Today, my only living grandparent turns 90. Grampa Boberg still has a stronger handshake than I do. He has earned that grip across 70+ years of building and rebuilding things. He took great pride in his work, and that dedication has shown through his finished construction projects and restored tractors.
The grandfather who asked the world to call him “Pete” has long challenged my assumptions, the religious ecosystems of my youth, and even the way my clients make their money. And I’m here for those robust conversations—with him and others.
I enjoyed most the early morning discussions, where he sipped coffee between long, deep breaths. I felt accomplished when his querulous eyebrows gave way to hearty laughter at an impromptu punchline (mine or his).
My last couple of visits to his former house on Burns Hill gifted me with his respect and curiosity. Maybe it’s because I’m now older than he was when he became my granddad. Maybe it’s because he sees me differentiating myself from the son-in-law he never fully trusted. I don’t know.
But if I make it to 90, I hope the people who celebrate my birthday can point out that I was a builder and a restorer of sorts. I won’t have buildings or machines that showcase my handiwork. Instead, I hope I will have helped people find (1) courage to do scary/hard things, (2) redemption of their pain, or (3) a safe ear for their confessions of doubt, sorrow, insecurity, or disillusionment.
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