Old Woodenhead is a carving of an image of yours truly made by artist David Castano, by request of a special woman I know. Old Woodenhead, the fly-fisher, replete with a fishing creel that I have never used, has appeared on my December blog posts over the past few years, and this year the tradition continues.
Winter has come again to the rivertops, with plenty of snow for a change, and Old Woodenhead, holding to the spirit of Winter Solstice (his favorite “holiday” in this very long season of holidays) made an early appearance on his home water looking for a fish. Yes, indeed, he caught another trout and pulled it out briefly, as if it was the sun, our local star, ready for a slow return to the northern hemisphere.
It was nearly the Winter Solstice, and the bare-bones scenery of the flowing landscape was alive with universal spirit. There was no white steeple of a church in sight, no flag blowing in the wind, only a deer stepping carefully down a steep, snowy slope, and Old Woodenhead waiting for his appointment on the hill.
Over the years, the purpose of the appointment was to enjoy and fulfill a family holiday tradition.
Through no fault of his own, my son, Brent, could not be here with us this year to participate in the tradition of a Christmas Eve hike to the summit of a hill nearby. The hike had always been designed to meet my brother by an old car in the woods. Brother Pete lives in the original farmhouse that my parents bought in 1972. My parents moved on, building a new home just downhill of the old place. Anyway, we’d meet on the blustery hilltop, get slaphappy and then continue on to my mother’s house for celebration (or in more recent years, to the neighboring farmhouse of my brother).
My son had been a part of this tradition for 20 years or so, but it’ll be 2017 before the old ways are installed again. Meanwhile, we’ll be visiting him in Virginia over Christmas, and I’ll have more on that event in an upcoming post.
I was glad that my daughter, Alyssa, had been able to make her holiday visit from the Virgin Islands, and that she was ready to fill in for my son on the hill climb through the snow and rain to meet my brother for a small family reunion. We were ready for indulging in the taste of winter spirits when the word came that my mother died after suffering a short illness in the nursing home.
Understandably, Old Woodenhead’s appointment on the wild and woolly hill was cancelled for this year. With heavy hearts, the family raised a glass to the long and wonderful life of the matriarch who had hosted friends and family with love through many Christmas Eves and other bright occasions.
It was almost Winter Solstice, and Old Woodenhead was ready for the sun’s acknowledgement of continuity and hope. The sun would return, and life would go on. He was looking forward to some fishing on Virginia’s Rose River between Christmas Day and New Year’s. There was fun and celebration slated for the near future and, as I said, you’ll hear more of that quite soon.