I cried through my shower yesterday. It’s the first time in over a year that I’ve done that. I didn’t sleep well and woke up at 4 am with the most dreadful feeling of loss. I dreamt of Woody that night. As I stood in the shower with the water as hot as it would get, I just couldn’t hold back the tears. The only thing to do was give in to the grief and then try to recover later in the day.
As I prepare to travel to London for the London Book Fair next week, I have been in a period of intense self-examination. Being raised as I was, my parents gave me no belief in the goodness and strength of myself. I was repeatedly reminded of our poverty, and it felt as though my future was a closed door with no key in sight. With no guidance, I drifted without goals or the courage to chase them. When I discovered music and the guitar at age 13, it was a way for me to withdraw into my own world. I practiced hard and played in a few bands. I do remember the sheer joy of finding a groove and becoming a unit; it gave me hope that music would be my way out.
We owned a 1954 Ford station wagon that my father had snagged from Army Surplus for a mere $15.00. At school, I vividly recall the mockery I faced as classmates flaunted their parents’ shiny, new cars while I trudged along in our old station wagon.
When I was 11, I started delivering newspapers. One day, unexpectedly, my father offered to lend a hand. I was seated on the tailgate, facing backward with the rear window directly above me. Out of nowhere, my father accelerated to beat an oncoming car, taking a sharp turn into our driveway at high speed. The tailgate jolted, and the window unlatched, slamming down on my head. I tumbled off the tailgate, narrowly escaping a collision with another car. Dizzy, nauseous, and disoriented, I struggled to comprehend what had just happened. It wasn’t until later in the week, as my symptoms persisted, that my parents finally decided to take me to the doctor. He prescribed a spinal tap as a way to diagnose what was wrong with me. I can’t imagine any world where you would give a spinal tap to an 11-year-old growing boy. I still bear the physical scars of that experience, and I wonder what went through my father’s mind—or if he even thought at all.
One day, when I was 15, my dad drove up in a new 1965 Ford Fastback Mustang. What in the hell? I remember a huge fight between my father and mother about how we couldn’t afford it and how it would send us to the “poorhouse”. Maybe the Mustang was my father’s only way to show the world he was successful, not just a janitor at a middle school. 6 months after it appeared, it disappeared just as suddenly. My guess is that it was repossessed. My father withdrew even more from our house. The fighting between my mother and father grew worse. As the last child left at home, it was a very lonely place. I moved my bed down to our damp basement so I could avoid my parents even more than I already did.
So, where is the beauty underneath that this blog promises? It took me several hours to recover from the grief that I felt in the shower. As I explored my feelings, a light began to shine. The loss of Woody had been for a reason. Woody made people feel good when they saw him. It was my deepest desire that we would do therapy work with people who needed him. I know that since losing him and writing the book, he has helped more people than he ever could have in his short life. Woody was good Medicine, and his loss has given me marching orders to go out and spread that Medicine to people who need it. Sometimes I need that Medicine for myself, to help me process the pain of my family and go forward with strength. Woody’s Medicine has been my lesson over the past 2 years.
And now Woody and I are ready to head across the ocean and spread his Love to the world in ways I never dreamed possible. London here we come….
all photographs ©Richard Newman 2026
