Memories About Granddad

It’s a random March evening, dumping rain outside. I’m tangled up in my blanket on my bed, one leg stuck out to ventilate the heat. And I really don’t know what is making me write this, but I think it’s a whim worth following.

I don’t have a lot of memories of Granddad. That isn’t to say that I don’t have any, but a lot more of my thoughts about him are caught up in a general and vague warmth that I can’t place as easily as specific events. He passed away when I was around eight, I think, and you really don’t have all that many memories by eight years old.

The earliest memory I can scrounge up about Granddad —my mother’s father, the one and only Will Blumer — is a simple one. I remember sitting on the stairs of our old house in Utah, (the one where Reese would watch ants fight in the backyard, and we used to throw the cushions at each other in the odd, wrestling-ring-styled living room), and eating Sunkist Fruit Gems. Those were these great candies, a soft gummy covered in a light layer of crunchy sugar. My favorite were the green ones. I remember that I wasn’t allowed to have them often, but I was allowed to because Granddad was babysitting, and that meant it was a special occasion.

The only other time I can remember him at the old Utah house was in the kitchen. I was sitting at the kitchen table and kicking my feet because they didn’t reach the floor, and Granddad was showing me that he knew how to make a PB&J just like the Uncrustables ones I coveted so much. I remember him using a shape cutter to cut it into a circle, and then pinching the edges down so it had the same scalloped appearance as the store-bought ones. He told me stories and sang songs while he made it for me.

Songs were a big deal to Granddad; and I remember feeling a little guilty, even as a little kid, because I was too shy to sing along. When he and Grandma came to Washington to help us drive back to Utah, somewhere along the lines the seating arrangement ended up being just me and him in Ghostface Killah, our white CRV. He sang all sorts of songs to me, occasionally glancing back from the front seat to shoot me little smiles and winks. I don’t remember the songs, but I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because he was mixing a bunch of them up, and singing verses as they came to him and reminded him of others, just for the fun of it. I remember watching the mountains and grass roll by as the landscape changed from Washington to Oregon to Idaho to Utah, and I remember feeling very special because Granddad moved my carseat to Ghostface because he had chosen me, and just me, to go with him.

I remember visiting him in California more than I remember him in Utah. He would sit all the grandkids down by his chair in the living room and read us the Old Mother West Wind and Just So Stories. Then he would take the older kids out to show them how to repair the old cars in the driveway. I remember going on walks to pick lemons and oranges from the trees, and I remember how his hand felt when he held mine. I remember that we spent Easter there once, and I remember him helping me look through what was in my Easter Basket. He would always get out the Farside comics I liked so much and let me read them when the evening got quiet. I remember him visiting me in the bunk bed room before bed.

I also remember the time we went to visit him last. I remember that all the grandkids were there, and even though I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t really grasp the situation at all. I remember still holding his hand, and I remember him leading everyone out on walks to the park while he talked with his children.

I remember staying at a house that wasn’t Granddad’s house when we went back for the funeral. I remember listening to the heavy rain pounding on the roof, watching it swirl in the gutters out front, and wishing desperately that I knew how to turn off my little kid brain and grieve properly. I missed him terribly, of course, but I just didn’t know how to miss someone right. I remember feeling almost sick with guilt that I had gotten caught up playing tag at his viewing.

I remember the Rex Lee Run, later rebranded as Cougs Vs Cancer; everyone in the family lined up to run, wearing matching shirts that proudly proclaimed Where there’s a Will, there’s a way! (In fact, I just completed this tradition less than a week ago. Still going strong!)

I remember his wise words: “I like being the dad.”

I like watching the way my mother’s face lights up when she tells stories about him, even the ones where he is clumsy and clueless, asking his sister to make him a sandwich for lunch because it didn’t cross his mind that he could make one himself. I like hearing stories about his often wild dedication to service, of letting the homeless spend the night in his home. I like hearing that he called Grandma Kate, and I like seeing the ways he has influenced my mother. I know where she gets a lot of her rambunctious charm—her utter indifference to anyone else’s opinion (especially when it tries to rain on her parade), and her determination to make all of her children feel loved and seen.

I love hearing about the ways he has shown up in dreams, in soaring national parks filled with wildflowers and all of his loves from his wild Montana upbringing, beaming ear to ear and excited to tell us the name of each flower and bird he sees. Patting the back of frustrated grandkids, showing up with a bright grin and a sharp, clear whistle.

I don’t know what made me stop what I was doing (knee deep in homework, no less) to write this out, but I can’t help but think that it was very necessary to do so.

Love you, Granddad. Can’t wait for you to show me that national park someday.