Tag Archives: tragedy

“Tigers” Keep Rampaging Unfettered

by Woody

A tiger crept into an elementary school earlier this week, with summer vacation two days away, and fatally mauled 19 precious children and two heroic teachers.

It was not the worst such attack of schoolchildren in the Land of Freedom, if morgue-cold numbers are the criteria, for 10 years earlier a single man-eating tiger savagely killed 20 first-grade students in their classroom along with six adults.

Nor was it a rare tiger attack. Just two weeks ago a tiger killed 10 shoppers at a supermarket and over the past decade there have been more heinous, horrific, heartbreaking mass maulings by tigers than can be imagined.

Once again, again and again, words cannot describe the heartbreak…

This year, not yet Memorial Day, there have already been more than 200 mass maulings by tigers. Moreover, in 2020, the most recent year for which full data is available, 45,222 people in the Land of Freedom died from tiger injuries – half of them killed by their very own tiger.

“Thoughts and prayers,” half of the lawmakers offer after each mass mauling.

“Let’s pass some common-sense laws about tigers,” the other half pleads. “Like having all tiger owners undergo background checks to make sure they are fit to own a deadly beast. And why do civilians need mutant 15-headed man-eating tigers with claws that can pierce metal that were bred by the military for war?”

“No, no, no,” the first lawmakers demand, their stubborn faces turning blood red. “Owning a cat, even mutant tigers, is an inalienable right written on The Original Parchment and its Second Rule of All Rules is holy as if it were etched on Moses’ tablets of stone. Any law that limits tigers in any way is a slippery slope that will lead to the extermination of all tigers.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” the counterpart lawmakers cry out until they are blue in the face. “There are 400 million tigers in our Land of Freedom, more than one beast for each of our 300 million citizens. Rounding up all those tigers would be more impossible than ridding our land of alcohol, and surely you remember how that worked out. You still have your wine and whiskey, don’t you? And a bottle of Jack Daniels never killed 20 schoolchildren in the blink of an eye.”

“Tigers don’t kill people either – tiger owners do,” sneer the red-faced do-nothing lawmakers who line their pockets with gold from tiger breeders who themselves get filthy rich from selling as many striped man-eaters as possible.

“You love tigers more than you love people,” the blue-faced try-something lawmakers accuse.

“It’s the price of freedom,” insist the red-faced lawmakers. “More laws aren’t the answer. Cages won’t save lives. More tigers, not fewer, that’s the answer. Ban books, not tigers. The only thing that can stop a bad tiger is a good tiger. Thoughts and prayers, that’s all we can do.”

And so the arguments go, round and round like a spinning record album with the stylus stuck in one groove, the red-faced lawmakers thwarting all efforts by the blue-faced lawmakers even though the majority of tiger owners and non-owners alike want restrictions to slow the carnage.

Meanwhile the rest of the world’s lands, despite having mental illnesses and violent video games, suffer a tiny fraction of killings by tigers compared to the Land of Freedom. They roll their eyes with pity because they see what the Land of Freedom is blind to:

Owning tigers in unlimited numbers, including mutant multi-headed military-style man-eaters and deadly ghost tigers, does not keep people safe and free. In truth, in the Land of Freedom the people no longer own the tigers – the tigers own them.

 *   *   *

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

 

Faithful Vow To Remember Thee

by Woody

My dear friend Sus believes blue jay sightings are godwinks from guardian angels. Time and again these providential songbirds have appeared when she most needed one.

I possess far less faith than Sus, and yet I cannot help but feel a godwink appeared this week when I needed it most. It was not a blue jay sighting, but rather a poem that out of the blue flew across my eyes on social media.

Penned by Elizabeth Gaskell, a 19th century English novelist, the verse is titled “On Visiting the Grave of My Stillborn Little Girl.” The timing of my reading it was a blessing because Wednesday – July 7 – was the 18th anniversary of the due date of my wife’s and my third child.

A baby lost to miscarriage.

The pregnancy had been a wonderful surprise that infused champagne bubbles into our veins. Also, because my wife was then 44, the pregnancy was high-risk. Only after she made it safely into the second trimester did we finally exhale and allow ourselves to get fully excited.

Then came the heartbreak of no heartbeat.

“It’s for the best because something was terribly wrong,” doctors say at such times. Family and friends offer similar solace: “You can try again” or “At least you’re already blessed with two amazing kids.” They all meant well, but the heart does not listen to such rationalizations.

Honestly, the only soothing words to be said, in my experience, is a heartfelt variation of the simple phrase, “I’m so very sorry for your loss.”

We had chosen not to know the gender beforehand, wishing to be surprised as we had been twice before. And yet, just as we had only settled on a girl’s name when our firstborn daughter arrived; and only had a boy’s name chosen when our son was born; we again had but one name selected – a girl’s – as if our hearts were as accurate as an ultrasound exam.

Perhaps they were. A few years after the miscarriage, my wife had a vividly powerful dream in which she watched a girl at play on a swing. The girl, the same age our child would have then been, smiled and waved. Instead of renewed grief, my wife felt deeply comforted.

Gaskell’s words written 1836 offer me similar peace now:

“I made a vow within my soul, O Child, / When thou wert laid beside my weary heart,

“With marks of death on every tender part / That, if in time a living infant smiled,

“Winning my ear with gentle sounds of love / In sunshine of such joy, I still would save

“A green rest for thy memory, O Dove! / And oft times visit thy small, nameless grave.

“Thee have I not forgot, my firstborn, though / Whose eyes ne’er opened to my wistful gaze,

“Whose sufferings stamped with pain thy little brow; / I think of thee in these far happier days,

“And thou, my child, from thy bright heaven see / How well I keep my faithful vow to thee.”

I have likewise not forgotten thee. I visualized her this June at high school graduation ceremonies for the Class of 2021; imagined her last year schooling at home during the pandemic; saw her 13 years ago walking into a kindergarten classroom.

Too, I have imagined her getting her driver’s license, learning to ride a bike, taking her first steps. Indeed, often when I see girls the same age she would have been, I imagine her in their place.

And I will continue this faithful vow to keep remembering thee, Sienna.

*   *   *

Woody Woodburn 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

Imagining Kobe’s Lost Tomorrows

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Kobe’s Tomorrows

That Will Never Come

Four times Kobe Bryant held a newborn daughter when she first came into the world, as it should be for a father.

Last Sunday, as it never should be for any daddy, he held one of his girls – 13-year-old Gianna – as she left this world.

At least that is how I imagine the final moments, perhaps mere seconds, transpired as the helicopter carrying Kobe, Gianna and seven other living souls fatally crashed in the morning, in the fog, into a Calabasas hillside.

I imagine that, if the seatbelts allowed, Kobe leaned over and wrapped his long, strong arms around his precious daughter and held her tight in the hands that used to powerfully dunk a basketball.

I imagine this not out of morbidity, but because my heart wishes to believe it. Tenderness before the tragedy.

I imagine, if there was time as the unspeakable horror unfolded, Kobe spoke: “I love you, Gigi.” And I imagine, even through terrified tears, she said: “I love you, Daddy.”

Kobe Bryant and daughter Gianna

I imagine that as he hugged Gianna, Kobe hoped – no, prayed, for he was a religious man – his 41-year-old body would superhumanly serve as a shield to save his little girl.

If there was more time, or perhaps a few seconds impossibly slowed seemingly into years, a million memories flashed through Kobe’s mind. If so, I imagine none of them were of his two decades of supernova greatness in the NBA; not his five NBA titles and two Olympic gold medals; not his 81-point night or career farewell 60-point performance; not his singular honor of having two Lakers jersey numbers – 8 and 24 – retired.

No, I imagine Kobe’s earthly farewell memories would have been of his wife, Vanessa, and their four daughters: Natalia, 17; Gianna; Bianka, 3; and Capri, born last summer. Perhaps he recalled the couple’s first date; saw the girls’ first smiles, first words, first steps; relived his last kisses from all five.

I imagine similar image collages for the other victims: for John Altobelli, 56, his wife Keri, 46, and their daughter Alyssa, 13; for Sarah Chester, 45, and her daughter Payton, 13; for Christina Mauser, 38; and for pilot Ara Zobayan, 50. I cannot fathom the measure of bereavement felt by their loved ones.

Nor can I imagine the grief of Vanessa, losing a child and a husband; of Natalia losing her younger sister and her dad; Bianka losing one of her big sisters and her dad; Capri losing both a big sister and a dad she will never know.

I imagine in a blur of memories, Kobe saw his girls’ birthday parties and Christmas mornings past; saw his honeymoon and family vacations; maybe saw his younger self teaching his girls to swim or ride bikes.

Too, surely, the relived images would have included shooting hoops with his three oldest daughters – basketball was still in the future for infant Capri.

Ah, the future. I imagine also, if there were enough final fractions of time, tomorrows that will never come for Kobe flashed before his eyes – reading bedtime stories to Capri; taking Bianka for ice cream; cheering for Gianna in a WNBA game; walking Natalia down the church aisle and then doing so with Gianna and Bianka and Capri; Vanessa and he becoming grandparents.

Perhaps, even, Kobe imagined his girls-turned-women squeezing his hand on his distant deathbed because that’s how it should be – daughters, and sons, should hold their fathers when they leave the world. Not the other way around.

Heartbreakingly, but lovingly, I imagine Kobe indeed had one of his four daughters holding his hand as he left this world.

 *   *   *

Woody Woodburn 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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …

 

Memories Tragically Go Unmade

by Woody

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

*

Buoyed in Boat Tragedy

by Two Uplifting Emails 

Making memories, that is what the 39 people aboard the Conception were doing.

Certainly most of the 33 passengers were off the Santa Cruz Island coast specifically to go diving, and the crew of six was on hand to give them the opportunity to do so, but above all they were all out there on our postcard waters to make memories.

In the aftermath of the tragic below-deck nighttime fire that claimed the lives of all 33 patrons and one crewmember, I was reminded by a reader of a recent column of mine that the trip to sea was about making memories.

Coincidentally, Sheila Kane McCollum wrote of our scenic underwaters:

“Tears streamed down my face this morning as I read about your ‘Daddy Dates’! Your recounting of your time with daughter Dallas brought to mind so many cherished memories of my own times with my wonderful dad.

“After my brothers (four and five years my senior) moved away, I took up scuba diving so Dad and I could have that to share. We spent many weekends out at Channel Islands exploring the reefs and searching for the elusive lobster.

“Because I had gone on a rafting adventure, my dad suggested we do a trip together. We drove up to Kern Valley and spent two days rafting and camping at night on some hard earth. I can’t say he loved the rafting as much as I, but we both thoroughly enjoyed our three days together, laughing and making these memories.

“Dad has been gone more than 20 years, but my memories bring him back with love, admiration and appreciation.”

When Sheila’s email arrived, a week before the stunning Conception catastrophe, it brought a smile to my heart. To figuratively see her take down a flowered box from the top shelf in her closet, set it on her bed and remove the lid, and unwrap the tissue paper that has kept safe these memories of her dad for two decades, is lovely.

Two weeks later, that image also makes the heart weep for all the memories of a dive trip that won’t be unwrapped and retold, smiled at and enjoyed, 20 years from now.

The grief, even for those of us who may never have heard one of those memories shared, is leaden. There have been far too many unbearable tragedies locally, from the Thomas Fire to the Borderline shooting to the Conception.

And yet another reader, also in a recent email, added some thoughts as a buoy. Responding to my column about playful kids at a summer camp, Diane Sweet wrote:

“I have enjoyed your columns for years and now look forward to my Saturday laugh or cry as I read your banter, philosophy, and encouragement. Today was exceptional as I was with you on the playground and talking to the kids – albeit I would not be running!

“I am celebrating my 70th birthday this week, and I totally agree with you and Walter Hagen, ‘Don’t hurry, don’t worry. You’re only here for a short visit. So don’t forget to stop and smell the roses.’

“I know 70 years sounds ‘old’, but it has gone quickly! I am continually trying to ‘enjoy the moments’. I have a beautiful and fragrant ‘Yves Piaget’ rosebush that I bought at a farm in Carpinteria that I just stop and smell whenever it’s in bloom. The sweet scent reminds me how precious and temporary life is and I don’t take it for granted.”

Perhaps that sentiment – and fond memories – is all we have to hang onto when our hearts collapse in sorrow.

*

FOLLOW ME ON INSTAGRAM: @woodywoodburn

Woody Woodburn 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 books are available at www.WoodyWoodburn.com.

Check out my memoir WOODEN & ME: Life Lessons from My Two-Decade Friendship with the Legendary Coach and Humanitarian to Help “Make Each Day Your Masterpiece” and my essay collection “Strawberries in Wintertime: Essays on Life, Love, and Laughter” …