A Couple of Notes and Memories of Bumpa

A couple of events passed this week with little fanfare and I just wanted to mention them at the beginning of this post. Both happened on the 21st of September. That day marked the equinox, meaning those of us who ventured toward the north pole for the semester are beginning our plunge into darkness. The 21st also marked one month since I arrived in Denmark. I can't believe it has already been a month. I have done loads of things since I've been here (see below), but the time is flying faster than I could possibly expected.

The main purpose of this post however is to share with you some reflections I wrote down regarding my late grandfather, Russell (Bumpa) Hewett. Below is a brief piece I wrote in memory of him. Read it or not, I don't really care. This one is mostly for me.

Memories of Summer:

Russell S. (Bumpa) Hewett

There are many things that typified summers for me while I was growing up. Dips in Sebago Lake, running naked through the sprinkler on the lawn on the Cape Road, my days at camp—first at Wohelo and later, Birch Rock. However, one set of memories sticks out as being traditionally recognizant as the happiest of my summer days as a youth. That is, my annual week- or weekend-long retreat to the spoil yourself rotten, full-service, all-inclusive, all-you-can-eat, Grandparent Spa and Adventure Retreat in Winthrop, Maine. Seriously, had Bumpa and Grammy Hewett had one greedy bone in their body, they could have made some serious cash offering the packages similar to the one that the three grandkids were lucky enough to receive each summer.

A visit to the grandparents would typically begin with a meal. I’d arrive mid-afternoon, and the kitchen would already smell absolutely wonderful with whatever dish was planned for that evening. Once things in the kitchen were relatively settled, the three of us would enjoy a happy hour. The two of them were very serious about enjoying this hour, and although at times it was challenging for the fidgety, rambunctious, seven-year-old version of myself to sit still for an entire hour of swapping stories and eating homemade snack mix and drinking IBC root beer, it was a wonderful opportunity to hear stories (both true and made-up) and enjoy the company of two of the most wonderful, kind-hearted people in the world. It is only looking back on these days as an (almost) adult that I begin to realize how special they were and how lucky I really was.

After happy hour and dinner, we would almost always engage in one of the three activities that are stereotypically “Bumpa." That is, the making and consumption of the most amazing parfaits that you could possibly imagine. No opening night dinner was complete without them. I recall one particular visit when the two of them had had the audacity to invite me over without thinking ahead and stocking the freezer with a sufficient quantity of ice cream. After dinner, Bumpa dutifully hopped into the car and drove down to the store to pick up the necessary supplies and returned home to prepare the treats.

The next day would almost always begin with Bumpa and me going out to the lawn to raise the flag, and would continue inside with frosted cinnamon Pop-Tarts for me (which my mother never let me eat at home) and Granola for the two of them and a copy of the paper making its rounds in the room. I’d sit reading and re-reading the comics while they absorbed the morning news. When they were finished, the three of us would sit down with the Jumble and try to struggle through it. Well, to be honest, Grammy and I would struggle through it, and when we were completely stuck, we’d run it over to Bumpa who miraculously would immediately see the word where the two of us had only seen a mix of letters.

The morning would quite often continue with the second stereotypically “Bumpa” activity: a trip down to Marlene’s pool. The three of us could truly while away the hours swimming and playing in the pool, and our adventures never ceased to entertain me.

After returning to the house for lunch, the afternoon would typically involve a trip. If it were not-so-nice out, we’d go to a movie or bowling. If it were nice out, we’d go to one of the most wonderful places on earth for a seven-year-old and his grandparents and, not coincidentally, the third place that remains a very “Bumpa-esque” memory in my mind: Tabor’s mini-golf in Auburn. We’d play a round of mini-golf, hit a bucket of balls at the driving range, and have the mandatory ice cream or fried delicacy from Tabor’s snack bar. It was a fitting conclusion to the many wonderful days I spent with my grandparents growing up.

Unfortunately, there’s no denying that the last couple of years had been very hard on Bumpa. Losing some of his independence and moving from Auburn to Bangor were both challenges that he handled with as much grace and poise as one could expect. Even as his physical health started to fail him, his mind and wit remained sharp as a tack. He always loved to make people laugh, and was quick to make a joke out of a bad situation to lighten the mood of everybody around him. One time, in the ER, when asked for any surgeries he may have undertaken by a male Triage Nurse, he quickly retorted: “Well, do you want me to start with my circumcision”? To which the room immediately burst out in laughter.

He had a truly infectious personality, had many wonderful stories to tell, shared more wisdom with me than I could hope to learn from any other source, and was a truly wonderful grandfather. I love him very much, and he will be deeply missed.