Woodrow

Here’s the strange thing, no one was ever really sure when Woodrow moved to the village. You must remember him? He lived in that little cottage at the top of Mill Lane. His lounge window faced on to the High Street and was always full of jolly trinkets.

You see if you asked a neighbour when they remember Woodrow coming here, they’d say – ‘Oh, he’s always lived here’, and someone else might have uttered – ‘I think he moved to Mill Lane last Christmas or was it last month?’.

It’s not as if he was a mysterious soul, far from it. He was always the life and soul of every party. And if you looked back at photographs, he would be there.

Everyone had a Woodrow story, and every one of them was as different as they were strange. 

I’ve got two stories concerning the man. The first was probably around the time of the great storm. Some trees had blown over every way a person turned. It had been the storm to end all storms, at least that’s what the little man in the grey suit had told viewers on the television.

Mrs Hathaway had been walking her dog, Silver when the first of the gusts had hit the village. The wind had spooked Silver, and the lady found herself chasing her beloved friend through the trees behind the Cross. She had just turned into a dark part of the woods when a small oak fell in front of her and had caused a break in her arm. Now it wasn’t just the pain; it was also the fact that her bone was sticking out at a funny angle.

Woodrow had heard her cries which had been carried by the wind. He had run up from his house to see who was in trouble. There in front of him was Mrs Hathaway lying almost face down in the mud.  And that was the way I found the two of them, with Woodrow trying, in the most gentlest of ways, to ease the lady into a less painful position.

“We’ve all seen the wrong end of problems,” he’d say. “There ain’t no one in this world who doesn’t have concerns. But it’s how we deal with them. That’s what’s important. That’s what makes you who you are.”

Woodrow was my pal, and my mentor and my everything at the time, I was barely ten, and I guessed he was so old that he had probably been to school with God.

I asked him once how old he really was, and he just chuckled some and said he was just a gnat’s hair older than his teeth.  Then he’d laugh so hard and loud and long that I could hear his tummy rumble, and which point he’d say, ‘well…excuse me, little one’.

Woodrow carried Mrs Hathaway all the way down the hill, took her to her house and then fetched the doctor on the High Street. They were friends forever after that night.
“All we need to do is lend a helping hand now and again.”
Woodrow wasn’t wrong.

The second story was perhaps a little more strange. Woodrow had a box on top of his fireplace and he seemed to polish and care for that thing as if it was his child.

In the same year as the great storm, my Grandad passed on. I went up to the Cross by the hill and sat. I guess I started talking to my Grandad – I knew wherever he was, he’d be listening.

It was right then that Woodrow found me. He said we should get down off the hills as it was going to rain heavy. It started just as we got into Woodrow’s house. 

My big pal went over to that special box of his, and he seemed to put something in a little box and then he handed it to me.
“Take this little one. Keep it safe. It’s a small bit of the magic that I keep in that box over there.”

I asked Woodrow what in it and all he said was, “It’s a little piece of hope. That’ll see you through all the bad years. Don’t look inside. Never look inside, or else it’ll fly away.”

You’re going to say I’m crazy but I kept that little box with me all my life. When I was at college, or in a job, or my proposal of marriage – and especially the birth of my child. Every time I needed a little piece of magic, I’d hold that little box and wish for the best.

When Woodrow finally gave up the ghost, I went back to that special little village. His family said that he had left something for me. Guess what? It was the big box from the fireplace.

I went up the hill to talk to Woodrow because I knew he’d be listening just like my Grandad. I’m sure I heard him say to open the magic box. So I did and guess what was in it? Nothing. It was empty.

I smiled. I also opened the little box which had been with me all my life. It was empty too. What Woodrow had given me was hope and belief in myself and my life.

No bigger gift than that. Thank you Woodrow.  Thank you kindly.

bobby stevenson 2020