A Man to Remember
To me he was a giant of a man in many ways. He was tall, deep voiced and sported a large thick mustache, which accented a broad smile. His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and when he laughed, which was quite often, the sounds seemed to come from the deepest parts of his large frame. That’s how I remember him. He was a special person, unlike any I had ever become acquainted with, or any I have come to know since.
I was ten years old when I first met Pete Cosgrove. Introduced to me, as “Mr. Cosgrove,” that’s who he continued to be for me. Awesome in physical stature, Pete Cosgrove was the topic of many stories told by friends and relatives over the ensuing years, and his life contained many mysteries, some never resolved.
Pete was the foster-father of my aunt Rosemary and uncle Paul, birth twins, adopted as orphaned infants. His generosity was legend, as was his capacity for political involvement, hard work, social involvement and compassion for others.
My first memory of this man was watching him lift his invalid wife up from her bed and carrying her in his arms to the living room where she could participate in conversation with guests in their Eveleth Minnesota home. Mrs. Cosgrove died that following year, and Pete began making plans to build a new home on his farm in Saginaw, Minnesota, a place we came to visit many times to romp in the fields, watch the animals and enjoy Pete’s cooking, which was also legendary.
I was eleven when Pete showed me how to drive the big iron Case tractor, as we disked and plowed the fields and planted potatoes. School was out for the summer, and I was allowed to spend a week on the farm. Just me, Pete and Lars, the hired hand. What a memorable week that was!
Rumors abounded about the Canadian gold mine Pete supposedly had a part interest in. Whether true or not, Pete was never without money. To help the gold mine story along, my first night with Pete that summer was memorable for two reasons. First, Pete wore a night-shirt and cap to bed, something I had only read about in books. Before getting into bed, we said evening prayers together, and then—“have you ever seen a real gold nugget?” Pete asked. And out of his bureau drawer, he pulled a very large nugget for me to examine, wide eyed with excitement.
The home Pete built that year was wood frame, covered with hand-split rock. Hand split by seventy year-old Pete, one rock at a time with a very large sledgehammer. The home was modern for farm standards of the day—no out house. Real flushing toilets! But two things Pete insisted on, frustrating my aunt Rosemary. The stove was wood-burning, and the kitchen sink had a hand pump for water, accouterments Pete insisted he needed to continue his cooking prowess. And prowess it was.
Pete could whip a chicken dinner together, complete with biscuits, fresh corn-on-the-cob, mashed potatoes and gravy, so fast and so good tasting, it was hard to believe, all the while telling tales of when he cooked for the ore miners in the mining camps of the famous Iron Range of Minnesota. Or when he was Chief of Police and Mayor of the mining and lumber town of Eveleth, keeping order as he walked the streets carrying a large wooden ball bat. True or not, we believed him.
Pete was constant movement, never stopping from working or socializing or doing something to combine the activities, while making some money along the way. One morning, Pete showed up at our door selling eggs. His chickens were laying eggs faster than he could consume them or give them to the church, so he started selling eggs—very cheap. It was war-time, and eggs were getting expensive, so Pete “sold” eggs at a very nominal price to his friends.
During one of Pete’s egg-selling visits, he inadvertently dropped a roll of bills, which nobody noticed until he was gone. I found them, and my mom assumed they were his, so she began phoning people she knew he would be visiting until he was located. When Pete showed up, he came to the door and I answered it. Beaming his big smile as always, he complimented me on my honesty and gave me a twenty-dollar bill. This was during a time when my dad was working for the railroad, making sixty-dollars every two weeks for a six-day work week. When I excitedly told my mom the good news, she said it was too much and insisted that he take it back. Not to be deterred, Pete said he respected my mom’s view, but explained that my honesty was part of my mother and dad’s training, so he gave me five of the twenty and told my mother to give five to my brother, dad and her for being “an honest family”. Mom reluctantly accepted the reward, and Pete went on his way.
Entrepreneurial and enterprising to the end, Pete had a grand plan for the farm, that would support my uncle and aunt and their families and the church for many years to come, and long after Pete was laid to rest.
The ranch had abundant gravel deposits on a major portion of the 80 acres and many trees. But Pete saw something for the future. First, he entered into a gravel mining agreement with a local company, which provided for the removal, crushing and selling of the gravel to a certain depth and circumference. Next, a deal was made with the forestry service to begin planting pine trees around the perimeter of the gravel pit. The gravel contract provided that when the pit reached the designed depth and diameter, a water well would be dug on the site Pete had water-witched—oh yes—he could do that too.
And, as they say, the rest is history. Now, there is another beautiful lake added to the land of 10,000 lakes stocked with fish for the enjoyment of all. A legacy for one of the most interesting men I have ever had the privilege of knowing.
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