. She was as at ease and comfortable with everybody and, this is a rarer thing, she made everyone else feel at ease and comfortable.

When you talk about mothers, she was Hall of Fame. First ballot. Three sons and a daughter, and she gave us each the attention of an only child.

I feel lucky in my grief because there were no “I love yous” left unsaid. Actually, that is not true. There were ten million more to say.

Excuse me now. I think I’ll go buy a magnifying glass and burn holes in some dead leaves.

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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.

Delivering a Mother’s Day message

by Woody

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

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Delivering a Mother’s Day message

The first Mother’s Day gift I remember giving my mom was a bouquet of flowers fashioned from colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners that we made in first grade.

I am fairly certain nearly as much messy glue went into it as love, and a handful of dandelions would have been prettier to display, yet Mom, of course, acted as thrilled as if it were a dozen roses because that’s what moms do.1momsday

The final Mother’s Day gift I gave my mom, 24 years ago – it is difficult to believe it has been that long – was a bouquet of real flowers. More importantly, I delivered them in person with a hug. She probably would have preferred a single rose and a bouquet of hugs.

These two reminisces bring to mind a story, perhaps apocryphal, I heard a while ago and seems fitting to share today on Mother’s Day eve.

It was the Friday before Mother’s Day and a successful businessman – let’s call him Harry – decided to order flowers for his mom. Usually he had his secretary or wife do this task, but for some reason he felt motivated to do it himself.

Ordering a bouquet online would have been almost as easy as asking his secretary to take care of it, but Harry believed in supporting local businesses so on his lunch break he walked to a florist shop a few blocks from his office.

The owner began to show Harry a variety of special arrangements, but Harry was in a hurry – he always seemed in a rush; in the business world time is money – so he simply ordered a dozen long-stemmed red roses to be delivered two days hence on his mom’s doorstep 200 miles away.

The premium prices for Mother’s Day flowers, and the surcharge for a Sunday delivery, didn’t make Harry blink. In fact, because he felt bad for being too busy to visit his mom he doubled his original order to two-dozen roses.

Harry wrote down his mom’s address, asked for an extra dozen roses to-go to take home to his wife, and paid with his platinum credit card.

Exiting the florist shop, Harry almost bowled over a young boy who asked: “Excuse me, sir, could you lend me two dollars?”

Harry’s instinct was to acerbically correct the boy and say, “Don’t you mean give you two dollars? You aren’t planning to pay me back.”

But the boy’s sincerity brought out a gentler side in Harry and instead he asked: “Why do you need two dollars?”

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

Harry suddenly found himself in no hurry, found himself becoming a softy, and while reaching for his wallet asked the boy where he lived.

The boy pointed up the street: “About five minutes that way.”

Harry now had a better idea than handing the boy a couple bucks. He plucked one of the roses from the bouquet for his wife – surely she would not even notice the difference between a dozen and 11 – and handed it to the boy.

“Give this beauty to your mom.”

“Wow! Thank you so much!” the boy said. “I’m going to take this to my mom right now!”

With that the boy got on his bicycle and began to ride off – in the opposite direction of where he had pointed his house was.

“Hey, son, I thought you lived that way,” Harry said.

“I do,” the boy replied. “But the cemetery is this way. My mom died last year.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said, his voice choking up. He handed the boy the rest of the bouquet and added: “Please put these on her grave.”

The boy took all the flowers and rode away while Harry turned around and went back into the florist shop.

“I need to cancel that out-of-town delivery I just ordered,” Harry said. “Instead, I need you to put together two dozen roses to-go as quickly as possible. I’ve decided to deliver them today personally.”

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

Wooden&Me_cover_PRCheck out my new memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece”