Shelter in Place, San Francisco, February 26, 2021
When my mother’s Alzheimers got worse, I remember my wonder that someone could so quickly lose a lifetime of curiosity and spunk. And when she finally died, it became for me an existential question: Where does all that knowledge go? The love? The generosity? Are they floating somewhere untethered in the universe? Do all the books she read make no difference now? How can I grab onto and preserve all that my mother did, and knew, and gave the world while she was living?
Those questions returned yesterday when I learned that Peter Ostroushko has died. We are lucky enough to have recordings left behind, a full lifetime of Peter’s remarkable and prolific output, and I spent some time yesterday listening again to a small fraction. But where is all the music he had yet to write down, the beauty in his head? What new Peter tunes float out there in the cosmos? And oh, what we will miss from not having his shy smile and kindness in our midst!
I knew Peter decades ago when we shared the weary life of A Prairie Home Companion road shows. His was a quiet, calming presence on and off a busy stage. I didn’t see him enough in the years that followed, but the breadth of his legendary grace and kindness have been an example and a beacon in my life as I have watched his music spread and grow. So now, too late, I’m sending this to Peter with my thanks. The world will miss you, dear man. May that mysterious universe keep you full of song and safe.