I have been thinking about my dad recently. He died October 7, 1999, so it will be 14 years this coming week. Dad, I want to say thanks for a few things. I hope I said these things sometime when you were still here, but I’m sure I never said it all at one time. You had a couple of passions that rose above all others: hockey and jazz. And as I go through this season in my life I am a little surprised at how both of these things you taught me to love have come back into the center of my life. Thanks for giving me a love for jazz, for teaching me how to listen for those unusual harmonies and appreciate their complexity, for loving syncopation, and for teaching me to clap on two and four (which is against many Lutherans’ DNA). Thank you for making Mulligan, Desmond, and Brubeck household words. I am drawn to listen to them regularly these days. What interests me these days is that the sounds of their kinds of jazz feel like home for me in a season where notions of home a bit fleeting and untethered. I am drawn to Mulligan’s rich, full bari tones and his groove, to his melodies and his artistry. While it’s true that his music has always been part of my life, it is a grounding thing for me these days. You gave that to me and I am thankful. I’ve spent a fair amount of time in conversations about your other passion, too. I have been able to meet so many interesting people and have great conversations because of hockey. Memories of nights spent watching the North Stars or the Fighting Saints make me smile every time they come to mind and to watch that little kid skate out to center ice at the X and plant the flag for the State of Hockey chokes me up whenever I see it. Go Wild! And I will always bleed Maroon and Gold. Anyway, these are loves that you gave to me because they were things you loved, and I love them still. Thanks, Dad, for all the gifts you gave me. I still miss you. Kyle Peterson 1931-1999