APRIL 21, 2026 – (Cont.) Illiana took great interest in the photographs as I displayed them one by one. Many were of her father and uncle when they were young kids, and they brought many fond memories to life. The best of the lot captured the two brothers on the beach by the Sand Bar on Santa Marie Island, the popular restaurant where Beth’s parents took us often when we were visiting them in Bradenton, Florida. Cory, about eight years old, was standing in silhouetted profile on a pile of rocks and holding a long stick over his shoulder. Byron, about five, was crouching down at the base of the rock pile and peering around behind it. Meanwhile, the distant sun, little more than an orange dot, touched the horizon way out over the Gulf. It was a precious moment in a beautiful stage of our lives.
As Illiana studied other photos of her dad and uncle in sports uniforms, I pulled out a formal framed photo of me—one taken in 1987 for the county bar directory. I was wearing a black suit with gray pinstripes, and I had more hair on top of my head than I do today. The legal beagle in the picture cut the image of quite the serious whippersnapper, and when Illiana saw it, she reacted with surprise: “Is that you Grandpa?” she asked.
“Uh huh.” I looked at it a second longer and allowed a soft laugh. The photo reminded me of what a senior partner at my firm had said at about the time the picture was taken—about how when the facts and law aren’t on your side, at least project the appearance that you’ve got a winning argument.
Next I showed Illiana a photo of me playing the violin—shoulder-length hair but no beard. And one of me after running a marathon—much shorter hair but quite the thick Viking beard. Then another “Viking” photo in which I was clowning around, pushing my oldest niece’s toy grocery cart.
A photo that elicited an “Ahhhhh,” from Illiana was a studio photo of Jenny and me when we were 12 and 15 respectively. It was taken near the stage when I quit being mean to my younger sister and we became steadfast friends for life.
Each of the photos reflected a different “inner galaxy” of my life; a reminder of the many lives we lead.
The items that were most interesting to me, however, weren’t the photos. They were the reel-to-reel magnetic tapes—one labeled as my audition tape for Interlochen; another of a recital I played at Bowdoin with another violinist, who, I remember, was quite accomplished; one Elijah Stommel, a year behind me. He played a movement of a sonata and I matched it with a movement from a partita, both from the collection of Sonatas and Partitas for Unaccompanied Violin by J.S. Bach. We then played the full collection of short violin duets by Bela Bartok. I remember the recital that we played but I have no memory of the recording—who’d engineered it or how it came out.
Of greater interest to me, however, was a cassette tape on which my mother had recorded my interview on MPR following my Grand Odyssey. I so wanted Illiana to listen to it with me, but unfortunately, our household’s sole cassette-playing device would not cooperate. I will endeavor to have it transferred to a modern medium. Then, with the globe close at hand for reference, together we’ll listen to the interview.
Jenny, meanwhile, was eager to hear the 78 rpm home-made record on which Mother had penned my name and “September ’54.” Again, we lack a record player, at least with the requisite speed. But since I was barely a month old at the time the record was cut, I can’t imagine it bears any intelligible communication.
Then I found a newspaper clipping—so yellowed with age it had turned all the way to orange. It was a lengthy letter—a full column of the weekly Anoka County Union—written by one of Dad’s office deputies, Dorothy Kuesel. Her name was well known to our family, since Dad often praised her work and integrity while telling us over supper about his day “at the office.” As I remember, Dad had encountered major problems with the County Administrator, who refused to accept Dad’s requests and recommendations for added resources necessary to run his office—Court Administration. The acrimony had spilled into public view, and Dad had been bruised in recent newspaper accounts of the political uproar. Given her unqualified loyalty to Dad, Dorothy pounded out her own exceptionally well-informed and articulate rejoinder to the unfavorable press. I remember hearing about it from my parents, but I’d never seen or read Dorothy’s letter until it surfaced yesterday—nearly 50 years later. It was an amazing testimonial by a person who clearly knew what she was talking about.
While I was self-absorbed and focused on my own challenges, Dad was facing his. Little did I appreciate what he’d had to endure in his vocational galaxy, which to me, anyway, was far, far away.
But of course, it was just one of his many galaxies. At the bottom of the box I found an old three-ring binder with several dividers and lots of lined paper—much of it blank. But as I flipped through it, I discovered that it was my draft travelogue of the canoe trip Dad and I took to the Boundary Waters—via the Gunflint Trail. At the time I was exactly Illiana’s current age, and the experience had left such a profound impression on me, upon our return I wanted to memorialize every detail. I cranked out many pages in cursive, which Dad then edited very lightly, mostly for accuracy. For Dad as well, it had been a dream trip, and for the rest of his long life, the adventure served as a special bond; an expedition every minute of which we experienced together; a journey throughout a shared galaxy for two full weeks.
After I’d returned the contents to the box, I marveled at what they symbolized—and the countless other galaxies—people, places, experiences—that have filled so many other boxes, actual and figurative, of my life.
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
