Looking at the people that mingle around Nana’s home, speaking in hushed tones, I can think of nothing but my Bompy’s voice saying, “Don’t forget to chew the bones in your juice!”
As I look into the dining area off of the kitchen, I can see myself as a little girl, maybe six years old. My hair is dark brown, almost black. Freckles that have multiplied many times since spring grew into summer, are sprinkled liberally across my cheeks and nose. It is morning, around eight o’clock, and we are having an early breakfast so I won’t get cramps when I go for my swimming lesson.
A mixture of morning smells fills the air — coffee, toast, and porridge. Bompy sits across from me, reading the paper.
(Bompy has been my personal nickname for my grandfather for as long as I can remember. He was always “my Bompy”, although no one could ever remember how the nickname came to be. Of course, all of the other grandchildren called him Bompy, too, but as the first grandchild, I established the name that came to denote love, caring and trust to all who knew him.)
As Bompy and I sit at the table, Nana stands in front of the stove, stirring the porridge occasionally so it won’t burn. Then She sets a steaming bowl in front of me, along with the milk and brown sugar (they let me use as much as I want). Bompy always has bran flakes for breakfast. He says it keeps him regular. I was never sure what it kept him regular at though.
Bompy and I each have a glass of orange juice. The kind that still has the pulp in it. Nana says that that is where all of the good stuff is, meaning vitamins I supposed. I like it because the pulp felt funny on my tongue.
As I am about to take my first drink, Bompy tells me, “Don’t forget to chew the bones in your juice!” and laugh so his eyes wrinkle up around the edges.
We smile and laugh our way through breakfast. Nana gets up to get something out of the fridge for either Bompy or myself. Bompy teaches me words in French, although I can never remember them by the end of breakfast.
When we finish, Bompy and I watch the Canada AM show before he takes me for my swimming lesson. On the way to the pool, I sneeze. Bompy laughs and says, “Bet you can’t do it again.” I usually can’t but sometimes I try to fool him and pretend to sneeze.
Now, instead of porridge and bran flakes, the kitchen table is laden with an assortment of pastry and slices. Date cake, fruit bread, sweet and dill pickles and buns spread with salmon are beautifully arranged for the guests. The napkins, paper plates, and cutlery are set out on the counters along with the coffee urn and a pot of tea on a hot plate.
The woman that stands in front of me is a great aunt, Bompy’s sister, Caroline. I haven’t seen her since I was four years old and she looked old and matronly even then. — what I imagined, at four, that a spinster should look like.
She asks the most mundane questions, like what my plans are for university. I want to talk about Bompy (after all, isn’t that what funerals are for? To remember and say goodbye to loved ones?) but she carefully sidesteps my questions and goes over to talk to my cousin. I’m sure my cousin will be more than happy to brag about her excellent grades and the plans she has for med school.
I can see Nana from her, sitting in Bompy’s favorite rocking chair in the living room. When I was three or four I used to sit in his lap in that chair on Christmas Day or on family gatherings. Now, neighbors and others who have come to pay their respects hold her hand, hug her frail body to them and tell her how terribly sorry they are.
I turn away sadly, wondering if Bompy can see all of the people who came, from where ever he is now. He would have been so happy to know that all of his efforts to help others were remembered. As a justice of the peace, he married many of the couples that are here. He thought of them as his children and would be glad to know they came.
I’m looking for something to drink besides coffee; I peer into the fridge. There is the same familiar brown pitcher. I know instinctively that there will be orange juice inside. Of course, with the pulp.
I pour myself a glass in the plastic blue mug I used to use when I had breakfast here on those summer mornings. I can almost smell the porridge and as I taste the sweet juice and roll the pulp over my tongue, I hear Bompy saying, “Don’t forget to chew the bones in your juice!”
