I know amazingly little about the formative years of Richard Lewis Woodard, considering that he’s my father and everything. I know he was the youngest of five children, the only boy.
I do know he had an interest in cars and guns. And he was a consistent athlete. He played basketball and baseball in school. (I have a team picture of the 1946-47 Chester High School basketball team, Dad seated front and center, holding the basketball, the most handsome of the bunch.)
Anyway …
Dad liked to bowl and play golf. When I was a little kid, he and Mom bowled in a Friday night “mixed couples” league. (It took me a while to figure out what they were mixing, and realize that “mixed” meant men and women.)
In the men’s-only league, Dad bowled fifth in the five-man lineup. This was called the “anchor.” In a close game, you wanted your best guy to bowl last. Dad rarely let his teammates down. His reaction to his performance never varied much. Whether he’d just rolled his fourth strike in a row or missed an easy spare, his reaction was minimal. No demonstrations of celebration, no fits of temper.
Whether bowling (180 average), golfing (respectable handicap) or handling a pool cue stick (awesome hand-eye coordination), Dad made me proud.
Dad has always been there for me. He helped coach my Little League baseball team, taught me how to drive, and tried to impress upon me the finer points of baiting a fishing hook. (I can’t blame him for my queasy stomach.). Dad was a study in dichotomy. On the one hand, he always said that if something was worth doing, it was worth doing right the first time. On the other hand, the concept of inactivity escapes my 79-year-old father. If he senses boredom bearing down on him, he says, “I’m going to do something – even if it’s wrong.” So … right is better than wrong, and wrong is better than nothing. Or something like that.
I have learned over time that Dad, like so many of us, is his own harshest critic. His sense of self-image is poor; no matter who or what is involved, Dad always feels others are more deserving than he. He’s never found his place in life. I can only imagine what it would have been like to have grown up with four older sisters. How do you fit in?
Did found a fit in the U.S. Army. He served in Panama in the early 1950s. For the past 10 or 12 years, Mom and Dad have reunited with Dad’s Army buddies and their wives. The venue varies from year to year, but with alums living all over the country, the event involves a significant amount of travel for most of them. Travel wears on people in their late 70s and early 80s. Dad is looking forward to the reunion this October. At the same time, he anticipates talk of its end. If the Army reunion dissolves, what will they do?
Dad and Mom are always on the go – shopping, doctor appointments, garage sales – but they “vacation” little. They live in a mobile home in the snowiest town in Ohio. Winters are long. Getaways are necessary. Dad recently asked me about the annual September vacation I take with a friend to the Outer Banks, N.C. I’ve often considered whether they would like to join me and Marilyn, my longtime travel companion and old college buddy.
There is plenty of room at the rustic old oceanside house we rent. But I’ve never asked, because outside of eating, drinking, reading and sleeping, we don’t do much. It’s a “veg” vacation. I’m not sure how Mr. Perpetual Motion would make the transition to “slow motion” – or “no motion.”
But I love him – and it’s worth a try.