Last Saturday, the Brighton town park was to be the gathering of Clan Woodward.

They wouldn’t be there to dance the Highland Fling, toss the caber, or scarf haggis, but to celebrate the clan matriarch, Ruth’s, 91st birthday.

In all, there’d be about 35 of them — seven of the eight children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, spouses, significant others … and me.

And how did I ever become part of that crew?

Well, it’s a long story, stretching back almost a half-century. But I’ll make it short by saying I cheated and started at the top, since my first Woodward acquaintance was Ed, the clan patriarch.

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The man behind the curtain

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I pulled up to the park fashionably late, and as I looked over the mob, I thought about Ed …

I met Ed when I joined the Paul Smith’s College faculty. Or more exactly, when I — a teaching newbie — was flung into the halls of academe without a minute’s experience, half a clue, or a hey nonny nonny. Since I was just out of the Navy, and Ed had been a career Navy officer, I hoped he’d take me under his wing. He did, and I stayed there, gratefully, for the next eight years, till he departed this Vale of Sorrow.

A lot of people thought Ed was standoffish or elitist, but he wasn’t. Just is, he was very reserved and quiet and had no use for idle chatter. Then again, he came by that honestly. His father was an army general, serving 42 years, almost all of them overseas, away from the family. Ed lived with his mother and her sisters who, coming from inherited wealth, spent most of their time and money on fripperies, awhile he was raised by nannies. He graduated from Annapolis, and his 20-plus years of shipboard life as an officer no doubt made him more self-contained and detached.

As different as we were, we had enough in common to form a bond. For one, we were history buffs, and for another, we were obsessive readers (though he read non-fiction almost exclusively). Beyond that, we both were current events mavens. And while hardly the life of the party, he had a wonderfully wry wit. He also appreciated humor of all sorts, so after I figured out where his funny bone lay, I managed to crack him up fairly often … and fairly well.

While I’ve always been a storyteller, Ed was the one with the stories. And how could he not be? In the 1930s he was on submarines in China for three years. Then he was on Neutrality Patrol, chasing Germans subs in the North Sea and the North Atlantic before the U.S. was ever involved in the war. He spent World War II in the Pacific as a Commodore in charge of a nine-destroyer flotilla, and after the war was stationed in Shanghai, having the dubious pleasure of watching Mao’s army rout Chiang’s, along with all its blood-lettings, famine, and horror shows galore.

Ed was modest as well as reserved, so when he did talk about his life, it was always in terse and understated terms. Plus, he never bragged. In fact, the closest he came to that was when talking about his flotilla (which he did only once), he said only that he never lost a ship.

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Last words

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I said Ed was witty, which he was, but his wit was unlike anyone else’s. And he often interspersed it within serious matters, for example his orientation speech to his crew.

After the prefatory folderol, Ed said, “The purpose of a warship is to sink the enemy’s warships.”

Then he paused and went on.

“But you can’t sink their ships if your ship is on fire, so keep all flammable materials in their proper containers.”

He let another moment pass.

“Second, you can put out a fire by sinking the ship,” he said. “But if you do that, you can’t sink any of their ships. So make sure all the watertight compartments are closed, as required.”

Much of Ed’s wit was elliptical; that is, his punch line was what he didn’t say. I still remember a conversation he had with his son Christopher which highlighted it perfectly.

Christopher had just finished a guideboat-building class at NCCC, taught by Carl Hathaway, the great Adirondack guideboat maker.

“So now what can you tell me about guideboats?” said Ed.

“I can tell you how to build one,” said Christopher, a bit too smugly for Ed.

“Well,” said Ed, “I can tell you how to fight the Battle of Britain …”

(As an illustrative note: Chris not only learned to tell how to build guideboats, but he learned to build them as well: He is, and has been, a professional guideboat maker for over 35 years, having bought Hathaway’s business).

One last anecdote reminds me when it came to safety and preparedness, Ed thought of everything.

He was taking on a new crew and when he met the Navigation Officer, he handed him a book.

“What’s this?” said the NO.

“Look at the title,” said Ed.

The NO did. The book was about something called Coconut Shell Navigation, which as the name implies, was an ancient Pacific island way of navigating by using a coconut shell to sight in on the sun and stars.

“But, Captain,” said the NO, “I have my sextant.”

“Right,” said Ed. “And what happens if you break it?”

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At the hearth

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As I got out of the car and headed to the park, I was chilled by a sudden misgiving: What if no one remembered me, or even worse, they remembered me but didn’t want to talk to me?

I walked over to the table where a bunch of them were gathered, and lo and behold, suddenly it was Old Home Week, with handshakes, hugs, pats on the backs and the like. I said hello to Ruth but little more, not wanting to take away from her time with the others. But I did shmooze with the rest, and hope they had half as good a time talking to me as I did to them.

After about an hour, I said my goodbyes and went back to the car. Before I got in, I gave the gang one last look, and when I did I remembered something about Ruth.

Because I hung out mostly with Ed, I ended up in the house a lot, which is how I got to know Ruth and the kids. In many ways Ruth seemed Ed’s polar opposite. She was sparky, upbeat and chatty — always with a big smile and a pleasant word. But beyond that, Ruth was one very cool customer, in that nothing ever seemed to faze her. Catch this.

It was the year after Ed died and I was adviser to a class who were putting on a dance. As adviser (and chaperone, bouncer, and head of the clean-up crew) I stayed till the final mop-and- sweep were done, which was sometime around 0130. I then shut off the lights, closed the door and left. But when I got out in the still of night, I realized I’d had too much to drink.

I wasn’t drunk — at least not in the Hunting Camp Barf-On-Your-Boots drunk sense. But there was no way I was getting in my car and driving home.

What to do?

Simple.

I walked to Easy Street, to Woodward’s house. Once there, I went in (the door was unlocked, as always), grabbed all the quilts and afghans I could find, and crashed out on the sofa.

The next morning, too bright and too early, I half woke up as Ruth came padding down the stairs. As I tried to clear the cobwebs, Ruth walked by the sofa, took one look at me and said, “It’s so nice to come down in the morning and see someone sleeping on the couch.” Then she padded into the kitchen.

Later, when the smell of coffee had me fully awake, I joined her at the table, drank coffee and ate the scrambled eggs she made me, and chatted pleasantly, as if we did this every Saturday morning. Then, our convo over, we said our goodbyes, and I walked back to my car. And though I’m not a betting man, I’d wager that Ruth never gave a second thought to any of it.

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Dope’s best friend?

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Over the years, several of the Woodward kids asked me if I thought I was their dad’s best friend, but I had no answer. Certainly, he was one of my most important people, but I doubted it was mutual. And that was based on one thing: It seemed impossible that people with a 35-year age difference can be best friends. Pals, buddies, friends, sure. But best friends?

After I thought some more, I realized that for eight years I hung out with Ed at least three times a week, certainly more than I did with anyone else.

Then I realized he’d hung out with me more than with anyone else, as well.

And while I don’t know if that fits anyone else’s description of best friends, it’s good enough for me.