Essays

By Jeff Woodard December 2007                                                The tug-of-war inside my head can be ugly. When the linear, logical left brain tangles with the emotional, creative right, you’d think something would eventually give. Often it’s a standoff. A draw. A tie. A dead heat. No winner, no loser. Just a lot of energy being exerted at offsetting…

My first impression is that she’s underdressed. She must be cold. Piercingly bright rays of early-autumn sunshine slice between still-leafy branches of the once-mighty oak across the street. While the beams gently land on her – clad in a short-sleeved navy knit pullover, lightweight slacks and sandals on a brisk afternoon on the shores of Lake…

By Jeff WoodardJanuary 1994, Columbus, Ohio I thought the bourbon in in my veins was playing tricks on me. It was 10 0’clock ona Tuesday, and I’d just returned home from tossing back a few Manhattanscourtesy Of my friends Andy and Chuck. What better way to take the chill Off thewinter of ’94 than with…

I don’t do well with heights anymore. I can’t pinpoint when the issue arose, although there was that one Ohio State football game in the early ’90s. I was relatively hungover and our seats were in C deck, where the pitch of the stands is, to risk understatement, extreme. The person in the row in…

There he stood, looking like a ’50s rock-n-roll wanna-be, in the eye of the storm. John had high hair. Only it wasn’t all gooped up like a greaser. All of 21 years old, I’d guess, he also sported sideburns, blue eyes and baby-soft skin. Playing rock ‘n’ roll music is a picnic compared with what…

Dear Uncle Mike: It was good to see you Friday, I hope I didn’t stay too long. I could tell you had somewhere to go. Just wanted to say thanks again. For the visit, and for so many other things. In replaying my childhood, well …  I can’t hit the “play” button without thinking of…

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.

He isn’t the most majestic arboreal specimen in Lakewood – but he must be among the most mighty. When I bought the property at 2257 Emily in 1997, the front yard was tree-less. A few years later, I planted a Bradford pear tree – “Brad” – near the middle of the yard. Brad grew, and…

The tug-of-war inside my head can be ugly. When the linear, logical left brain tangles with the emotional, creative right brain, you’d think something would give. Often it’s a standoff. A draw. A tie. A dead heat. No winner, no loser. Just a lot of energy being exerted at offsetting the opposite side. Deep down,…