I visited the grave of my friend, Dr. John A. Maynard, this morning. He’s buried, along with several thousand other veterans, in the Bakersfield National Cemetery. (Specialist Maynard served in Germany during the Vietnam era.)
It was a bit surreal: a bright, sunny Sunday morning and the place was empty, apart from a secure guard who stayed at the main road entrance. I literally had the entire place to myself.
John and I worked together for a right prig of a history professor/Dean of Libraries at the University of Southern California in the early ’80s. I was slinging “fantastic (fantasy) literature” for my MFA while John was writing his Ph.D. dissertation (American History). We’d taken regular DayJobs at the school’s main library since it was one of the few ways to get tuition reduction. (Not a free ride by any measure!)
We became friends. He became something of my gentle mentor and social guiderail, because I was prone to crossing the clever/asshole line a lot more back then. We also shared an interest in photography. He took my wedding photos and I returned the favor.
Following graduation, John went off to work for a skeezy trade magazine publisher in Santa Monica, and I eventually followed. The business was essentially an ad-generating scheme run on old, often faulty IBM Selectric typewriters and manual layout. Computers? Ha!
One of John’s habits was to bring his own decaf espresso to the office, making mug after mug in his little one-cup Melitta.
I moved north to pursue massage therapy, technical writing, and web design. Typical ’90s stuff. John became a well-loved professor of history at Cal State Bakersfield with a deep understanding of the American counter-culture movement. Beat poets were his jam.
He died in 2022 after a long illness. But COVID and mundane reality conspired to keep me away.
Lately, I’ve been wrestling with grief, specifically unresolved grief. In a previous blog, I noted that grief is a ninja. It can spring upon your unaware, or hang out all the damn time, masquerading as a low-level respiratory thing. Nope, it’s not COVID, it’s grief, lounging in your chest, eating all your snacks and refusing to take out the trash.
To make the peace with at least the first emotional couch potato, I drove the long, straight, dull Highway 5 from the Bay Area to Bakersfield. After a night of broken sleep (bad motel), I went to the Bottoms Up Espresso shack, where an attractive young woman in a ridiculously sexist uniform fixed me a double espresso, decaf. (I’d like to think John would’ve laughed at the whole ridiculous picture.)
I drove to the cemetery, sat in front of his headstone, and said, “I miss you.” Then I had a good, long cry. After pouring out a libation of espresso, I read him the story I’d dedicated to him in the Strange Wars anthology (“Burial Detail”). Had another good cry.
Then I said, “Thank you,” and drove off, leaving the peaceful scene to the next visitors.
Dr. John Arthur Maynard
Great mind, great friend
