Yesterday I passed the farm I spent the first few years of
my life in. It is white, built with classic New England architecture, dressed
in green trim. Running atop the barn in hand hewn letters are the words “The
Woodworth Farm.” I was just a child the day we gathered at the farm to raise
the sign above the barn doors during an afternoon of Aunt Margarita’s sangria
and numerous rounds of croquet. Yesterday I drove by the house following a fire
engine draped in flowers, firefighters in their dress blues, and a hearse
carrying the body of my grandfather Bernie who bore the name Woodworth better than any
man I know.
When people first meet my family they often assume that I
got my love of talking and story telling from my mother, Diane. They believe
this, until they meet my grandfather, Bernie Woodworth, a professional talker and
wicked harmonica player who passed into glory on Sunday May 12th.
Throughout my life, my Pa has always been the consummate man
in my young eyes.
He served as a WW II veteran who gave of his life
sacrificially to stand against the evils of corrupt governments bent on destroying
human freedom.
He was a farmer long before farming was ever in vogue. A man
who loved to be close to the soil, close to God’s creation.
He was a hopelessly addicted fisherman. Indeed, I often
wondered if his primary reason for farming was to provide a place in which you
could always find prime earthworms for fishing on the weekends. He was my
mentor at the craft, the man who taught me how to cast a lure, how to hook a
fish and how to release it back into shallow water.
But my most memorable story about my Pa will forever be the
night we spent at game 3 of the 1986 World Series when the Red Sox faced the
New York Mets. Despite the fact that Lenny Dykstra took the first pitch over
the right field wall, the most important event in the night for me happened
before the national anthem was even sung. As the Red Sox lineup was called, the
crowd rose to their feet and cheered like Boston fans are apt to due. Also in
typical Bostonian fashion, when the Mets were announced, boos roared and hisses
erupted. As I stood on the railing in front of me I remember glancing up to see
my Grandfather, Pa, on his feet cheering every bit as wildly for the Mets.
I have never met a Red Sox fan more devoted than Bernie, who,
even after his eyesight was gone spent hours nestled next to his small radio
taking in every pitch, but his love of the game never eclipsed his love for
people, no matter who they were or what team they played for.
He taught me how to find night crawlers, how to slide down a
fire pole and he taught me that Nanny’s strawberry shortcake was the standard
by which all other shortcakes should be measured.
He taught me these things because Pa was the kind of man by which all
other men should be measured.
Wednesday we celebrated Pa in ways that honored his legacy
and the role he had played in setting the tone for all Woodworth men to follow.
And we celebrated the fact that today Pa is toiling under a sky that no longer
needs a sun to offer its light, with his hands plunged into soil that is free
of weeds and briars, fishing on the bank of a shore where the fish never stop
biting, and playing ball for a team that never disappoints, never loses, and
whose manager tells him daily, well done good and faithful Bernie. Well
done.
