A Eulogy for Robert Woodside
1934 - 2008
I'm Patrick, Bob's nephew. My Uncle Bob had many passions: Wolfpack basketball, classical music, country music, baseball, baseball stadiums, politics, teaching, mentoring, mountains, old hymns, sweetened iced tea. But the two that stand out, at least to me, are his deep love for his family and his lifelong sense of adventure.
Uncle Bob's family was the center of his universe. So much of his life revolved around family, especially his children, Kathy and Rob. He poured his love out for them, through thick and thin, through migraines and depression. I first got a sense of the strength of that love on family trips when Kathy and Rob were small, as I watched Bob give them their bedtime backrubs. I believe that the most-valued compliment Bob ever received was from his own father, who told Bob that he'd done a wonderful job of raising his children. Last night, I heard another perspective from his colleagues in the Math Department; it seems that everyone knew that for Bob, his children always came first. Uncle Bob's kids are his gift to us, and Kathy and Rob, if I know nothing else about your father, I know this: Your father is so proud of you.
Uncle Bob's passion for family extended to my family, too, and to all his nieces and nephews and uncles and cousins. And to Ruby, his faithful companion for so many years, who was clearly a part of the family. At this time of year I'm reminded that Bob's Christmas list was always short: More family get-togethers, more trips to his beloved hometown, Staunton, Virginia. Bob was the family "patriarch" -- he actually signed his emails that way. He cajoled the scattered flock of Woodsides to meet each year in Statesville and made sure that our families gathered each year in Staunton, the City Built on Seven Hills.
As a nephew, I was on the receiving end of Uncle Bob's love for family, his enthusiasm for conversation, and his wonderful, lively stories. What a privilege to have an uncle who treated a punk kid like me as an adult, who listened to me, argued with me, regaled me with stories. Our conversations about politics, baseball, history, or whatever was on our minds started at dinner tables, jumped outside as we walked Duppy or Sheeba or Ruby, came back inside, into a hotel room or in front of a Christmas tree, and lasted into the wee hours of the mornings. And those long conversations continued into my adulthood, into this year, to our last get-together this summer.
Of course, some of those conversations turned into arguments. Oh, those arguments... Not every word was polite. Voices were raised -- his and mine. Parents and grandparents woke up. Uncle Bob wouldn't be pleased with me now if I failed to mention those arguments. And woe unto him who misconstrued Bob in an argument. Woe unto the waiter in a Southern restaurant who couldn't provide sweetened iced tea. What's difficult to explain is that at the end of the worst of my arguments with Bob, there was always an unbroken bond. We loved each other; that was what mattered. And more than that, we both couldn't wait for the next long conversation, wherever it led us.
Bob had many lifelong passions; I cannot do justice to them all. But I'll mention a second one, his passion for adventures. There were adventures small and large. Some were from an era long before my time: Adventures in crossing the wires on his high-school teacher's car, adventures in Army Intelligence in Germany, adventures on stormy mountain peaks. And fortunately for us, Uncle Bob had a gift for describing those adventures, in rich detail that made them come alive again in the telling. For me, those tales became classics; even if you'd heard one many times -- and yes, we did -- somehow those stories seemed to draw you in again and again.
And I had the privilege of taking part in new adventures, new adventures that became new stories. My favorite part of our trips to Staunton was the drives out to the mountains in Highland County on Saturday mornings, just to wander and explore. Anything seemed possible with my uncle. Wondering what's on top of that hill? Let's hike up there and see. Want to know where that treacherous dirt road leads? Let's go! Skip rocks in a stream pointlessly for an hour or two? Why not?
But there were larger adventures, too. The pull of the mountains brought Uncle Bob much further, to conquer the high points in 40 different states and to embark on epic attempts to add more to that list, including one involving irritable llamas. And then there was this summer's mega adventure to Alaska -- he drove there, of course. Every new adventure brought a new batch of Bob's famously illegible postcards; we still can't figure out everything he wrote.
So, Bob's on a new adventure now. Dear God, how we miss him. We wish he could have stayed with us just a bit longer, for another Christmas, for another trip to Staunton. For many more years as a father. For enough time to name the new dog. For another complaint about a Southern restaurant that doesn't serve sweet tea, for another email about a State game, for another trip to Highland County. I suppose we're selfish in wanting more time with him, because our faith reminds us that his new adventure is a glorious one, that Jesus offers him comfort in a place where there is no pain. But Uncle Bob, we miss you terribly, and on your new journey, how we wish you'd send us another postcard.
Back to Bob Woodside Memorial.
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