A man came up to me as I sat in the Irving Theater and asked me, “Are you Mr. Woods?” I was waiting for the start of Al Hunter’s presentation of “Whispers From the Grave,” and when I confessed to the man that I was, indeed, he told me that he recognized me from my picture at the top of my column that he “faithfully reads.”
I’ve written before about my conscription into the service of this newspaper. I was kidnapped, bound hand and foot, and had my hands freed only to be pressed onto a keyboard that was used to deliver 600 words per week to the publication. (This is a pleasant fiction; the truth is chronicled in “The Accidental Columnist.”) My observations and memories were organized into the words that poured from my brain and leapt from my fingers onto my computer keyboard. I once proudly showed my work to an English teacher with whom I had worked — a graduate of the University of Missouri’s school of journalism — and she slapped down the paper and snorted contemptuously that my contributions were the same as the submissions of “unvetted bloggers.” That surprised me but did not sting in the way she intended; my joy ran unabated. I knew that her bias was toward writers who had not matriculated at a university noted for its school of journalism (read: The University of Missouri). The editor-in-chief of this publication asked all of her columnists for a biographical sketch that was intended to be included on the website. I dallied long past the deadline, so my bio space is blank. I did that because I felt that “two years of art school — did not graduate” — and “two years of university undergraduate studies” were weak resumé items. But there is this: I can write.
When I lived in St. Louis Missouri, I consumed that city’s daily newspaper, the St. Louis Post Dispatch. I followed the shenanigans of Bill McClellan’s dog and cat and envied his way of capturing the delights and vagaries of the human experience. I then turned to James Kilpatrick’s column, “The Writer’s Art,” and tried to absorb Kilpatrick’s every word on the proper usage of the English language. (I was disappointed to learn that Kilpatrick was an avowed segregationist who warned against the admission of African Americans into the community of equality, but I have learned to separate those views from his critiques on the art of writing.) I pursue the language, and seek every day to learn ways to express the joy and misery of the lives we live.
On Sunday, October 20th, the three women who founded this publication received a “Founders Award” from the Historic Irvington Community Council in recognition of their contributions, through this publication, to the quality of Irvington life. That same night, an interview with those three ladies appeared on TV station WTTV Channel 4, highlighting their courage and commitment.
The poet Dylan Thomas wrote “In my craft or sullen art,” a poem that explores the passions that drive the artist, the poet and the writer. “Not for the proud man apart/From the raging moon I write/On these spindrift pages …” He continues, “Not for ambition or bread/Or the strut and trade of charms/On the ivory stages” does he write, and nor do I. I write for my children and grandchildren and for Cindy, a reader who sat next to me in a Heartland Film Festival theater, and asked about my sick brother, and for Rick Bryant, who graced me with his time and a compliment.
cjon3acd@att.net