I've been remembering Pete a lot recently, and it's been memories of my lifetime.

1963, Dad was messing around with his latest technotoy, a reel-to-reel tape recorder. He set it up in front of the tv and recorded air-to-air the WGBH broadcast of Boston's arts festival from Boston Common. Pete, singing and telling songs and stories. We played it over and over and transcribed some of the songs. The Girl Scouts of the area learned "Little Boxes" and "Mrs. McGrath" from that tape. "Little Boxes" wasn't ironic to us at the time - it was a description of our lives.

1967, Dad and I got to go to Ford Hall Forum in Boston. Pete was irate that he had been censored off the Smothers Brothers show. I had been watching him Saturday afternoons on tv for years and the whole thing made no sense to me at the time.

1987. My twins were 5. Dad was retired and had a beard now, a lot like Pete's. Lawrence common, the 75th anniversary of the Bread and Roses strike. Dad was watching from the edge of the crowd, standing, and there were several men of his age there, several with that same beard. I wish I'd known then that Dad and Pete had been on Saipan at the same time. The kids had climbed a statue and sat on top to watch Pete.

2002. The National Storytelling Festival. Harlan, one of the twins now 20, and I saw Pete. His voice was fractured, but the crowd sang well. It was a bit sad, but Pete was still Pete. Harlan did the driving home through DC sniper stories and with "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" on the tape recorder.

Through it all, there were records and tapes and radio programs.

Thanks Pete, we loved you.