Russell Einar Carlson

Dover- Russell was always the playful, rule-bucking, prankster with fireworks in his pockets and a beer in his hand. If it had a motor, went fast, flew, shot, or blew up, he loved it. He was born in Kingston, New York, the fourth child of William and Marlene Carlson. Russ was eight when his mother died unexpectedly. Over his lifetime, his family often compared him to a cat with nine lives. He cheated death on several occasions. Perhaps Marlene was watching over him. Growing up, Russ was constantly on his bicycle, poppin’ wheelies and doing everything he wasn’t supposed to do. A notoriously slow and picky eater, he often remained at the table long after his older siblings—David, Lori, and Kimmy—had finished, waiting out his exasperated second mom, Janet, until she admitted defeat and excused him. He would have happily lived on grape jelly sandwiches, Cheerios, and Scooter Pies. In his teens, Russ became an older brother to his half siblings, Gus and Kristin. When asked to babysit, he’d make them his infamous Super Duper Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches: PB&J with M&M’s smooshed into crustless, junk white bread, topped with a heaping mountain of potato chips. His renowned “underdog” swing-set pushes sent them flying precariously sky-high, triggering delirious joy and demands for more. Russ graduated from Kingston High School and very briefly attended Northeastern University. When that didn’t fly, he joined the Air Force, jumped out of a plane, and worked on jet engines. His hijinks eventually sent him home, this time to Colts Neck, New Jersey, where he signed up as a volunteer fireman. Russell very much admired his father, Willy, who shared his love of cars, motorcycles, and tools. When Willy retired from IBM in 1984, he and Janet opened Seacoast Harley-Davidson in North Hampton, New Hampshire. Russ was psyched to join them as a mechanic. He loved wrenching on bikes. His parents and Harley sent him for specialized training in Milwaukee and South Africa, and he became one of the most sought-after mechanics in the area. When bikers came in with something no one else could fix, Russ could figure it out. Russ always had Christmas and birthday gifts for everyone, often wrapped in garbage bags or Amazon boxes with a bow taped on top. A few of the more unique presents included mini crossbow toothpick shooters, a Coca-Cola hot dog bun toaster, a Godzilla-roaring coin bank, a salt gun, and the highly coveted Aztec death whistle. He liked classic rock and quirky songs like “30,000 Pounds of Bananas,” “Chug-a-Lug,” and “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron.” Chinese restaurants—for the potent cocktails, crab rangoon, and fried shrimp. Remote-control cars, planes, helicopters, boats, and birds. Building models. Firing his cannon. NASCAR. Looney Tunes. Boating on Winnipesaukee. Prank sound gadgets he’d hide. And sitting on his deck, shooting up his former pool with friends. While he owned several dogs over the years, his Scottie, McGee, held a special place in his heart. McGee was always game for a motorcycle ride, proudly perched on the Harley gas tank in his doggles as the two of them hit the road. Whatever he was riding or driving, Russ pushed it to its limits. Trees sometimes got in the way. There was the motorcycle he rode up a tree, hooking the front tire over a branch and leaving the bike dangling in the air. The VW Bug he crashed into a tree the day his parents gave it to him. (Totaled.) And the Chevy Vega he drove ridiculously fast in reverse, somehow ending up backed up a tree, nose in the dirt, with Russ hanging out the window. When he could, Russ surprised strangers by paying for their coffee and donuts or McDonald’s order. A couple of years ago, tiny smiling green plastic frogs started mysteriously appearing at his mom’s, sister’s, and brother’s houses—tucked into drawers, perched on shelves, hidden in random places. No doubt Russ got a kick out of knowing that long after he left, his family would still be finding them. Recently, Russ said, “I’ve had a good life. A lot of fun. Probably too much fun.” Yeah, that’s probably true, Russ. You drove us crazy sometimes. You sure gave us stories up the wazoo. But we’re going to miss you like hell and hope we’ll be finding those dang frogs for years to come. Look out, Willy. Here he comes! Calling hours will be Saturday, September 12th from 4-6 p.m. at Remick & Gendron Funeral Home, Hampton, NH. In honor of his memory, please consider donating to New Hampshire SPCA.

Russell Einar Carlson

March 4, 1958 - August 30, 2026