Grandfathered in to Discovery

A letter to Grandpa

Grandpa, on the right, while serving in the Atlantic Fleet Navy Band.

Dear Floyd Henry Peterson Jr.,

My father’s father, you passed away when I was fourteen; not quite old enough to comprehend the gravity of death. You were a committed member of Moscow during your stint as the University of Idaho School of Music Director, and later with your black and white photography and frame shop, down the hall from Mikey’s and across from Tye Dye Everything. I’m surely not alone in my fondness for that building’s rich aroma. Now, twenty-five-years-old and on a psychological trajectory strongly aligned to yours, I contemplate daily the conversations we could have shared.

A few years back I learned you wrote a memoir during retirement. In a red three-ring binder, with your obituary taped to the front, it’d been waiting on Grandma’s shelf all these years. The type-writer font transported me decades into the past, to the basement office where I’m sure you transcribed it—the same room where I sat on your lap at the computer, mesmerized by the invisible rules of Freecell and Hearts. Delving through it, I uncovered memories from your upbringing in Elmhurst, Illinois, just north of Chicago, to the plethora of odd jobs you performed, before music education became your primary obsession. Tucked within the lines is something I clearly do remember, your sarcastic and witty humor, a trait not lost to the remaining line of Peterson men.

It brought me relief to read the list of jobs, as I too have quite the breadth of work experience. I’m beginning to appreciate what becoming a generalist has to offer. Although you were entwined in the liberal, academic circle at the University of Idaho, various labor jobs instilled an appreciation for the common working man and put you in both “Town and Gown” factions. You wrote, “Being one of the workers gave me a good understanding of how the non-academics feel in such a mixed society. That stood me in good stead in all my later relationships with town folks and staff in the colleges where we taught.”

My father, the man separating us, provided me the privilege and motivation to use my mind when possible, but I came to appreciate an honest day’s labor while working summers at Howard Hughes. This practical education, as well as my psychology degree from the U of I, helps me approach and build rapport with people from many backgrounds.

At Mother’s request, I’ve been packing away my childhood bedroom—slowly and filled with nostalgia—closing the door on that chapter of life. In the process, I’ve come across the few belongings of yours that I kept—mostly books, photographs, and fly-tying equipment. In the stacks of books—you loved Thomas Hardy, Hemingway, and, one of my favorites, Kurt Vonnegut—were two issues of The Slackwater Review, for which you’d been an editorial contributor. Why had this never come up in conversation during our weekly family dinners? Published in one of the issues was an article you wrote titled “Notes on Modern Music”, sharing a table of contents page with Frank Herbert—author of Dune, one of my all-time favorite novels—and Idaho poet Robert Wrigley. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the serendipity, recognizing the origin of a treasure hunt.

In the years following your death I felt sad, which gradually swelled into a feeling of being cheated. Why had your kindred spirit been taken before I could maturely embrace you? A couple years ago I watched a DVD of childhood videos, and there you were. I heard your voice and watched your deliberate movements—and then I cried. A decade of questions and longing flooded outwards, replaced by a sense of balance and understanding

I’m now realizing there is another path toward getting to know someone; the same way we get to know our favorite authors, musicians, actors, and historical figures—retroactively, through their lived achievements and artifacts left behind. There’s still boxes and boxes of your old prints; perhaps I’ll make a future project of digitizing them.

I’ve no doubt we’d be best friends today, talking literature and philosophy until the cows come home, but your time came when it was meant. I’m grateful that you didn’t suffer from Alzheimer’s any longer for my sake. Remembering you in your final months was the catalyst to the most shaping occupation I’ve held, that of dementia caregiver. I’m luckier than most to have this archive to learn from, and for that I thank you.

Love, Kyle