Woody the Legend
It began, as most of my more questionable decisions do, with a whisper of inspiration and a complete disregard for practicality. Woody was born in 2021. He weighed in at two hundred and fifty pounds, eighty-four inches long, and seventy-two inches high. Birthplace? Our back deck in Ohio. He didn’t cry, but I nearly did. He arrived not in a hospital or a stable, but surrounded by sawdust, squirrels, discarded paint cans, and more than a little head-scratching from the neighbors.
There was no sponsor, no deadline, and no earthly reason why a man in his seventies should spend six months sculpting a full-sized wooden carousel horse outdoors. But there I was - armed with chisels, clamps, and a dream, and covered in wood shavings and optimism. My wife watched with a mixture of admiration, confusion, and mild concern. Birds and neighbors observed silently, unsure if they were witnessing a masterpiece or a midlife crisis. But this is how it goes for those of us who are called to awe. Let me back up.
Growing up in Brooklyn, where magic lived at the end of the Q train—the Coney Island Boardwalk - you could smell the salt air before you saw the ocean, and hear the clatter of rides before they came into view. But for me, one ride always stood out: the carousel. To a child, it wasn’t just fun—it was mystical. Lights spun in slow motion. Music drifted through the air like an old lullaby. Horses reared, lions prowled, and dragons soared in stillness. I didn’t understand how they were made—I just believed they were. Like stars. Or thunderstorms. Even then, I felt something sacred at play. Awe. That was the word. That’s still the word.
I’d line up for a ride hoping for the right horse - you know the one. Painted like royalty. Mid-leap. A steed for a boy on a quest. I’d grip the pole like a sword and ride as if I were heading into legend, even with my parents standing five feet away. My imagination was always strong - but much stronger at the beach. It was Disneyland on steroids - before Walt Disney lived his dream.
Decades passed. I became a teacher—shop class. I built cabinets and furniture. Mentored students. Raised a family. Built things that made sense. But that old awe never left. Every time I saw a carousel, something stirred. Something ancient. Childlike. A whisper, getting louder. Then, a needed spark: my daughter visited Carousels and Carvings in Marion, Ohio, and casually said, Dad, this should be on your bucket list. She had no idea what she’d just done.
A few weeks later, I knocked on the door of that very factory. The owner answered. I told him my story Brooklyn boy, Coney Island, retired shop teacher, carousel-obsessed - and asked if they gave tours. He said no… but he thought I was still a current shop teacher and invited me in anyway. (Later, he admitted he hoped I’d send him some students - potential employees.) That day I didn’t walk through a warehouse - I walked through heaven. I watched the carvers and painters at work. I asked countless questions. I listened intently. I forgot to breathe. I didn’t ask to take pictures—he told me to. Chills danced down my spine. I imagined myself carving there—not painting, mind you; those fine strokes require a surgeon’s hand and years of training. I thought to myself: I’m retired. Maybe I could drive here, sleep in a hotel, carve for a few days, and then drive the two hours back home.
And then I continued my thinking—the question that would reshape my year: What if I carved a carousel horse myself? Not a model. Not a tabletop version. A full-sized, galloping wooden horse. The kind I used to ride in wonder. Clearly, I was in a yes season of life—and possibly a lapse in judgment. I returned home. I bought wood blocks so big they barely fit in the shed. I turned the back deck into a makeshift workshop-slash-birthing center. There were no blueprints. Just rough sketches from the pictures I took. Only memories, awe, and a pile of carousel reference books fluttering in the breeze. Hand tools, rasps, sandpaper, chisels, and gouges became my best friends. And Woody… well, Woody did not emerge quietly.
There were weeks I questioned my sanity. Entire afternoons when Woody looked less like a horse and more like a prehistoric creature from a forgotten children’s museum. But slowly, something beautiful emerged. Muscles formed. A mane took shape. Eyes stared back at me with mischief and meaning. I found myself caught in that mystical state where time disappears and your hands know more than your head. Woody became more than a sculpture. He became a companion. A resurrection of my childhood days.
Eventually, Woody moved inside - because obviously, the back deck was no place for a legend. He stood tall in scarlet and grey colors, a tribute to The Ohio State University, and earned his name accordingly: Woody. Not just because he was made of wood, but in honor of Woody Hayes, the iconic OSU football coach. And then it was time for a party.
I contacted Suzanne, the director of our local preschool, and said, How about a birthday party for a wooden horse? To her credit, she didn’t hang up. We threw Woody his first birthday party in the church gymnasium—with balloons, cake, ice cream, music, and a line of over fifty children attired in scarlet and grey, waiting for a photo op with the seemingly giant horse who didn’t move—but somehow felt very much alive. Pictures were taken. Kids squealed with delight. Teachers laughed. Even the grown-ups caught a little awe. Today, Woody lives with a local non-profit - where he’s found yet another purpose: bringing joy and raising funds for breast cancer awareness. Which just goes to show... even in your seventies, you’re not too old to dream ridiculous dreams.
Read More Stories from the ENCORE chapter of God Isn’t Finished Yet: By Mike