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Let’s start with my dad’s parents. We did not spend a great deal of time with them even though they lived close, approximately thirty-five miles away, near a town call Trumansburg, New York. Occasionally, Dad would announce that we were going to the “farm.” It was not a farm. I understood that this “family farm” included eighty-eight acres of old growth forest and streams where each year they would sell off the lumber it produced. There was a small garden filled with weeds. Amid the weeds, a few vegetables fighting their way through. Occasionally, a coop with chickens would appear. Calling it a farm is a stretch.
I would describe the home as a hobbled together structure with no indoor plumbing, no electricity, heated by a large pot-belly wood stove in the living room and an old-fashion wooden stove on which to cook in the kitchen. It also had an outhouse that moved place to place every year as did the well. I can’t say they never had electricity. I say this because the neighbor across the road had an electrified fence to keep cattle corralled and apparently me off his property. We never visited at night.
I could add additional paragraphs describing the farm. Could describe more, but let’s leave it at lacking most, what we might consider essentials. Studio size, four rooms, maybe 600 square feet. The instillation comprising newspapers stuffed in the walls. Installation.
Most knew Winfield Scott Maynard as Scott. Born June 15, 1901, in Gillett, Pennsylvania, and died April 7, 1963. He was a carpenter by trade and may have learned this skill from his father, who was also a carpenter. He also worked at a local nursery.
I provided additional information on my website,
A few more thoughts. Remember him maybe 5’ 10” very slender, quiet, weather worn, looking older than his actual age. I never recall calling him Grandpa, or engaging him in a conversation, or spending much time in his presence. When I was at the farm, I was outside, alone or with Fredrick, hunting down where the outhouse was this year in relation to where the well had been dug. Pretty sure we never drank the water. Using an outhouse removed from my bucket list many years ago.
Vera Viola (Stage) Maynard, Grandma, see photo, pleasant, again never recall calling her Grandma, or engaging her in a conversation, or spending much time in her presence. The dictum, be seen, not heard. She was born 1903, died 1972. There are a few memories that linger around the edges; after Scott died, she sold the land and move to the city with Frederick (he was in high school), she always wore white shoes, so I thought she worked at a nursing home, her home (apartment) in the city was always orderly, and she presented herself as “prim and proper.” We took her to one of Frederick’s basketball games. He was a player. This was the last time I remember seeing him.
For now, believe I will add my mother’s parents at a later date. I need to condense what could be a lengthy narrative. Already in the first section, the Thomas family introduced. I have a hunch they will be back.
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