Conditionally, you can call me 'Pete'

It was August 8, 1991, before I ever called my buddy Rolf’s dad “Bud” like everyone else did. Until that date, he had been “Mr. Kragseth” to me for over 20 years.

This memory came back last week. I frequently drive the neighborhood kids to school along with my own; the five of them are pretty good buddies and it’s fun to hear them discuss the important issues of the day as we make our way to the middle school and high school.

I used to participate in the conversation but as the kids have gotten older, I’ve turned into somewhat of a taxi driver. They’re very polite, but it could be anyone driving that car, as the young teens focus on the drama and excitement in their own lives and seem to rely less on parental figures. It’s the highlight of my morning.

As each kid gets out of the car, though, they individually remember to thank me for the ride. Every one of them, every time. It’s sweet. The twins may be bickering over who has to close the sliding door (“I did it last time, it’s your turn.” “But I did it three times in a row, you have to do it!”), but they never fail to say, “Thanks for the ride, Pete.”

“Pete.” That’s my name, I guess, but it seems odd that kids are so comfortable calling their friends’ dad by his first name. I’ve always used the more formal approach, calling my elders “Mister” or “Missus” until recently, when it became apparent that I, myself, am becoming an elder. But such formalities are becoming less and less common. I’m not sure I approve.

Before my dad passed away, he and my mother were driving down Central Entrance by the old (but not oldest) Central school, going a good 15 mph over the speed limit, just like everyone does in that stretch. Dad got pulled over and was given a ticket. We razzed him about his lead foot for months, but guess what upset him the most? When the officer came back to his window to return his driver’s license, the officer said, “Well, Tony, I’m going to have to give you a ticket.” “Tony”? My dad was furious. Where did some young buck get off calling him “Tony”? Unheard of in his day, he said. Apparently the officer should have addressed him as “Mr. Radosevich.”

Rolf’s dad had been “Mr. Kragseth” ever since fifth grade, when he’d drive all us kids up to their cabin in Brimson. I remember him being pretty quiet, too, as Rolf, Tim and I and maybe a few others caused a ruckus in the backseat, free from the restraints of mothers and seatbelts. But no matter how crazy we got, even into high school and beyond, he was “Mr. Kragseth.”

Then came August 8, 1991. I was home visiting my parents, nearly a decade after graduation. My brother had just acquired a moped, which is a motorized bicycle, and he let me ride it over to my friend Tim’s house. We zipped around the neighborhood (at speeds up to 25 mph!) and were generally enjoying ourselves when I passed the Kragseth house. For no reason, I stopped, went up to the door, and knocked. I’m still not sure why. But when Mr. Kragseth came to the door, I knew what I had to do. “Mr. Kragseth, come out and try out this moped. It’s fun!” Without hesitation, he grinned and got on the bike and zipped up and down the block himself. We visited a little bit afterwards, and then I said, “I should get back. See you soon, Mr. Kragseth.” He said one word: “Bud.”

He was “Bud” to me for the rest of his life. Years after letting me ride his snowmobiles, boats, cars, and trucks, I was able to return the favor with a tiny red moped. It was a small gesture, but it made a big impact on me. Bud passed away 10 years ago this week, but I think the neighborhood kids are keeping his spirit alive.

Pete Radosevich is the publisher of the Pine Knot News community newspaper and an attorney in Esko who hosts the cable access talk show Harry’s Gang on CAT-7. His opinions are his own. Contact him at Pete.Radosevich @PineKnotNews.com.