My cousin Bart Heywood (more specifically my grandmother’s cousin’s son) died on June 23 at the age of 80. I’m told that people must die eventually, but I had hoped, maybe even expected, that Bart might live forever. He seemed a most likely candidate to do so.
Bart never looked his age, and he certainly didn’t look 80 when he died (maybe his hands were an exception). He was perpetually fit, wiry, sinewy and vital. He had the year-round ruddy tan of an Islander and the strong white teeth of a Cobb. He was active to the end, climbing ladders and swinging a hammer well into his 70s. A carpenter by trade, Bart was sought after not only for his skill but his creativity as well. He had the gift of assessing a problem, and then without fail, figuring out a way to fix it.
My first memory of him is from around 1969, when he was 26 and I was six. I’ve always associated Bart with VW buses, and I believe that he was in, on or around one that day. Wearing his red trunks from his days as a Chappaquiddick Beach Club lifeguard, he appeared salty, sandy and tanned — and most of all cool. I would guess many had this same first impression of Bart. There was Bart, Tervis tumbler in hand, shirtless (almost always), chuckling (most of the time) and up to something (all of the time). He became for me a true Beach Boy — a combination of Dennis Wilson and Mike Love. In fact I recall that we referred to him and his brother Brad (aka Bart’s partner in crime) as beach boys. California blood seemed to flow with a casual ease through their vascular systems. I wanted nothing more than to move into the shack across the street from the Beach Club and become a beach boy myself. Be like Bart.
And then he was missing, at least to me. Bart visited infrequently over the next few decades, as he was living far away in California (of course) and perhaps not wanting, entirely, to be found. He had traveled cross-country with Brad, skiing out West and reportedly crossing entire states with very little recollection of having done so the next day.
He resurfaced in my life in the early 1990s as I was attempting (poorly) to resurrect my grandmother’s house and do repairs on the Big Camp on Chappy. He was convinced to stay by promises of steady work, cigarettes, beer and some good times. Bart also had many old friends back on the Vineyard, Wah Kierstead among them. Soon he was doing projects with Wah, for Wah and seemingly everyone. He became quickly in demand as a party participant. Bart tended to bring the party with him, his raspy chuckling laugh prominent at every gathering he attended. I drank more than a few beers with him and relished being in his company. Such a good guy. On nights that we’d return late from Edgartown to Chappy, we often simply continued the party in the Chappy Ferry parking lot, saying long goodbyes that could last until 2 a.m. My girlfriend at the time, Kim, was a big favorite of Bart’s so the night rarely ended until Kim said so.
And then there were the memorable dinners at the school house: fish or burgers on the grill followed by beers and bourbon in the small living space. Dancing was a given. These parties were almost always attended by me, Kim, Uncle Rog (Bart’s father) and a shuffling rotation of older eccentrics met along the way. At most we would number seven. But we had a great time, a testament to the power of friendship. Roger would sit and watch and clap his hands, his pipe smoke filling the room, while people twirled around to the music of Van Morrisson or The Mills Brothers.
Bart built a house for his father adjacent to the school house. He was the type of son that could do such things. He also was a brother and companion to his late sister Annie. He would absorb her antics and withstand her nuttiness with a kind of gruff grace. Bart was the type of brother that could do such things.
Bart had three children: Brigid, Duncan and Nathaniel. All unique in their own ways, they have the same impish character that make them a welcome guest at any dinner. Each spent a good deal of time on Chappy, and I got to know them all well. I loved them almost as much as I did Bart. And grandkids! He had five of them and cherished them each deeply. I hope to get to know them some day almost as well as I know their folks.
His wife Lucy came into his life in what I would refer to as his “settled years”. Bart had been seated next to Lucy craftily by Tuna Kierstead at a party thrown at her house. They had more in common than they may have thought. I assume Bart went into full Duxbury in her presence. After several unsuccessful requests for a date, she eventually gave in. They married a year later. Lucy Whittemore Heywood became Bart’s treasured wife and companion right up until the moment he died in her loving care.
I saw Bart this past June for the last time. I had been invited to a dinner at the Heywood-Whittemores. Bart’s brother Brad and his wife and daughter were also there. We had enormously satisfying lasagna and bread and salad, and I can honestly say it was no less fun or warm or vibrant than any other dinner I’d had with Bart. Not even a terminal illness could tamper Bart’s light even a scintilla. I will be forever grateful to Lucy for including me at that table. Brad, you were a wonderful brother to Bart and a wonderful living memory of the man.
I like to think that Bart is out there somewhere in the night sky, his particles making friends with other particles floating in the Milky Way. He will return some day — newly composed but still noticeably Bart-like. I have no doubt.
Brad Woodger lives on Chappaquiddick and in Plymouth.
Comments (7)
Comments
Comment policy »