Woodsterman: 2025

Tuesday, September 2, 2025

Tuesday Is A Libturd Day ~ AM

Thanks FBers

Monday, September 1, 2025

Awww Monday Woodsterman Style ~ 516 B

Thanks Skip

Awww Monday Woodsterman Style ~ 516 A

The Great Whisker-Heist ~ by Skip

In the quiet town of Purrington, where every rooftop was a sun‑soaked perch and every alleyway smelled faintly of tuna, a secret society of felines plotted the most audacious caper the world had ever seen. Their leader, Sir Meowington III—a tuxedo cat with a scar shaped like a lightning bolt on his left ear—had spent years perfecting the art of “purr‑suasion.” He could convince a dog to fetch a stick, a pigeon to drop breadcrumbs, and, most impressively, a human to open a can of sardines with a single, soulful stare.

One moonlit night, Sir Meowington gathered his trusted crew in the abandoned fish market behind the old bakery. There, under the flickering glow of a lone streetlamp, the members introduced themselves:

Whiskerwick, a lanky orange tabby who could disappear into a cardboard box faster than a magician’s rabbit

Paws McFluff, a Persian whose fur was so fluffy it doubled as a makeshift pillow for any weary traveler.

Shadowpounce, a sleek black cat with a penchant for dramatic entrances—always leaping from the shadows with a flourish.

Mittens, a calico with a talent for “keyboard hacking,” capable of typing out entire emails with her tiny paws.

Their target? The legendary Golden Tuna—a mythical fish said to grant nine extra lives to anyone who tasted it. It rested, guarded by a high‑tech security system, inside the ultra‑secure vault of the Purrfect Bank, a financial institution run entirely by cats who took their work very seriously (and wore tiny spectacles).

Sir Meowington laid out the plan with a dignified flick of his tail. “We’ll need three things: distraction, infiltration, and… a very convincing meow.”

First, Whiskerwick rolled a massive ball of yarn down the bank’s main hallway. The yarn tangled itself around the laser sensors, causing a cascade of alarms that sounded suspiciously like a chorus of chirping birds. The bank’s guard cats, momentarily entranced, chased the moving string, leaving the vault door unguarded.

Next, Paws McFluff waddled in, his regal fluff bouncing with each step, and began a heartfelt monologue about the importance of “catnip rights” in the workplace. The guard cats, moved by his eloquence, paused their chase to listen, granting the crew precious seconds.

Shadowpounce then vaulted onto the ceiling, landing gracefully atop the vault’s control panel. With a swift swipe of his paw, he disabled the biometric scanner—thanks to a tiny piece of catnip he’d smuggled in his collar.

Finally, Mittens approached the Golden Tuna’s glass case. She tapped a few keys on the nearby terminal, sending a fake “maintenance request” to the bank’s IT department. The glass lifted, and with a triumphant purr, she nudged the glittering fish onto a silver platter.

Sir Meowington bowed dramatically, his whiskers trembling with excitement. “Ladies—and gentlemen—cats, we have secured the prize!”

They celebrated with a midnight feast, sharing the Golden Tuna’s succulent flesh. Legend says that each bite granted them not just extra lives, but an uncanny ability to find the coziest sunbeam wherever they roamed.

And so, the Great Whisker‑Heist entered feline folklore, whispered in purrs and mews across rooftops for generations. To this day, if you wander the streets of Purrington at dusk and hear a distant, satisfied sigh, you’ll know the cats are still planning their next mischievous masterpiece.

Thanks Skip

Sunday, August 31, 2025

It's Funday ~ It's A Wonderful Life ~ The Set

George Bailey and Mary Hatch stand shoulder to shoulder, pressed close by the narrow space between them and the receiver they’re forced to share. The telephone call begins with hesitance, words clipped and cautious, but their eyes betray the truth. Within seconds, years of longing, regret, and unspoken love ignite. By the time the kiss comes, it is not merely romantic—it is an eruption of suppressed emotion. One take. 1946. When Frank Capra finally whispered “Cut,” the set fell silent. No one moved. No one wanted to disturb the fragile magic hanging in the air.

This wasn’t just acting. It was raw, personal. James Stewart had returned from World War II carrying the weight of his service as a bomber pilot. Twenty combat missions in Europe had left him haunted, older, and no longer the carefree boy-next-door Hollywood remembered. Capra saw that look—the one no makeup artist could create. George Bailey was no invention. He was Stewart himself: a man pushed to the edge, worn thin, still clinging to a faint glimmer of hope.

On the bridge scene, George was meant to quietly plead for help. Instead, Stewart broke down. His voice cracked, his body shook, and he sobbed uncontrollably. It wasn’t scripted. Capra let the camera roll, capturing a moment of catharsis, not performance—one of the most honest breakdowns ever put on film.

Donna Reed, playing Mary, brought her own quiet strength. Born in 1921 on an Iowa farm, she was no Hollywood fabrication. When Lionel Barrymore once teased that she was too polished to know real farm work, she promptly proved him wrong by expertly milking a cow for $50. That grounded nature infused Mary Hatch, transforming her from love interest to the emotional anchor of the story.

The bank run scene was filmed without rehearsal. Stewart improvised most of his pleas to the panicked townspeople, and the extras—unprepared—reacted with genuine fear and relief. Reed didn’t perform lines so much as live in the moment, her steady gaze grounding both George and the scene.

Off-screen, Stewart was unsure of himself. This was his first film since returning from the war, and he confessed to Reed he felt out of step. Before their first dance scene, he admitted his nerves. Reed gently squeezed his arm and said, “We’ll find our way.” Their chemistry—so natural on screen—was born in that moment of empathy and trust.

Filming Bedford Falls in July heat was another test. Snow had to look real, not like the noisy cornflakes Hollywood usually used. A new mixture—foamite, soap, and sugar—created a silent, sparkling snowfall. It was beautiful but dangerously slippery. During Stewart’s joyful dash through town, both he and Reed stumbled but never broke character. Capra loved it. He left it in.

At its release in 1946, the film was a disappointment. Reviews were mixed, box office returns were low, and its five Oscar nominations yielded no wins. Donna Reed dismissed it as “just a little picture.” Yet when the film entered public domain in 1974, television stations began airing it each holiday season. Viewers discovered—or rediscovered—it, and slowly, its reputation transformed.

By the 1980s, It’s a Wonderful Life was firmly an American classic. Reed passed in 1986, Stewart in 1997. But on screen, as Mary and George Bailey, they remain timeless. Their performances endure as more than characters—they are soulmates, flawed and human, reminding generations that life, even at its darkest, can still be wonderful.

Stewart brought with him the weight of war and the tenderness of a man searching for light. Reed brought resilience, wisdom, and quiet grace. Together, they created something that still breathes, decades later. Every look, every silence, every stumble feels alive.

In a world of manufactured moments, they left behind something real. Something lasting.

Author Unknown

It's Funday ~ Labor Dazed ~ by Skip

Labor Dazed: The Day Woodsterman’s Hammer-Go-Round

Went Sideways (and Wound Up the Best-Darn Plan That

Ever Tried to Fall Apart)

On the first Saturday in September, at the crack of dawn, Odie "Woodsterman" cranked up his chainsaw in a way that was more like playing reveille than cutting wood. Lake Tahoe was still all foggy, but Odie was up and at 'em, walking around his messy yard behind his workshop, The Hollow Log Workshop, sketching away on a piece of an old shingle while humming "John Henry" kinda off-key.

Odie had decided to dedicate this Labor Day to all the folks who had to get up before the sun did their thing: the plumbers, the guys who sawed down trees for a living, the ranchers, the roofers, and even the baristas who brewed coffee for those early birds. And what better way to show them love than by building a big ol' wooden carousel shaped like a hammer? Nothing says "thank you" quite like a whimsical ride made out of maple, oak, and some seriously iffy welds, right?

But here's where things took a turn. He picked out a tree that looked like it could've been used to build Noah's Ark, but when he tried to cut it down, it ended up crashing through his creek bridge and knocking off three mailboxes. And let's not forget the fountain of water that shot into the neighbor's yard. Mrs. Wickersham, not too happy to say the least, came out in her hair curlers and an Eagles jersey ready to give him a piece of her mind. But all Odie did was tip his baseball cap with its "Chief Troublemaker" patch and said, "Just a little structural rearranging, ma'am. I'll sort it out."

So now, with a pine tree half in the water and half in the bushes, Odie had to get creative. He called on everyone who passed by to help, promising donuts, coffee, and a chance to be part of something legendary, or at least something that'd be talked about for a while. Before long, he had a ragtag group of folks like Mason from Java Joint, Lila the mail carrier, and three paddle-boarders who looked like they'd seen better days. They all worked together to get that tree out of there with nothing but a makeshift winch made from a wheelbarrow axle and some old ski-lift cable. It was like watching a junior-high dance, except with more sweat and fewer awkward moments.

Once inside the workshop, the real chaos began. Odie's plan was to make the seats of the carousel look like nail heads, but that's easier said than done. It took a whole lot of jig sawing and a bit too much whiskey for the band-saw to get even close to what he wanted. The place was a mess, with wood chips flying everywhere and Lila trying to sand down a handle that looked like it belonged to Thor's hammer.

But they persevered, and by 1:47 in the afternoon, they had all the seats attached—except they were all on the wrong way. Odie didn't notice though, and when he went for a test ride, he ended up launching himself into a pile of sawdust like he was in a cartoon. Everyone just stared for a second, then burst out laughing. Mrs. Wickersham even clapped, her curlers bobbing like they were doing a little dance.

That's when it hit Odie. Maybe the whole point of the day wasn't to build a perfect carousel. Maybe it was about the mess and the laughs, the kind of joy that only comes from a backyard project gone slightly off the rails. So he switched gears and turned the carousel into a funky sculpture, calling it "Laborers Rest Here." They strung up aprons like it was a festival and slapped on a coat of paint. Kids scribbled notes of thanks all over the place for moms and dads who had sore feet and banged-up knuckles.

Three o'clock rolled around, and the potluck bell rang out—an old saw blade that Odie hit with a hammer. The smell of chili verde and smoky maple filled the air. They played Springsteen's "Working on the Highway" and had a grand ol' time. Mason served coffee in mugs that Odie had made that very morning, each one a little wonky, but all the better for it.

As the sun started to set, Odie climbed onto a picnic bench and rang the bell to get everyone's attention. "I wanted to give you all a ride," he said, his hands all sticky with tar, "but instead, we made each other a day off. Maybe that's the real deal." He held up his chainsaw like he was proposing a toast, and everyone cheered, their cups clinking together.

Mrs. Wickersham, who'd been giving him the stink eye all morning, handed him a casserole that was still warm from her oven. "You had me fuming earlier," she whispered, "but now you've got my driveway looking like the Fourth of July. I'll bring deviled eggs next year."

As the night grew darker, the laughter and stories grew quieter until everyone was just sitting around the glow of the lanterns, looking up at the hammer sculpture. It was like a wonky monument to hard work. And just before Odie passed out in his hammock, he heard Mason sing a line from an old union song: "No one works alone... no one rests alone..."

And as he drifted off, the thought that maybe Labor Day wasn't about the perfect tools or the perfect plan, but about regular folks who work hard and deserve a good laugh before the grind starts again on Tuesday filled his head. And with that, he fell asleep under the pine boughs, ready to wake up to a fresh day of sawdust.

Thanks Skip