Tribute: an act, statement, or gift that is intended to show gratitude, respect, or admiration.
My friend, Peter Bergholtz
“My dad lives across the street from the cottage, hope that’s okay.”
Amy Jones May 2023
Upon arriving at 1 Pool Place in Rockport, Massachusetts after a twenty plus hour drive, I was greeted by a sprite of a woman who showed me around the cottage and informed me I could watch dirty movies in the basement before she demonstrated how the broken lock on the shed worked and after she told me locking the door in the Old Garden Beach neighborhood was optional.
After unpacking and wandering down the two-minute walk to the ocean from my front door, I found myself settling in to write in this quaint costal town years after my mom had visited on a leaf-peeping tour and had fallen to ovarian cancer. Mom said it was her favorite stop because of its non-touristy charm and proximity to Boston. She said the people were friendly—which is not what most small-town Midwesterners think of east coast folks.
Peter, the dad of four grown children and several grandchildren, lived in the house across the street and came over to introduce himself a day or two after I’d become a regular at Brother’s Brew and a super fan of their fried-dough doughnut. After inquiring how I was settling in at the cottage and in Rockport, we quickly entered the rhythm of a conversation that continued until the morning of March 19, 2025 when he suffered a brain bleed.
This conversation started out simple: had I read Nature's God: The Heretical Origins of the American Republic and what kind of music did I listen to? He shared he wanted to learn how to play the guitar. Slowly our chats were peppered with stories of trips taken, meals eaten, miles driven, biked, or walked, and pets. We shared similar views of the world—his from the balanced perspective of a provincial Libra. He introduced me to nips, kickers, scotch, the town swap, and balsamic chicken while schooling me on all things New England, specifically Rockport, which included Thatcher Island, Sandy Bay Historical Society, and the Board of Appeals while I looked to purchase a home after my initial week in the cottage where some writing was accomplished and a love for this community burgeoned. During my extended stay in the area while living in six other seasonal rentals before landing back in his cottage, I had a first-row seat for observing Peter’s presence and influence in his community. We sat in his sunroom and in front of his fire watching the seasons cycle through his windows adorned with plants, bird feeders, and insulated curtains while we discussed our day’s activities and town happenings. He’d muse about his lived life and we’d ponder the world and its perplexities along with housing prices in Rockport. It was during these chats that we became friends. Along with his love for his kids, his deceased wife Joyce, his dog, the “boys” he met up with for weekly coffee, fried clams, and companion Caroline, his zest for life and commitment to Rockport ran deep and I grew to anticipate the look on people’s faces when I said I lived by my friend Peter Bergholtz, rather than I’m renting the cottage on Pool Place.
I started to keep an “ask Peter” list that held the scope of items spanning New England history, manufacturing projects, and what exactly is in balsamic chicken. During our too brief, yet informative time together I learned he did not have a middle name, was an only child, and believed there could never be too much garlic in any dish. He was lactose intolerant, but always had his Lactaid in his pocket and was willing to try whatever cheese I’d bring home from the Common Crow as long as I had bourbon or red wine to wash it down. He did not like coleslaw due to his false teeth, could name every flower in his garden and the town garden he cared for, and really liked the premade meals from Henrys. He shopped local when possible, found his tall Douglas fir tree to be the very best part of Christmas, and really did like boxed wine. His forty years in the house that he built set him up to know a lot about many things, but mostly Peter knew how to listen and how to be a friend to—neighbors, town folks, committee members, parish members at St. Jochiam’s Catholic church where he sat in a pew under a speaker so he could hear, and strangers who rented his family cottage, like me.
My life has been altered by this gentle giant of a man who will be missed by many, but today as I sit on the side porch of the cottage with my grief watching his flag fly from his penthouse balcony on the front of his house and with his Jeep parked in the driveway, a former sign of him being home, he is sorely missed by me.
I am eternally thankful to Amy, his daughter, for letting me know that her dad would be living across the street. It was more than okay.
God speed, Peter. I hope wherever you are you are eating cheese full of lactose, playing your guitar with nimble fingers, and finishing your readings on the secret lives of plants.
