The Letter: The Memoirs of Thomas M. Woodham

CHAPTER 1

For a long time, I felt this urge to put down on paper some of the major incidents of my life. The urge began soon after graduating from high school. It popped out like a germinating seed when the letter came. I call it a letter; a note would probably describe it better. However, when it first appeared, I saw it as a letter. So I bought this typewriter, which doesn’t clap so loudly as the ones at the mill. I like that.

The letter surprised me when it came. I distinctly remember the date, the fifth of May, the day after my thirty-fourth birthday. No one pays much attention to my birthdays, nor do I, except to note their passing. My brother Luke, seven years my senior, would be the only one to do so, if anyone did. Well, that would include his family, I’m sure. I have some distant cousins, but they are just that: distant. We never celebrated birthdays much in our home. If our mother was able to make a cake, that was a celebration in itself.

My mother: God bless her memory. As long as I can remember, Father employed a married woman, usually the wife of one of the workers at the mill, to care for our physical needs and perform all the household chores. I grew up thinking every household had a maid.

Mother died when I was barely in my teens. Three years before I was born, she bore a stillborn daughter. Another daughter, born two years after my birth, died shortly after birth. Mother mourned the loss of her daughters the remainder of her life. Her physical and emotional difficulties grew worse, as I recall. The doctor arrived one evening, not an unusual event in itself. But that night, it felt different.

I sat at the table, trying to do my homework. But the knots in the pit of my stomach distracted me from accomplishing anything. The doctor came to the table and told me Mother wanted to see me. I followed him into her bedroom. (I recall little of that time with Mother.) She talked with a halting whisper as she asked me to keep her always in my heart. The numbness I felt that night steals over me each time I recall her death. Father remained single. He felt he could never replace the wife he had.

In my earlier years, I never felt close to Luke. Looking back, I realize I merely took him as just part of the family. The seven-year age difference saw us living in separate worlds as youngsters. Our closeness with each other developed after Father invited me to join him and Luke at the cotton mill as its accountant. Father included us as partners with him. He drew us into each and every decision concerning the running of the mill. A year prior to his retirement, he assumed the role of adviser only in our discussions and decisions. Luke and I continued to run the mill after Father’s retirement.

In 1939, we secured a government contract to produce cloth for military officers’ shirts. The contract became a boon. We added a third shift, raised the workers’ pay, and introduced an employees’ liaison committee. After war was declared, the government included our mill on the essential industry list. As such, the men on our staff were eligible for deferment (one man opted to decline).

Luke and I worked well together. Our strong business partnership led to my socializing with him and his family on many occasions. Luke inherited Father’s even temperament. I learned from him how to work through a crisis and find a satisfactory resolution. Luke told me I inherited my impulsiveness from our mother. He knew her much better than I, so I accepted his insight. Fortunately, my impulsiveness didn’t carry over into my professional side.

Luke’s business education enhanced his innate managerial style. Under his leadership, our business grew so well, we undertook a building expansion. I quickly learned to trust his judgment on business matters, and my ability to see the financial implications of decisions complemented the arrangement. All in all, we enjoyed working with each other.

CHAPTER 2

Father began his career importing dry goods. He succeeded well at it. An opportunity arose with a local weaver to produce cloth that imitated some he imported. By doing so, he reduced his costs, passed the savings on to his customers, and still made a good profit himself. Father learned from his banker of an opportunity to buy a struggling but potentially successful textile mill. Under Father’s management, the mill flourished.

I hold many happy memories of Father taking me to his office. When I was about three years old, I asked him as we approached the building what that board was above the door.

"It says ‘Woodham Weavers Estab. 1922,’ he said. Your birth year."

I walked with pride into his office that day and each day he took me with him. He kept a box on a shelf that intrigued me. It contained all sorts of large and small dowels, square blocks, cones, rectangular blocks, balls, and flat circles. The most interesting thing he called a foot-long ruler. During his coffee break and lunch hour, he taught me to count, figure, and use the ruler. I became totally fascinated with numbers. I measured everything in his office over and over again with that ruler. After I learned to write, I filled spiral notebooks full of meaningless figures and measurements. I dreamed of working in the mill when I grew up. (I still own that box with its contents, by the way.)

As I wrote earlier, the mill rebounded under Father’s leadership. It soon provided employment for some thirty people and a few independent salespeople. I’m sure the trickle-down effect added several to the list of those who profited from his mill. Father always had a heart for poorer people. He also had an eye for those among them who were likely to be industrious enough to advance in the business. He hired them before others. He trained them, paid them well, and, in turn, profited from their industriousness. The business continued to expand.

I recall one employee in particular. Matt Schipps, eighteen or nineteen, barely made it through high school, earned a terrible work record in his earlier part-time jobs, and got into minor trouble with the law in his senior year. He begged my father for a job. He admitted he had nothing to recommend him but promised he would do his very best. Father hired him on trial. Matt started out poorly. He often clocked in late, took prolonged breaks, and mouthed off all too easily. He earned the nickname Matt Shiftless. Those he worked with disliked him. After a number of warnings, Father ushered him into his office.

Father’s calm and cool style of leadership created an ideal work atmosphere. He respected each employee, and they returned his respect with their diligence. My father’s ability to generate such an industrious workforce amazed me from my first day in the office. My respect for him rose considerably.

The day Father entered the office with Matt revealed a memorable side of Father to both Matt and me. I heard the encounter from my office.

Father’s voice was stern: Sit down, young man. Father seated himself behind his desk. Now tell me why you are here, and please dispense with your pretenses.

Matt spluttered, I guess it’s … well, because I haven’t been responsible enough?

Need you ask? I’m waiting for your honest response.

I guess, Matt continued spluttering.

You guess? I asked you to dispense with pretenses. Now do so. And look at me as you do.

Matt said, sounding meek, I often come in late and am careless at my work.

Are you able to muster up any conception of the devastation you are making of your life? What you are creating today will follow you every step you take from now on. The habits your behavior generate come from your character and in turn form your character; do you realize this?

Yes, sir.

Your supervisor informs me you lay the blame for your negligence at my door and that of the work conditions. Is that correct?

Yes, sir.

Tell me to my face the blame for which I am responsible.

I lied, sir. I thought I needed some excuse for my wrongs. Matt sniffled into his hankie.

Thank you for your honesty. It is the first glimmer of hope you have shown of a redeemable quality in your outlook. I heard Matt start to cry. Now, I am sending you home for the rest of the day. You would do well to spend it in reflecting on your life and attitudes. If you return tomorrow, you will be accepted back only upon your bonded promise of a permanent change that you make real in your actions. Have I made myself clear?

Yes, sir, you have.

Then you stand dismissed.

I heard Matt leave, blowing his nose.

He returned the next day, practically crawling on hands and knees. He promised to improve his work, adjust his attitude, and keep a clean record. However, if Father saw fit to take him back, he had one request. He asked for a transfer to the dye house. Father honored his request. Matt turned out to be a genius with colors and dyes. He could make an ordinary color come alive with brilliance and at the same time reduce our costs. We held a number of patents on the dyes he created and one on the method he found to make them more permanent.

Father liked to use him as one of his best success stories.

CHAPTER 3

When Father decided to retire, my brother and I kept up the business while he lived, about six years, as I recall. We profited from his assistance right up to the end of his life. However, a few years after he died, Luke and I decided to sell the mill. We approached Matt, another respected departmental manager, and two excellent independent salesmen, with a proposal for them to buy us out. They jumped at the opportunity. They knew a gold mine lay at their feet.

The business had grown well, and the sale left us both well off. Luke insisted we split the proceeds fifty-fifty. I would have been happy with a sixty-forty split, but he insisted. He said Father and he knew when I came on the team, my expertise with finances saved the mill during a downturn in the economy and another time during a financial crisis resulting from a deal gone sour in the middle of its production. That made the fifty-fifty deal the only one he would accept.

The value of the mill and Father’s personal estate proved far more than either Luke or I expected. Upon Father’s death, we rented his house to the lead mill foreman with the option to buy. Not incurring the expense of advertising and agent fees, we reduced our selling price proportionately.

Father’s investments, we discovered, had been substantial and varied. His wise choices made them grow to well over seven digits. He named three entities as beneficiaries: Luke, myself, and a local hospital and college as co-beneficiaries.

Neither Luke nor I would have to work another day in our lives if we each handled our share well. Father’s banker gave me some sound investment advice, which I took and am glad I was smart enough to do so. By not living lavishly and having a part-time job, I wouldn’t even use all the interest earned each year.

The glamor of few responsibilities wore tissue thin after a few days. Boredom. Mind-numbing boredom filled my days. I tried to ease it by dating Patricia, the head secretary at the mill. Her friendly personality was engaging, and with her intelligence, she could carry on a conversation with ease. I enjoyed being with her, but boredom met me in the front hallway each time I returned home. One day, I found myself reminiscing about Joyce, my high school sweetheart. What would my, our, lives look like if we married? I pushed the thought out of my mind with a thorough berating of myself for my stupidity. It’s useless to cry over spilt milk. Think rationally; don’t dwell on the past.

Luke married well and fathered two fine sons. His interest in sports led him to take a job as an assistant coach at the local high school. The basketball and hardball teams responded with enthusiasm to his coaching. He accepted the position of head coach when it became available. I envied him.

After a Wednesday dinner at his house, he broached the subject of my listlessness.

I said, Luke, I feel like I’m losing my mind from boredom.

To be frank, brother, I noticed it a couple of months before you suggested selling the mill. You weren’t yourself. Your head was often far off somewhere. There were times you didn’t hear me speaking to you. That was a big reason why I suggested we sell.

I knew he laid his finger on a sore spot and admitted it.

He suggested I go traveling for a while. He no sooner made the suggestion than it clicked. The next day, I bought map of New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and New York. My interest in drawing up a travel plan dispelled the boredom. It was a short-term goal, but I felt an excitement for the first time in a long while.

Well, well. As I look back on what I’ve written so far, I’d say it was a stream of consciousness, á la William Johnson. I find it remarkable how little things like a letter will stir memories. And pain. I still long for Mother and her love at critical junctures in my life. I often dream of sitting on that old hassock at her feet, listening to her read to me.

I just discovered another strange thing. Reminiscing eased some of the pain I experienced as I wrote. I had no idea of that when I began writing this story. It compels me to continue. However, I do want to try a more organized style.

I feel the need to squeeze in a paragraph about my memoirs. I little expected to agree to publish my reflections. I wrote them for my own benefit. After Joyce retyped my work, she told Irene about it. After she read it, she suggested having it printed, as did Joyce’s therapist, Molly, and Pastor Caleb. (You’ll meet all these people in my writing.) I finally yielded. I only ask anyone who reads this book to bear in mind my sentiments in this paragraph.

One more idea before I continue: Reflecting on life brings an analogy to mind. Life resembles the weather. Sunny days seem to generally predominate. Rainy days come and go, but they have their purpose. The really bad weather fixes itself in our memories and becomes a talking point. However, the occasional tornado alters everything. Its destructive force brings all of life to a halt. The ruin lies all around. Massive reconstruction becomes the order of the day. Christmastime of my senior year in high school was the tornado in my life. I’ll get to that. In actuality, the rebuilding process in my life began when I moved to Scenic. The ups and downs and the pain during the rebuilding stand out in bold relief in my mind. That will all come out as I write.

CHAPTER 4

My travels took me into upstate New York. I wandered into the hills of the Finger Lakes area. Checking over my map, Scenic, a village at the mouth of a glen on the southeast end of Lake Seneca, drew my attention. I decided to check it out. I discovered an idyllic village. The local folk go to Scenic for their common, everyday necessities. Need for larger or more costly items saw them in one of the bigger towns east or west, such as Ithaca, which is located some twenty miles east.

When I arrived, I stopped at the local grocery store to buy some fruit and asked about a place to stay. The checkout lady said, Your best bet? Go to that insurance place you see over there on the north side of the commons next to the hardware store. She nodded her head as she looked out of the window. He’s likely the only one around here that will know.

I put my purchases in the car and walked across the corner of the commons. The sign painted on the window informed me:

Frank Hammond

Investment Broker

Independent Insurance Agent

The entrance stood on my right in a hexagonal alcove. On entering, I found myself in an open reception area. On my right, the large front window bearing the painted sign afforded a broad view of the shops around the commons. Three filing cabinets occupied a space in the far corner. Some magazines and what appeared to be a telephone book lay on top of them. A young lady sat typing at a desk that faced the wall. A mesh wastebasket occupied the space between her desk and the cabinets. I judged the young lady to be about my age. A man of forty-five or fifty sat behind a desk on my left, writing on a yellow legal pad. To his right, two more filing cabinets stood between his desk and the near wall. I saw a few chairs in front of the window, apparently for waiting customers.

The man looked up and said, May I help you? The young lady kept on typing.

Yes, I hope so. I’m new in town and am looking for a place to stay. The lady at the grocery store said you might be able to help me.

He smiled. Absolutely. That’s another hat I wear. I manage some property for a few owners. That puts me in the know of most of the available places. Pull up that chair there. I’m sure we can help you. By the way, I’m Frank Hammond. May I ask your name?

Thomas Woodham. Call me Tom. I pulled up the chair and set it near the desk facing the door, to accommodate my long legs. I sat putting my right arm on the desk. The young lady behind me moved around, but I didn’t pay a great deal of attention.

Well, Tom, you must have seen Motel Scenic when you drove in, so we can cross that one off the list. I nodded my agreement. How about a bed and breakfast? I shook my head. He suggested a number of places in the village that took in roomers. I declined.

This town appeals to me. As of now, I’m intending to stay here for some time. Is there perhaps something more permanent I could rent?

He leaned back in his chair, put his elbows on the arm rests, and steepled his fingers over his lips. He hooked his thumbs under his chin and narrowed his eyes at me.

Then he tilted up, lowered his hands, and said in measured tones, There’s a cottage located a few miles up the glen [he gestured behind him toward the north] that’s vacant. The owners would like to let it out to anyone wishing to stay in it for however long. It’s fully furnished. Interested?

I nodded. Yes.

There’s a groundskeeper living in the village who keeps the place up. His name is Will Djak. His wife is Ilda. She goes in to tidy up the place once a month or so. They would relieve you of house and grounds duties, if you care to keep them on.

That seems just what I’m looking for, I said.

There’s an added benefit. The woman’s sudden onset of an illness prompted them to move closer to larger medical facilities, her husband told me. They own the cottage, but he mentioned they plan to put it up for sale. There’s quite a large stock of provisions. They left them to any renter who can make good use of them. You may drive up and have a look at the place if you’d like.

A quick mental calculation told me the rent fell well within my expected budget. I made my decision.

I’d like to see the place. But really I don’t think there’s any question about my renting it. I took out my checkbook and wrote a check for a deposit and a month’s rent. I handed it to him.

As he took it, he pulled open a drawer and took out a set of keys. He handed me the keys and said, To get there, take the street on the east side of the commons over there. He pointed out the window, and I turned to look. This is Main Street that we’re on. That’s Maple Street in front of the grocery. Take it north—left, that is—to the first stop sign. Turn right at the stop and follow that road out of town. That’s Curved Creek Road. You’ll come to a bend in the road after a couple of miles. His gesture indicated the road would curve to the right. Just beyond the bend, you’ll see a road to the left that goes uphill. It’s just before a little bridge. Beacon Hill, you’ll see the sign. The house is not far up that road, and it’s the only one on it. Enjoy your stay. By the way, if you should decide to buy, your rent becomes part of the down payment.

I thanked him as I took the keys. I noticed Mr. Hammond walking backward out of the door and gesturing to someone inside as I got in my car and backed out onto the street. He crossed the street to a car almost on a run. I became curious, but my business lay in finding the cottage.

I followed his directions and downshifted as I turned onto Beacon Hill Road. I experienced driving on a gravel road for the first time. Whoever was responsible for it maintained it well. A tower of some kind stood on a promontory off to my right. The road was likely a service road to the tower. Just then, the light of the tower flashed across my eyes. Ah, Beacon Hill Road. Of course.

After a climb of about a hundred and fifty yards, the road leveled off considerably. The cottage appeared ahead on the left. I turned into the drive and pulled up to the garage that stood north of the cottage. As I got out of my car, the spectacular view down the valley caught my attention. At four in the afternoon, the cottage lay in the shadows of the hills to the west. The top of the hill to the northeast and the valley to the south blazed with light. The sunlight still lit up most of Scenic too. I stood mesmerized by the view before me. What an apt name for this town: Scenic.

CHAPTER 5

My initial view of the cottage reminded me of a log cabin. I estimated the building was twenty-four feet wide and thirty-six feet deep. The roofed front porch was twenty feet by six. The window in the gable above the porch suggested a second story of some sort.

The unusual siding of the house impressed me. The waned-edge boards created a wavy line, where each board overlapped the one below. It gave the cabin an attractive rustic look. The roof of the porch, resting on poles of undressed trunks of small trees, completed the unusual design. Each pole measured about four inches across at the bottom. Three of them stood in a triangle at each forward corner of the porch. Two stood on either side of the six-foot-wide steps. The balustrade around the porch was constructed of the same kind of poles that held up the roof, but smaller in diameter. The balusters between these rails were narrow versions of the siding. It seemed obvious that whoever built this house used lumber harvested from the surrounding woods. The trees at the sides and back of the house stood undisturbed, however. The cabin, nestled under the trees, made it look as cozy and serene as the village below.

The cabin was situated on a plateau, compared to the surrounding area. The hills behind the cabin rose quite sharply from the northeast to the west. The front of the building rose about two feet off the ground, but they met at the rear. About a hundred feet to the left of the cabin, the ground dropped off at a steep angle down toward Curved Creek Road.

To my amusement, as I mounted the steps onto the porch, I noticed a nameplate to the right of the front door. It read BUTTERFLY. Unusual name. I wondered what it meant.

The storm door and the main door impressed me with their solidness and weather-proofing. And when I stepped inside, I saw that the cabin style continued. All the walls were dressed tongue-and-groove boards, finished with a clear varnish. The living and dining areas spanned the front of the inside. The enclosed rafters provided the ceiling. The living area was to the left and the dining area to the right, with the kitchen off of the dining area. A pass-through separated them.

All the furniture in both the living and dining areas seemed handcrafted of fence-post design. This included the couch, two big easy chairs, end tables, footstools, coffee table, and radio stand. The dining room table and chairs and a movable serving counter that stood in front of the pass-through featured the same fence-post design.

In the far left corner of the living room, an open stairway led to the loft that I assumed extended to the back of the cabin. The banister and balusters on the stairs continued the same fence-post construction as the furniture. This included the railing in front of the loft. Burlap drapes closed off the loft area.

Doors on the left of the hallway, which ran down the center of the cabin to the back, opened into two bedrooms. The first bedroom was smaller than the one at the far end. The door immediately on the right led into the kitchen. The next door opened into the bathroom. The open area to the left of the bathroom contained the washing machine. I peeked through the window in the door at the end of the hall and saw a large uncovered deck. The railing around the deck imitated the design of the front porch. The stone fireplace standing at an angle in the left corner provided a perfect spot for roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. A trestle table with benches to the left of the fireplace completed the outdoor cooking scene.

Coming back down the hall, I noticed a door on my right just before the living room. I missed it earlier. The stairs beyond it led to an unfinished basement. The objects down there included a wood-burning furnace, water heater, and water pump with its pressure tank.

A sunken door in the middle of the back wall drew my attention. I flipped the light switch on the doorpost. Three steps led down to the door. Beyond it, I discovered a root cellar. I guessed it at eight by twelve by seven feet at the peak of the vaulted ceiling. The shelves to my left contained five to six dozen pint jars of food. The labels told me they contained peaches, pears, apricots, applesauce, brussels sprouts, green and wax beans, corn, rutabaga, and a few others. On the opposite side stood three four-gallon covered crock-pots. One contained dill pickles. The other two held bread-and-butter pickles and gherkins. The gherkin I took crackled like an ice cube in my mouth. I made a mental note to dip into these jars often. Mr. Hammond said the previous occupants vacated the premises without taking with them their rather large supply of food. I felt like a pirate in a cave full of gold and gems.

Houses