Woody’s new novel “The Butterfly Tree” is available at Amazon (click here), other online retailers, and orderable at all bookshops.
(One year ago today, Feb. 28, my father died at age 97. In his honor, from my archives in 2019, here is a column he greatly enjoyed about his own dad. The ending paragraph has been updated.
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Grandpa Ansel, the only grandparent I knew, died when I was only 7, yet he lives on clearly in my memories.
That my son’s middle name is Ansel goes a long way in telling you how much I loved and admired Grandpa. An art assignment when I was in the first grade further fills in the picture.
“And who is this?” asked Miss Bower, studying my crayon portrait response to her prompt: “Who is the most important person in the world?”
“My grandpa,” six-year-old-me replied, matter-of-factly, as though it were so obvious no answer should have been required.
“All your classmates drew portraits of President Johnson,” Miss Bower noted, adding: “Your grandpa must be very special.”
Me: “Yeah, he’s pretty ginchy.”
To be honest, the thought of drawing a portrait of the President of the United States never crossed my mind. In truth, I wondered why my friends had not drawn pictures of their grandpas.
After all, it wasn’t the President who patiently showed me how to bait a fishhook. Certainly the President had never set down his fly rod to calmly help me untangle a bird’s nest of fishing line in my backlashed spinning reel.
It wasn’t the President who taught me other important things a boy needs to know, like how to skip flat stones across the water; how to whistle; and how to pound nails without bending them.
The President never gave me a ginchy handcrafted wooden toolbox for my fifth birthday – or taught me funny old-fashioned words like “ginchy” which means “cool.”
“Grandpa, how come you don’t use worms like I do?” I once asked while “helping” him tie a fly in his basement fantasyland workshop of tools and endless jars filled with fishhooks, feathers, fur and other thing-a-ma-stuff.
“Oh, it takes a mighty skillful fisherman like yourself to catch a fish with a worm,” he answered. “That’s why you always catch big fish while I catch the little ones. I’d better stick to using flies if I want to have a chance to keep up with you.”
“Okay, Grandpa – but if you change your mind, I’ll share my worms with you.”
Grandpa shared lots of important things with me, like how to look a man in the eye when you shake hands; The Golden Rule; and that little boys in Russia are the same as little boys in America, this being during the Cold War.
“Which way is the wind blowing?” I would ask Grandpa whenever we went fishing. Before answering, he would moisten his index finger in his mouth and then dramatically extend it high in the air as I mimicked him.
Upon seeing which side of his finger-turned-weather-vane dried first, Grandpa would whistle-hum happily before responding: “I do believe it’s blowing from the west.”
Always, the wind was blowing from the west.
Always, this excited me and I would then recite by heart a poem Grandpa had taught me:
“When the wind is from the north, / The wise fisherman does not go forth.
“When the wind is from the south, / It blows the hook into the fish’s mouth.
“When the wind is from the east, / ’Tis not fit for man nor beast.
“But when the wind is from the west, / The fishing is the very best.”
Growing up, I wanted to be like Grandpa Ansel; six years ago, I truly became like him – a grandpa. With fishing as a metaphor, whenever we are together, I want my dear granddaughters Maya, Auden, and Amara to always feel like the wind is blowing from the west.
