Farewell To a Favorite Son
I don't know about you, but I look forward to the telephone ringing or beeping, as it were. More often than not, there is a friend on the other end and lord knows I love to yap as I am blessed with awesome friends. Unfortunately, I've been in a rut lately. Over the last several months I've been getting calls or texts telling me that someone whom I admire or have even had the honor of meeting, however briefly, has passed away. I was reminded not long ago, when my dear friend Richard Robbins died that this would happen with more regularity as I got older. My mother, as usual, was right.
Well, the phone rang again the other night, but this time I was expecting it. As I excused myself from the dinner table, I went outside to be informed by the estimable and dear friend, John Tabor, that one Mr. Arthur Woodward was no longer among the living. We are all poorer for that. Mr. Woodward had been suffering for a while and his journey to Hamlet's Undiscovered Country was probably more of a blessing. And as John and I talked that evening, memories came flooding into my mind as if a great dam had broken. It is a testament to this man that every one of those memories were good ones.
Art Woodward was from a small fishing village off the coast of Maine called Beals Island. If you are a frequent vacationer in Maine, you might recognize the region as Down East....just like the magazine! It is a place I am quite familiar with. I spent many portions of my childhood, summers and winters, on Beals as it is where my grandparents lived, and specifically where my grandfather was pastor of one of the three island churches. This island will be studied centuries from now by linguists. They are going to try and figure out why two and sometimes three syllables were added to words that had no business being so mutilated; not to mention the obligatory New England deletion of the letter 'r' when it came at the end of a word. You think Boston natives talk funny? Spend a few days in certain parts of Maine! More about that, anon.
Since there have been a couple of pieces already written about Mr. Woodward that not only summarize his life, his accomplishments, his friendship and his faith, I guess I just wanted to let you know how one man could so embody this small village and its people.
Beals Island is an ancient place. To a young suburban kid like me it was another world. A world with a general store, 3 churches, lots of trees and even stranger...everyone pretty much had the same last name! You were either a Beal (thus the island name) or you were an Alley (whose family name gave us the other side of the island; Alley's Bay). If your name was something different, no worries...it just means you somehow landed on the island a few generations ago, and married into one of those families! You're good. But mostly, it is an island of hard-working fisherman, specifically lobster fisherman. These people are out on the ocean at the break of dawn and not pulling in until sunset. To a youngster like me they seemed larger than life. Mr. Woodward was one of them, and he was larger than life.
He was a bear of a man with his barrel-chest, paws for hands, and a voice of such deep resonance it no doubt could be heard for miles. It was a voice that told stories of, and verbally protected, that island long after he left. And even though he left, he took Beals with him. He kept the memories, the language, and the people. He also kept his faith and the love for his God that I'd like to think was cultivated in the church where my grandfather preached. He loved my grandparents as they loved him. And because of that love, he was family. He introduced me, years later, to the phrase "Brother D" as he so endearingly called my grandfather. He also called pretty much anyone he came in contact with, "Dear", during casual conversations. However, there was a syllable or two added to that word, which no spelling can do justice...so I won't try!
But most importantly, at least for me anyway, Mr. Woodward was that rare person who, while embodying an entire place, connected that ancient past with modernity. He would no doubt bristle at the audacity of this comparison, but Mr. Woodward reminds me of one of my favorite stories in the Hebrew Bible. As the Yahwist is creating her story of how her people came to be - how they made their way from Creation to King David and even more so, his son King Solomon, she gives us the story of Jacob and Esau. Esau is the primitive, hunter-gatherer. The "red-man" who worshipped the ancient ways. On the other hand, his twin brother Jacob is her stepping stone into her more modern world. The world of David and Solomon. He is the planner, the more urbane or sophisticated man if you will; the one who literally steals the Blessing from his brother. And even more importantly, wrestles with Yahweh all night long and wins a new name - Israel. Mr. Woodward honored and respected the ancient ways, and he would have wrestled Yahweh until sunrise...and won. He was Beals Island's Esau and Jacob, and he carried the blessing of that ancient island into the New World.
In the end, I will say of Mr. Woodward, who was 87 when he died, what I said about Richard Robbins. And that is, he mattered. He carried the blessing - "More life, into a time without boundaries." He not only leaves us with a life that was well-lived, it was a life of consequence. A consequence of teaching, encouraging, and loving and laughing. He also leaves a legacy of children and grandchildren...and friends, who have very big shoes to fill! I have no doubt they will all make him proud.
In the end, I will miss that hand-crushing handshake which usually morphed into a back-breaking bear hug! I will miss his incredible love of life which came with a smile and a laugh that was intoxicating, as well as his deep and unconditional love of family and friends. For many, he was the original ambassador for Beals Island. And put in more simpler terms, he was Beals Island. That's rare in this world.
Looking back, it is clear the above is not nearly enough. For people like Mr. Woodward, words and the sharing of memories among those of us left behind are not enough. I guess I just wanted to acknowledge a friend, a member of that Beals tribe, as it were, and someone I looked up to who had a positive effect on my life. It was written with a happy tear in the eye, and joy in my heart. I think he would have wanted nothing more. Rest in peace, Mr. Woodward.
Well, the phone rang again the other night, but this time I was expecting it. As I excused myself from the dinner table, I went outside to be informed by the estimable and dear friend, John Tabor, that one Mr. Arthur Woodward was no longer among the living. We are all poorer for that. Mr. Woodward had been suffering for a while and his journey to Hamlet's Undiscovered Country was probably more of a blessing. And as John and I talked that evening, memories came flooding into my mind as if a great dam had broken. It is a testament to this man that every one of those memories were good ones.
Art Woodward was from a small fishing village off the coast of Maine called Beals Island. If you are a frequent vacationer in Maine, you might recognize the region as Down East....just like the magazine! It is a place I am quite familiar with. I spent many portions of my childhood, summers and winters, on Beals as it is where my grandparents lived, and specifically where my grandfather was pastor of one of the three island churches. This island will be studied centuries from now by linguists. They are going to try and figure out why two and sometimes three syllables were added to words that had no business being so mutilated; not to mention the obligatory New England deletion of the letter 'r' when it came at the end of a word. You think Boston natives talk funny? Spend a few days in certain parts of Maine! More about that, anon.
Since there have been a couple of pieces already written about Mr. Woodward that not only summarize his life, his accomplishments, his friendship and his faith, I guess I just wanted to let you know how one man could so embody this small village and its people.
Beals Island is an ancient place. To a young suburban kid like me it was another world. A world with a general store, 3 churches, lots of trees and even stranger...everyone pretty much had the same last name! You were either a Beal (thus the island name) or you were an Alley (whose family name gave us the other side of the island; Alley's Bay). If your name was something different, no worries...it just means you somehow landed on the island a few generations ago, and married into one of those families! You're good. But mostly, it is an island of hard-working fisherman, specifically lobster fisherman. These people are out on the ocean at the break of dawn and not pulling in until sunset. To a youngster like me they seemed larger than life. Mr. Woodward was one of them, and he was larger than life.
He was a bear of a man with his barrel-chest, paws for hands, and a voice of such deep resonance it no doubt could be heard for miles. It was a voice that told stories of, and verbally protected, that island long after he left. And even though he left, he took Beals with him. He kept the memories, the language, and the people. He also kept his faith and the love for his God that I'd like to think was cultivated in the church where my grandfather preached. He loved my grandparents as they loved him. And because of that love, he was family. He introduced me, years later, to the phrase "Brother D" as he so endearingly called my grandfather. He also called pretty much anyone he came in contact with, "Dear", during casual conversations. However, there was a syllable or two added to that word, which no spelling can do justice...so I won't try!
But most importantly, at least for me anyway, Mr. Woodward was that rare person who, while embodying an entire place, connected that ancient past with modernity. He would no doubt bristle at the audacity of this comparison, but Mr. Woodward reminds me of one of my favorite stories in the Hebrew Bible. As the Yahwist is creating her story of how her people came to be - how they made their way from Creation to King David and even more so, his son King Solomon, she gives us the story of Jacob and Esau. Esau is the primitive, hunter-gatherer. The "red-man" who worshipped the ancient ways. On the other hand, his twin brother Jacob is her stepping stone into her more modern world. The world of David and Solomon. He is the planner, the more urbane or sophisticated man if you will; the one who literally steals the Blessing from his brother. And even more importantly, wrestles with Yahweh all night long and wins a new name - Israel. Mr. Woodward honored and respected the ancient ways, and he would have wrestled Yahweh until sunrise...and won. He was Beals Island's Esau and Jacob, and he carried the blessing of that ancient island into the New World.
In the end, I will say of Mr. Woodward, who was 87 when he died, what I said about Richard Robbins. And that is, he mattered. He carried the blessing - "More life, into a time without boundaries." He not only leaves us with a life that was well-lived, it was a life of consequence. A consequence of teaching, encouraging, and loving and laughing. He also leaves a legacy of children and grandchildren...and friends, who have very big shoes to fill! I have no doubt they will all make him proud.
In the end, I will miss that hand-crushing handshake which usually morphed into a back-breaking bear hug! I will miss his incredible love of life which came with a smile and a laugh that was intoxicating, as well as his deep and unconditional love of family and friends. For many, he was the original ambassador for Beals Island. And put in more simpler terms, he was Beals Island. That's rare in this world.
Looking back, it is clear the above is not nearly enough. For people like Mr. Woodward, words and the sharing of memories among those of us left behind are not enough. I guess I just wanted to acknowledge a friend, a member of that Beals tribe, as it were, and someone I looked up to who had a positive effect on my life. It was written with a happy tear in the eye, and joy in my heart. I think he would have wanted nothing more. Rest in peace, Mr. Woodward.
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