People look at me with a sideways tilt to their head, when I tell them I am planning to sell everything and sail around the world. Even people who know me well, can't understand my desire to undertake this adventure. People tell me I'm crazy, it's dangerous, they would go crazy being cooped up in a sailboat... ect. Basically, they can't comprehend where the desire to sail across oceans was fostered, considering I'm known as a farm girl. I ride horses, milk goats, raise chickens and live and breathe the farm life.

All my previous rantings about the peacefulness, serenity, feeling of freedom I have when aboard a sailboat, doesn't truly explain how the desire for this lifestyle was born. A few years of sailing as a child, sailing regattas as a young adult, does not necessarily breed the desire to set sail around the world and spend one's life aboard a boat. There is, however, a deeper and more profound explanation of this desire, and I attribute it to genetics. While my husband is the son of a sailor, my roots go way beyond my parents, deep into the foundations my maternal grandfather.

My grandfather left Hampton Roads on December 16th, 1907. He sailed the oceans on 16 battleships, 4 destroyers, fought in wars, rescued survivors from sinking ships and encountered every corner of the Atlantic and Pacific from the deck of a ship. He once traveled for 14 months, non stop, across 46,000 miles of ocean, leaving his family and missing yet another birth of a child. While he was married and fathered 7 children, the sea was his true mistress and he weathered all of her temperaments and mood changes with love, respect, and a returned passion. Twenty-three years later, he retired on Deer Island, MA, and bore in his children, his love for the ocean.

I hold in my possession, the records, pictures, letters and every remaining documentation of his life. His story is truly incredible and I have taken on the project of writing a story about his life, and the life of my mother growing up on Deer Island. Their story will be testimony that my love the of sea and my desire to experience the adventures she promises, is not just a far-fetched dream, but a part of my family history and genetics. And as I look through the weathered and time worn pictures of my nautical family history, I hold in my hand a stiff and battered card with the name George Maynard and the date 1907 written on the back. This card accompanied George through his maritime career, his creed and solace to the dangerous life he chose.

The Sailor's Grave
Sleep on, thou mighty dead,
A glorious tomb they've found thee,
The broad, blue sky above the spread,
The boundless waters round thee,
No vulgar foot treads here,
No hand profane shall move thee,
But galiant fleets that proudly steer,
And warriors shout above thee.

My story will begin with my grandmother, his bride, and progress through his extraordinary childhood and how the two of them met. From there, a portrait will be painted of my mother's childhood, in which her adventures will be revealed and she will learn about the history of her father's experiences at sea. I have attached the Prologue to this story and someday soon, I hope to be able to share the entire tale in the upcoming novel, based on a true life story, "Dinners with Pa".

Prologue
How does one begin to write a story about distant relatives? This responsibility came to me, or perhaps I came to it, eventually. When the time came, the events that aligned and pushed me to the task, I do believe were divine. They began, however, many years prior, when visiting my mother, she handed me an envelope containing pictures and documents from her father's past. As she handed me the envelope, she told me that someday, I had to write my grandfather's story.
I was the only child out of the 6 children in our family that had any interest in writing. While I had the stack of yellowed, ancient documents, faded black and white photos, and Naval logs and journals, that is all they were. I had no connection to the story. I had no knowledge of the treasure and history I held in my hands. In retrospect, I believe that my mother, having lived much of the story, didn't have perspective as to the magnitude of the incredible material or how amazing and inspiring the lives of her parents were. I had never met my grandfather, as he passed away years before I was born. His wife, my grandmother, Philomene Maynard, I had the pleasure of getting to know. When she passed at the age of 103, I knew not what I know now. Had I known the treasures her memories held, the struggles she overcame in her lifetime, our relationship would have been greatly different.
As a child, I viewed her as a strict grandmother that made me eat my oatmeal every morning. She was up before the light touched the horizon, baking bread from scratch and religiously doing her calisthenics. By the time I was up and out of bed, the aroma of the freshly baked bread had already infused the air, and she sat silently on the couch, Rosary beads in hand, reciting her Hail Mary's for what sins, I hadn't a clue. She seemed timeless, sinless and beyond reproach of a mere mortal grandchild such as myself. Her strong French accent and strict routines made her seem out of context with the rest of our family.
My grandmother came to visit for long stretches. When she visited, I could expect that she would sew me a new nightgown out of slightly rough, fabric, with straight lines and having no conforming fit. If I were to come down with a cough, which she immediately declared was croup, I was sure to have a brown bag cut and plastered to my chest with gobs of Vix Vapor rub, despite my protests and tears. And if I or my brothers became loud and unruly in the house, we could be expected to be chased into the yard, followed by her verbal wrath and the threat of a beating with a wooden spoon. Yet once we were contrite and allowed back into the house, we were sure to be greeted with a fresh berry or rhubarb pie, the fruit which she had picked and prepared herself, nestled in a mouthwatering, buttery crust.
Those memories were of the farm years, years of being raised on a hundred acres in upstate New York. Fields of vegetables, farm animals and fruit trees yielded the bounty that my grandmother was accustomed to, from years of frugal living where gleaning from the fields and farms was a way of life, not a luxury. Then, the farm years abruptly ended as brothers and sisters grew up and departed the large farm and my father took a job transfer to the South. What was left of my family was transplanted to North Carolina, and left my mother, father and I on a few acres of land just outside of Charlotte. As was customary, my grandmother followed and spent her stints of time with us, but in a much different setting. By this time, I was high school age and I became increasing aware that the time I had with my grandmother had to be growing short. At 93 years of age, she still walked a mile every morning, and started her day with her calisthenics and Rosary prayers. No longer did she have the fruit of the farm to freeze, can, and bake into pies. She seemed a bit lost and out of sorts during her visits and less intrigued with life in the suburbs. She began following me around outside, on our small farmette, where I was still able to have a couple of horses, sheep and chickens on our cramped 4 acres of land. Then one day, to my surprise, she told me, "I want to ride the 'orse." Her still thick French accent removed the H's from all her words. I quickly did the math and figured if she was 90 years old, that meant she grew up in the late 1800's, early 1900's. How was it even possible she didn't know how to ride a horse? I was sure she didn't grow up with motorized vehicles. She was adamant, however, that she had never ridden on a horse's back and it was a dream of hers.
My mother wasn't home on the specific day of her request, but I was quite sure my mother would not be pleased about me giving my grandmother her first horse ride at 93 years of age. Her persistence finally won me over, swayed by the argument that at 93, what did she really have to lose? I reluctantly agreed and threw a Western saddle on the quietest and gentlest mare my family had ever owned. I knew without a doubt that Punky would take care of grandma and if there was a safe scenario for undertaking this venture, Punky was my surest bet. While when I picture my grandmother, a don't get a visual image of her smiling, I do remember the smile on her face that day as she mounted the steps to the barn loft. I sent her up the stairs and stood the horse securely so my grandmother could climb abreast and easily sit astride the quiet mare. She mounted nimbly as the extensive exercises she did every morning allowed her more flexibility than women half her age. Once seated, she grasped the saddle horn with delight and ordered, "Let's go!"
Grandma wanted to ride by herself and was a little indignant about being led around. I did have some common sense and while it appeared I was not holding the reins, I stayed close enough to grab them should Punky decide to be contrary. She even prodded me into letting her trot around a little, which made me smile when I looked back at her and saw the wrinkled and weathered face of my ancient grandmother, reflecting the look of a young child on her first pony ride. It was all good, fun and games, until my mother drove into the driveway and I heard her car door slam as she peered into the yard spotted our fun. She arrived immediately and halted us in our tracks. I looked at my grandmother and pointed at her defensively, "She made me do it, Mom!"
"What in God's name do you two think you're doing?"
"Mom, she's on Punky. How much safer can she be? I got her on from the stairs so she didn't have to climb and I'll get her off the same way."
I don't remember my grandmother's response to all this. I am quite sure that she sat there, with a grin on her face, letting the two of us duke it out. The story ended well as my grandmother took one more lap around the yard and then she dismounted safely onto the barn loft stairs. Punky was a model citizen and fulfilled a bucket list dream of my 93 year old grandmother. My grandma waited as I untacked the horse and put her back into her pasture and the two of us walked back toward the house through the back yard. Tucked in the back of the yard, against the neighboring forest, was my trampoline. And as the two of us passed by it, my grandmother paused and stopped me. "You know," she said with a devious grin, " I 'ave never been on a trampoline."
"Don't even think about it grandma. My mom let me off easy after this riding thing, but I know if she catches me helping you onto the trampoline, we are both in a LOT of trouble."
Had I the knowledge of my grandmother's life, then, I would have spent hours talking to her, writing down her memories, her stories, her precious thoughts and feelings. Now, as I open the pages of written memories from others, I feel a great pain that I didn't have a chance to talk to her and listen first hand to the account of her amazing life. She was present at my wedding, barely able to stand and watch as we cut the wedding cake, at 101 years of age. She was wilted and withered as I placed my first born baby boy in her arms, as she lay in the bed at the rest home at 103 years old. I remember the smoothness of my baby's skin next to her arms. Her skin was so translucent that I could see the colors of the blood in her veins. It was mind boggling to think of the difference between my baby's beginning, and my grandmother's. She had been born in the remote wilderness in a day and age when there was no technology of any kind, and my baby was born into a world her people could not imagine would ever exist. And when my mother tells the story of how she sat by her bedside on the day she passed away, I weep now, not for her, but for me. And through dying eyes, my grandmother saw the souls in the room of those who departed before her, my mother giving her permission to let go, and go be with Jesus and the ones you love. The ghosts of those that she knew and cherished, welcomed her into her next life and carry with them the secrets of their lives and adventures. And in my piles of postcards, newspaper clippings, letters and documents from the past, I will try and reconstruct the story line of their lives. Had I only known then what I know now, I could have used words directly from my grandmother's lips. All I have now are my mother's memories, the frail trail of documents and photos to try and reconstruct the past.
Memories, especially of those that lived in a time way before us, are a precious gift. As our world becomes more advanced, faster paced, more technologically oriented, the one aspect it can't improve on is remembering the past. To let those memories slip away with the ones we love, without recording or remembering them, is a terrible loss to our culture, our humanity, and to our future. It is my hope, that the story I am about to tell gives some justice to my relative's tales of courage and perseverance. As we wake up in a world of alarm clocks, convenience stores, and technological advancements in every aspect of our lives, it is important to remember and know our past. It breaks my heart that I am a victim of letting people in my life go, without hearing their stories firsthand. Had I only known what I know now, the story may have been better, but at the very least, it will be told.