Randolph Pederson, 1913-2005
The last time I saw him was in 2003, when my then-girlfriend Fran and I ventured to the northern edge of the Great Plains for a family reunion celebrating his 90th birthday. He was frail by then, but it was clear that he’d kept his wits about him. After spending the afternoon showing off his hat collection and explaining to me the importance of getting a job with a good pension plan (advice I have thus far been reluctant to take), he insisted on driving us to the local truck stop–the only restaurant in town–for “supper.” As vegetarians, Fran and I knew we were in for a meal of iceberg lettuce salads drenched in ranch dressing, and maybe some french fries. But he’s a convincing old man, so how could we refuse?
The next day, my parents, cousins, aunts, and uncles–along with plenty of people I don’t remember or had never met–gathered for the big party. Old Norwegian women who claimed to remember me when I was “yay big” sipped on hot coffee in the 80 degree weather, marveling at Fran as if she were some kind of minor celebrity. “We’ve never met a real New Yorker before,” they earnestly exclaimed. I suppose their part of the country, the nether regions of northern Minnesota and North Dakota, doesn’t get many visitors from the East Coast. I think it’s fair to say that Fran had never really seen anything like Rothsay, MN either.
In the middle of everything was my grandfather. He sat proudly in his little green lawn chair, his hair combed perfectly in the style that I have apparently inherited, wearing his best western button-down and a bolo tie. Someone had pinned a flower to his shirt. Taking in the scene around him, he glowed more radiantly than I had ever seen him before.
I have a lot of memories about my grandfather. I know he was father to eight children. He loved to dance, and did so well into his eighties. He collected hats, and meticulously hung them from the rafters of his basement. He tipped according to a standard that must have been established during the Depression. But I will always remember him on that day in August, as he sat in his little chair, beaming with the satisfaction of being surrounded by his family.
Goodbye, Grandpa.
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