Saying Goodbye to Winfield Scott Maynard

I was 14 and naïve but about to experience a real-world event I did not choose. The Voices In My Head will not let go, everyday multiple times a day they whisper, write.

So, I write…

It started out as a typical Sunday morning; up, ate breakfast, got dressed and off to Sunday school, and worship service, with the songs and prayers, communion, collection plate passed, and sermon, then home. Oh, and the before and after fellowship time where little ones ran about, teens acted cool, and parents talked and complimented the preacher on another great sermon, and dare I say a bit of confabulation.

Everyone was nearly ready to go this April morning. By all accounts it appeared to be a warm spring morning, sun shining, mid-sixties, no galoshes and heavy coats required.

The phone rang and Dad answered it, listened and after a muted conversation hung-up. Then, with little emotion announced, his dad died during the night, and we needed to go to the Farm.

I had no idea where the Farm was located, been there multiple times but to an adolescence sitting in the backseat it seemed miles and miles away. Today having learned more, Trumansburg, NY is a possible location; about 30 miles and 36 minutes away. I know we were close when we turned from the paved roadway to a dirt road. We arrived, entered the house and to be honest I recalled only snippets of conversations. I had never been in this situation and knew not how to behave and no one was offering any input; just kept quiet, my normal response to everything in life.

Viola, I never remember calling her grandma, was dressed, hair combed, and by all appearance looked as if one was going to work. I remember her speaking with Dad but the only thing she said that still sticks with me today is, “When I rolled over this morning and saw him, I knew he had died during the night in his sleep.” Conversations continued, but either I could not hear, or they just did not register. I sat.

I did engage in one other conversation, with Frederick. He sat nearby. Quiet. Eyes down. Somber, which was out of character for this talkative, outgoing personality. On the floor between us was a toolbox opened and currently being used as a tackle box.

“What’s the box for?” I asked.

He looks up briefly, “Dad was taking me fishing today, before this happened.”

Two thoughts crossed my mind, I had never heard him use the word “Dad,” and I had no idea what to say. So, we both sat, eyes down, waiting.

Eventually, we went home, no conversations, just silence or whispers I was not meant to hear from the backseat.

Two days later I was instructed to get dressed in my Sunday go to church attire. But, we were not going to church, we were going to the funeral home for visiting hours. I did not know what that meant. I cannot recall but at age 9 I don’t think my little sister, Kathy, went. She may have gone to Grandma Thomas’ house.

We arrived, proceeded into the Ness Funeral Home, Mom signed a book, we entered a larger room where chairs were placed along the walls with the casket at the opposite side of the room from the entrance way. We sat down. No sounds beyond an occasional, whispered conversation. Individuals would sporadically approach the casket, mumble a few words, some wiped tears away, some would gently touch his hand, and one leaned over and gently kissed his forehead (which I learned later was for some a way of saying goodbye), while others just turned away, and returned to their seat.

At some point in time one of my parents directed me to approach the casket. Alone. And say goodbye.

Heart racing, I slowly approached, stopped, looked in and saw a person in a suit that did not appear natural; I did not recognize this person. I mean it was him, but not in overalls and work boots, cheerful, animated, … I turned and returned to my seat without making eye contact with anyone.

I hadn’t seen my dad for a while and wondered where he was. He reappeared and took a seat nearby, I figured out he had been outside on the porch and once I gained a little knowledge about life and death, realized he was outside, alone, grieving. Crying, I could not tell, he hid his emotions well or was I just lousy at reading adults.

Eventually, we went home, no conversations, just silence or whispers that again I was not meant to hear from the backseat. That was that.

My Dad never talked much about family, his parents, and very little about his siblings. I think that is why I have spent time this year pulling photos, reviewing information provided by Kathy in her My Family Tree book, and writing stories based on memories.

My cousin, Patty Stewart said it best, “wishing my dad was still here to ask him tons of questions.”