WORLD'S LEADING INTERNSHIP PROGRAM

Peter's Eulogy

From the funeral Mass on Nantucket

As I look out over all of you who have come from far and wide to share in this service to remember Beth, I am struck once again by how many people Beth has touched in her life. On behalf of her family, I thank you for your support.

Beth was an optimist, someone who always looking for the best in every situation. Although she was born in the April snows of Erie, Pennsylvania, she preferred to note that she was actually conceived in the balmy island paradise of Hawaii.

Beth was the middle child in our family of 5, and throughout her life was always in the middle of people, connecting them together, smoothing out their differences, feeding them, and organizing them in all sorts of activities, from spontaneous dinner parties and family reunions to corporate level functions. It has struck me over the past few days that she taught all of us lessons that enabled us to pull this event together. In her absence, she is incredibly present.

Beth was always there for her family, especially for her 10 nieces and nephews, and the children of all her friends were treated as if they were her nieces and nephews. She never forgot a birthday. In the midst of the daily crises that define family life with small children, her favorite line was, "What can I do to help?" It takes a whole village to raise a child, and we were lucky to have Beth in our village.

And it wasn't just children that Beth helped. Last spring, as I desperately was trying to
complete complicated paperwork before our family's first winter vacation in seven years, I turned on the TV and watched like a bad dream as a huge storm nicknamed the "Nantucket Nor'easter" headed straight for us. We were screwed. If we didn't leave early, we would miss our flight. I called Beth. In all the world, of all the people I have ever known, there was only one person who could give you the impression that you were somehow doing her an enormous favor by letting her pull your ass out of the fire. I will miss her.

The last time I was at Beth's house, watering her plants while she was away, I spotted a book on her living room bureau. Since the children were busily occupied looking through her closet and jumping on her bed, I did what any Lochtefeld would and lay down on the floor for a quick perusal. It was a beautiful book, entitled "Potluck at Midnight Farm", full of anecdotes and photographs celebrating the spontaneous gathering of people around good food throughout the seasons of the year. I read in it the desire Beth had to have roots in a relationship and a community that would nourish the fruits and flowers that enrich life so, that she saw so clearly in my life and longed for in her own.

A couple of years ago, Beth met my family in Amsterdam, and after a few days we were getting ready to go our separate ways. Time was running out. I pulled some strings and got us two bicycles and some free time, and we set off for a ride. It was late spring. We just started riding randomly, without a map or a plan, turning left or right at streets where the sunlight looked good through the trees, or the fragrance of exotic food or the refrain of distant music
drew us in, along canals and over bridges. We moved with the motion of a flock of birds or a school of fish, neither leading, neither following, exhilarated by the clicking of the gears and the whooshing of the tires and the dreamy freedom approaching that of flying just by wishing it. We found our way home eventually, tired and quiet.

I always liked to think that Beth and I had one more good ride left for us. Maybe we still do. It may not be here, on earth, but in another existence, some other astral plane, or heaven. I like to believe we will be together again, side by side, with the wind in our hair, in balance, in motion, neither leading, neither following, with hearts full of love for each other and everything around us.

Thank you for coming to honor Beth's life with us today.