In December of 1975 Jane and I moved to Vienna where I began working with my cousin at Rooney Bowen Chevrolet. Someone, often me, made frequent trips to Woodward Auto Parts to get items for repairing vehicles. That’s where I got to know James M. Woodward, III.

James, a lifelong Methodist, posed a question one day about my denomination. “Neil, do you know why Baptists don’t make love standing up?”

“No sir,” I answered, “I can’t say as I do.”

“Because someone might think they were dancing,” he said. 

 My apologies to anyone I’ve offended by putting that in print, but James and I have laughed for almost 50 years over that brief exchange. It’s funny how little moments can become lasting memories. 

Madison is his middle name, but the M could just as easily stand for Mischief. Marion Hall, a member of our men’s Sunday School Class at First Baptist Vienna, shared a story typical of James’ persona during one of our morning sessions.

As a group of silver-haired friends were having coffee at McDonald’s, someone made a comment about varying interpretations of scripture. Several fellows expressed their opinions as James patiently waited his turn. “Let me explain something about Methodists,” he said. “Most of us Methodists don’t know a lot of theology. What we know more about is sin.”

Multiple strokes have created some balance issues for James. When I saw him in late June his bathtub had given him two black eyes. He had gone down in the second round of a clean fight. He’s not as surefooted as when he was Chief of the Vienna Volunteer Fire Department, but his sense of humor remains untamed.

Charles Stephens is one of his classmates and lifelong friends. In 1992 the daring duo went on a six-week trip to Alaska to fish, see the sights, and visit another member of the Class of 1956 who lived there.

According to James, Dr. Sonny Sangster loaned them his boat which Charles adeptly put out of commission. The good doctor also took them on a ride in his personal plane. Before taking off he asked if everyone had their seat belts buckled. Charles affirmed he did, but later realized he had been gripping his camera strap.

The seat belt flapped outside the plane for two hours and knocked a hole in its belly. Sonny offered to pay for their next travel adventure if they would go to Hawaii.

Charles may remember those incidents quite differently, so I didn’t ask. James paused the humor for a moment of pensive reflection. He said those six weeks were one of the highlights of his life.   

Good-natured mischief is ingrained in James’s personality, but he’s serious about things that are important. He wrote a book about Woodward Farm a few years back. Within those pages he shared the blessings of family and his passion for good stewardship of land entrusted by God.

Conservation efforts began decades ago in the Woodward family. His father was the first in Dooly County to have parallel terraces established on cropland. That legacy is being continued with a current focus on forestry and wildlife habitat. Part of the farm is enrolled in a permanent easement to protect a rare wildflower called Canby’s Dropwort.

Arrowheads and other artifacts have been collected on the farm and elsewhere. Among his favorites are pieces of wood that nature has slowly carved or left to be reshaped. When I expressed an interest in woodworking he recommended a book, You Can Whittle And Carve. And he gave me a wooden knife and arrowhead he’d made, examples certainly but perhaps more intended for inspiration.

James showed me a knife handle he was shaping and explained the process he would use to secure its blade. I told him about a hatchet I’d found in the woods and related my unremarkable results in making a handle which I attached with small bolts.

“Bring it by, sometimes,” he said, “and let me see what I can do with it.” 

I plan to take it to him and hopefully get a short tutorial on carving. There’s nothing urgent about repairing the hatchet, but as I was leaving he asked me to follow up on another matter.

“Neil,” he said, “If you hear any reports of Baptists dancing, will you be sure and let me know?”

I promised I would, then left with a pleasant reminder of something easily forgotten. It’s funny how little moments can become lasting memories.