My mom and dad moved from Indianapolis when I was three years old so that I could grow-up next door to granny and Pop-pop. Although I lived with mom and dad, I spent almost every waking hour next door at grandpa’s house. I was magnetized to him. I had a really good relationship with my mom and dad, but at every free opportunity, I was by grandpa’s side. No disrespect intended to my dad, but grandpa was my “father figure.” Pop-pop walked me to the bus stop most mornings. He taught me how to play baseball and how to hammer a nail. We worked in the garden together. We built my tree house together. He took me fishing almost every weekendr. And on evenings when mom and grandma would go shopping, grandpa and I would have “parties” that consisted of Spaghetti-Os, root beer and dry Golden Graham cereal for dessert, all while watching an IU basketball game or the latest episode of Hee-Haw.

Obviously, I am a little biased, but looking back he was fascinating. He quit school in the eighth grade to take over the family farm when his dad died…eighth grade. The responsibilities he had must have been overwhelming. But as the oldest of five children, he was the man in the house. “And my family needed fed.”

Grandpa was not an educated man, but he was one of the brightest people that I have ever met. He had a special way about him. He could do anything. In his life he was a farmer, an iron worker in a factory during World War II, a bulldozer operator, an electrician, and a supervisor for the Indiana Highway Department.

He loved to tell stories! I’m not sure if they were all true, but it didn’t matter. I would sit on his front porch with a glass of iced tea, rock in rocking his chair and listen to him tell stories. Sometimes, it was the same story I heard just a few days before. But it didn’t matter to me.

One of my favorites was a story about him riding his horse to school each day. After he got to school, he would smack his horse on the rump and the horse would run home into the fence and his mom would go shut the gate. I always wondered how he got back home from school.

Or the story of him running to the next town (from Martinsville to Plainfield) after working all day on the farm, just to spend a few hours with his girlfriend…who turned out to be grandma. I always wondered why he didn’t just ride his horse.

And with the mom of a full-blooded Cherokee Indian, he had great stories of being taught to live off of the land…how to fish and track animals by his Cherokee uncles…how to find the best mushroom hunting places…and when to plant pumpkins to allow them to reach their potential.

And I loved hearing stories of him hunting “with my best buddy, Sally.” Sally was an Irish Red Setter. He talked about how, while hunting, he would sometimes lose Sally. Trying to sneak up on quail, she would sometimes disappear into the woods and wouldn’t come when he called to her. “Finally, I’d find ole’ Sally and like a good ole’ girl, she was still on-point, showing me to a whole load of quail.” He loved that dog! “Besides your grandma, she is my best gal.”

He always had such colorful sayings too. When I was obviously trying to convince him that something that may not have been the best choice, he would say, “Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

When I tried to get away with something that was clearly a bad idea, he would smile from ear to ear and hold up his fists pretending that he was going to punch me and say, “Boy, the next thing you know, you won’t know nuttin’” or “come here boy and let me box your ears.”

And yes, he was my hero too. Once, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he literally saved my life.

I was six years old at the time. My uncle worked nights, so each morning that summer grandpa and I would go feed Uncle Dick’s coon dogs. One morning, “Charlie” unexplainably attacked me. It wasn’t a normal dog bite, but rather a full-scale attack. I don’t remember anything that happened prior to me falling to my back and trying to push away the dog as he was biting my face and head. He was on top of me without any time to react. I remember trying to get up and crawl out of the reach of the dog’s chain, but every time I tried I would be knocked back down and get bitten again.

I recall vividly looking up and being blinded between the combination of the bright sunlight and blood clouding my eyes, hearing the growls of Charlie and trying to fight him off. Everything seemed to be running in high speed. Then, I realized the sun wasn’t in my eyes anymore. And I was not being bitten, although I could still hear the sounds of the dog.

I remember trying to open my eyes and seeing the silhouette of my grandpa standing over me, blocking out the sun. He was straddling Charlie, who was still going crazy, trying to continue his attack. I remember thinking it was odd seeing grandpa put the dog in a headlock with one arm, while frantically searching his overall pockets with the other. Then came a loud yelp and I realized that the attack had stopped. He had cut the dog’s throat with his pocketknife.

I remember him running through the woods, carrying me in his arms until we reached his old, beat-up truck. I was losing a lot of blood and going in and out of consciousness. Until that point in my life, I don’t ever remember seeing him show any emotion. But I remember being scared that he was crying as he was driving me to the doctor. He never forgave himself for “allowing that accident to happen.”

The only other time I remember realizing that grandpa was upset was the day his Sally, died. I woke up early one morning and asked mom if I could go to grandpa’s house for breakfast.

While walking next door, I found Sally curled up underneath the window sill to my bedroom. I bent down to pet her and realized that she was gone. I ran in to get grandpa. He asked me to stay inside the house and he left to get her.

After a few minutes, I slipped outside and watched him finish digging the grave. Trying not to show emotion, he carried Sally across the pasture, and laid her to rest. After kneeling and saying a prayer over the grave, he walked into the tool shed, grabbed a gas can, doused Sally’s doghouse, and lit it on fire.

He sat watching the flames, trying to hide the tears rolling down his cheeks. I walked up to grandpa and put my arm around his waist. “Why are we burning Sally’s house, Pop-pop?” “Son, when you are fortunate enough to have an old friend like that, you know that they can’t be replaced. And since, I won’t replace her, there’s no need to keep her house.” He continued to watch the doghouse until the flames turned to embers.

Grandpa tried to continue to try to fight back the tears. But I’m not sure who he was trying to convince that he wouldn’t miss ole’ Sally. Him or me?

I don’t always make the right choices or live the life that I should. But I am trying very hard to make sure that I follow the right path. Previous to this particular day, I like to say that I had met God, but we weren’t close friends. He was a “friend-of-a-friend.” I had lots of friends that knew him. He and my mom were very close. I was raised to be close to Him, but in hindsight, I was just going through the motions. I had been baptized. I went to church fairly often. I sang in the choir. Occasionally I would, with the help of my quartet buddies, sing special music sermons in church. I prayed (almost) every night. I thought that I was living right, but now in know, I was not.

Brandee and I found out that we were going to have a baby!  We were as excited as all young parents are. We had hopes and dreams for our unborn baby. I hoped that he was going to be a roughneck little guy that wanted nothing more than to play in the dirt, wrestle with daddy, and go fishing! Brandee wanted a pretty little girl who loved wearing ruffled dresses and would spend the afternoon shopping with mommy.

Brandee had a few complications along the way. Very early in her pregnancy, doctors put her on bed rest. Shortly thereafter, they admitted her to the hospital for testing and observation. A few days after hospitalization, they made us aware that it was necessary to transfer her to Indianapolis, where it was about to become a bumpy ride!

Fast-forward almost a month. Brandee was still in the hospital in Indy.  I visited a night or two through the week and on weekends. I felt like I needed to be with her, but the realization was she was not able to work.  We needed me to stay in Terre Haute. It was a very difficult time and I was torn between where I wanted to be (with Brandee) and where I needed to be (bringing home a paycheck.)

Upon Brandee’s insisting, I attended a friend’s wedding “to represent our family.” Of course, I wanted to go, but I also knew that I should be with her too.  Brandee was very convincing. “You should go! This has been stressful for you running between the hospital and home. Go blow off some steam and have a good time. I’m just going to be here in bed! Come see me the next morning and tell me all about it!”

I went and it was a good time…maybe too good of a time!  Brandee called me very early the following morning. My head was cloudy from having a few too many drinks at the reception. “What time are you planning on coming up this morning?”  My initial thought was “after a few more hours of sleep and a couple of Tylenol!,” but said that I was on my way after a quick shower.  “I have some bad news!,” she said. “We are going to have the baby today.” This WAS bad news! The baby would only be about 26 weeks along. We knew that it would come earlier than normal, but the longer that the baby could stay in her womb, the more developed it would be. According to doctors, we wanted to try to make it somewhere after 30-32 weeks.

I don’t even remember driving to Indianapolis. It still is all such a blur. I was scared to death!  I don’t know why I didn’t get a speeding ticket. As I walked into her room, the doctor’s were briefing Brandee. After a quick hug and kiss, they joined me into the conversation and explained that we needed to induce labor now. Brandee’s (and the baby’s) blood pressure was off the charts!

They tied her hands and legs to the bed. “She will likely start seizing and we just want to keep her from hurting herself.”  They sure got my attention. They gave us the opportunity to ask all of the questions that we wanted, but the truth is, we didn’t know what to ask. Another hug and kiss and they wheeled her out of the room to prep her for surgery.

A nurse threw me some scrubs. “Hurry and put these on and I will be back to take you to the O.R.” As I was dressing, I realized that there was no place to sit. They took the bed with Brandee and I later found out that they moved all of the chairs out to make sure that they would have enough room to work if she “crashed.”

And then it happened!  I got to have my first REAL conversation with God. I had said the Lord’s Prayer before. I had said the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer lots as a kid. And as I sayed before, I said some version of a prayer almost every night, laying in bed.  But this was different.

I don’t know how long I had been there, but I realized that I was on my knees in the middle of her room. I don’t remember dropping to my knees, but I was praying. It went something like this…”God, I’m placing my wife and new baby in your hands. I know that you will do what is best for them. I will follow you no matter what the outcome is today. Even if I don’t like your answer and you decide to take them both today, I only pray that you bring them to your side. Be with me and give me the strength to accept your answer. I turn all of our troubles over to you. THY will be done Lord, not mine will, Lord. THY will be done.”

As I got up from my knees, I realized that those were not my words!  I don’t know where they came from, but that isn’t something that I would have EVER said up until that point in my life. Maybe God had sent me an angel to pray with me and give me the words that I didn’t have the ability to come up with on my own.   Or maybe Jesus himself was sitting with me in the middle of the floor holding my hand.  The only thing that I know is at that time in my life, I didn’t have the faith to come up with that prayer on my own.

The nurse took me to see Brandee. All of the medical equipment and doctors bustling around was kind of overwhelming. I just held Brandee’s hand, wiped her tearful eyes and kept telling her that everything was going to be all right. For some reason, I remember a peace coming over me in that hectic room.  “Everthing will be all right, honey.  I just know it!”  I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything would be just fine!

We soon had a tiny, baby boy! He was 2 pounds, 3 ounces and 13 inches long and came into the world almost 3 full months before most babies. The doctors told me that it was necessary to take him to Riley Hospital for Children. “Do you want to go with the baby or stay with Brandee?,” they asked. Brandee told me to go with him. As much as I wanted to go with the doctors, I also felt like I should be with my wife. I walked through underground tunnels following an incubator and two doctors. I was a little nervous, but not fearful. For some reason, I knew that it would all work out.

I stayed with the not yet named “Baby Wood” for a few hours and then went to visit Brandee for a couple of hours. Previous to this stressful day, we decided not to name our new baby until after we got to see him. Still trying to recover, Brandee was unable to see him for about 4 days. On day 4, Brandee asked me to go decide on a name. That was a funny story, but that is for another day! I named him Peyton O’Neal Wood.

After that day, the long road did not become easy. Both Brandee and Peyton struggled and had a lot of difficulties and set-backs. But somehow, I still knew that everything was going to be alright.  Brandee and Baby Peyton stayed in Indianapolis for another 3 months, as I continued to stay home and work, making my weekend and surprise weeknight visits.

I know that I will probably always have to work hard to be a Christian. I still don’t make the right spiritual choices daily. I frequently stumble. But thanks to God’s grace, He has led me in the right direction. It is MY job to stay on His path. And I now have the opportunity to walk down that path, while holding a little hand!

And, I got my way! Peyton is a happy little, roughneck guy that loves to play in the dirt and wrestle with daddy. And we caught that  first fish early this spring!

At this extremely late point in the evening, I’m not exactly sure what the focus of the content will be.  Probably absolutely random, like my thoughts!

So in the future, sit down, buckle up and hang on for ”Strolling Through Wood’s Mind.”