The Wonderful Presence of Jean-Marie and Hank Peterson

The hike on Sunday was never meant to be anything more than time outside with a friend, a way to stretch our legs on a cold, quiet morning in Crawford Notch. The air had that early-winter sharpness that makes every inhale deliberate, and we fell into the kind of conversation that seems to unfold more naturally when you’re walking side by side rather than looking directly at each other. Not long into the ascent, we found ourselves talking about what happens when we die—where our energy goes, whether it lingers, how the essence of a person could possibly just stop. It’s not a topic I gravitate toward casually; it usually surfaces only when something in me has been quietly turning it over for longer than I realize.

As we talked, I felt the weight of the people I’ve lost this past year and in years before—grief that doesn’t stay contained to a single moment of loss, but instead moves through your life in ways that feel unpredictable and strangely tender. I’ve been carrying the absence of these people with me for months, sometimes noticing it clearly, other times only sensing it as an ache beneath whatever else I’m doing. Something about being on that cold trail, moving steadily upward, loosened the knot that had been living under the surface. It didn’t offer answers, but it made room for questions I hadn’t allowed myself to sit with lately.

By Tuesday, my attention had shifted to preparing for my interview with Anthony Lahout on the radio show. I knew pieces of his story, but our conversation unfolded in a way that gave me a fuller sense of how deeply connected he is to this region—not just through the Lahout family name, but through the rhythm of daily life here. He talked about growing up in Littleton with what he described as a “very normal” childhood, even though many people might see it differently. He spoke about the ebb and flow of retail and how, especially during the holidays, a single conversation with a customer can stretch far longer than expected simply because this is a place where people genuinely want to talk. We laughed about the “Co-op phenomenon,” how a quick stop for one ingredient can easily turn into a half-hour of catching up, and how even he chooses Shaw’s on days when he just doesn’t have the capacity for those interactions. Beneath the humor, though, was a clear understanding that this kind of community presence—this willingness to connect—is part of what makes the North Country what it is.

He also talked about the years he spent living out west and how leaving gave him a clearer perspective on this place. When he returned, he carried a renewed appreciation for what he’d grown up with. There was something grounding about hearing him describe that shift. So many people I’ve spoken with on the show have expressed the same sentiment: sometimes you need distance to understand what home actually holds for you. Even more striking was the way he talked about legacy—not directly, but through the stories he told about his family, the decades of commitment they’ve poured into this region, and the ways he is finding his own place within that lineage. It reminded me of how interconnected we all are here, how much our lives are shaped by the people who came before us and the ones who stand beside us now.

I didn’t realize how much those conversations had stirred in me until Wednesday morning when I sat down with the Littleton Courier. It was an ordinary start to the day—coffee cooling beside me, the slow flip through familiar sections—until I reached the obituaries. Normally, I skim past that page. Most of the faces are strangers, and I rarely pause for long. But this time, two names caught my attention: Jean-Marie Peterson and Henry “Hank” Hunt Peterson. Their obituaries were printed side by side, and something about that pairing stopped me. I didn’t know them, but I began reading anyway.

I read Hank’s first. He had built a career in banking before making New Hampshire his home, and he was part of the hiking community long before I ever found my way into these mountains—completing all the 4,000-footers in 1983. He forged friendships through those climbs, contributed to the Appalachian Mountain Club, and seemed to have woven himself into the fabric of this region in a way that resonated with me immediately. He died from injuries after a car accident, just days after his wife, Jean-Marie.

Her obituary painted the life of someone whose joy and generosity were unmistakable. The youngest of five, devoted to the arts, deeply involved in community, remembered for her warmth, her humor, and her ability to make every person feel seen. She lived with a palpable joie de vivre, the kind that becomes a signature of presence. She and Hank made their home in Littleton, and it was clear from the way she was described that she had left a meaningful mark on those around her.

I found myself crying before I had even finished reading.

It wasn’t just grief for their deaths—though that was certainly part of it. It was the kind of layered grief that rises when you recognize qualities in others that remind you of the people you’ve loved and lost, when their absence suddenly feels nearer than it did the day before. As I sat with their stories, I felt the accumulation of the past months—the people who are no longer here, the conversations I wish I could have had, the ways their absence continues to shape me.

And in that moment, something else surfaced with surprising clarity. Legacy is a theme I’ve written about before, and even William Wallace offered his own perspective on it back in September, so I’m not trying to redefine it here. But reading about Jean-Marie and Hank, and thinking about my conversation with Anthony, helped me see how legacy keeps showing up—not as an abstract idea, but as something lived, something you feel in the presence people leave behind.

What struck me most about their obituaries was not what they accomplished, but how they made people feel. The warmth Jean-Marie offered so freely. The commitment Hank brought to the mountains and the friendships forged along the way. The sense of connection that surrounded them. These were not grand gestures—they were steady, daily ways of being that rippled outward into the lives of others.

It made me think about the kind of presence I hope to cultivate—not someday, but now, in the middle of my life, in the ordinary moments that often feel too small to matter but inevitably add up to something meaningful. The hike on Sunday, the conversation on Tuesday, the unexpected emotion on Wednesday—all of it nudged me toward the same knowing: that legacy is not measured in accomplishments but in presence, in attention, in the quiet ways we choose to show up for others.

Jean-Marie and Hank never knew me, but their stories touched my life this week in a way I didn’t expect. The people I’ve lost continue to shape me in ways I’m still discovering. And the conversations I have—on trails, across microphones, in quiet moments with myself—keep reminding me that the most enduring things we leave behind are often the smallest expressions of who we were.

Maybe that’s the gift in all of this: the reminder that how we live now is already becoming the legacy we leave.

-Amanda