A Celebration of Life

Some very sad days, but some amazing bonding and celebration. Our trip to Minnesota to celebrate my Dad and Mom was a very bitter-sweet trip.

I want to share a little bit about my dad and what it meant to grow up with a man who saw life itself as one big adventure.

For my dad, “adventure” didn’t mean being reckless or chasing adrenaline.

It meant saying yes.

It meant being open to the unexpected.

It meant being curious enough to explore—and prepared enough to enjoy the journey when you got there.

And he sure did try to come prepared.

When we invited him to join us on a spontaneous trip to Barcelona at 85 years old, his answer was immediate:

“I’d be stupid not to say yes.”

Then he showed up to a requested planning meeting with backup soap, ear plugs, compression socks, and a full notebook of questions.

That was my dad: meticulous, thoughtful, and completely game.

Once we were there, he dove in—

Museum tours, rooftop cava, tapas bars…

Even a visit to the Dali Museum in Figueres.

I assumed he wouldn’t like it—mostly because he had told me, flat-out,

“I don’t like Dali.”

But somewhere between the melting clocks and bejeweled swizzle sticks, something shifted.

He was captivated.

He told me about an art contest he’d won in high school—something I’d never heard before—and just like that, even at 85,

he was still revealing new layers of himself.

Still learning, still exploring.

Still surprising me.

And that’s the part I keep coming back to.

He didn’t just live with a sense of adventure—he shared it.

He built it into the rhythm of our lives.

I saw it as a kid, riding through Europe in the back of a Peugeot with my sisters.

I saw it again when he took me whitewater rafting down the Grand Canyon for my high school graduation—

one of the best memories we had together.

Sleeping under the stars, listening to the river,

learning more about each other with every rapid or turn.

That was his gift: not just going places, but helping to craft experiences you could carry with you forever.

Even through his work, he sought out adventure.

Moving our family to Belgium was a big one—but there were so many more.

He was one of the first Americans to do business in places like China and India—

leading international sales and marketing teams before “globalization” was even a buzzword.

He spent time working in the Middle East and Africa.

These trips didn’t just shape his career—they gave usbecame legendary stories.

Stories about culture, business, missteps, problem-solving,

and all the unexpected things that come from beingworking far from home.

And every now and then… they made you the coolest kid in the neighborhood.

Like the time he brought me back a Sony Walkman from a trip to Japan—almost a year before anyone in the states had heard about them.I knew had one.

I feltwas so cool.

(Great-grandkids—you can ask your parents what a Walkmanthat is.)

My familyWe heard a story recently from someone he worked with—someone who considered my dad a mentor.

They were in some foreign land, on their way to an important meeting.

One thing had gone wrong after another, and there was no way they were going to make it to the meetingit on time.

My dad’s colleague was getting stressed, panicking a bit.

And that’s when my dad looked at him calmly and simply said,

“What’s the worst that can happen? Are they going to cook and eat us?”

And just like that—perspective.

He had this way of rolling with the punches, of diffusing tension with a little dry humor and a steady sense of confidence.

That moment stuck with this person for decades—not just because it was funny, but because it was real.

My dad knew how to stay grounded in unfamiliar situations.

That’s part of what made him such a good traveler.

Such a good leader.

Such a greatgood dad.

He gave that same spirit to my kids, too—

who grew up with him nearby in North Carolina, listening to his stories, asking questions,

soaking in that quiet encouragement to go out and see the world.

Not just visit it—but engage with it.

Because to my dad, adventure wasn’t always about distance.

It was about discovery.

About being curious. Asking questions.

Finding something interesting in the ordinary.

Even during his illness, he would call it

“another adventure.”

He didn’t pretend it was easy—

but he still approached it with that same desire to learn from it,

to make the most of it,

and to help the rest of us do the same.

His home reflected that spirit—

photos, awards, and artwork from all over the world, lovingly curated by my mom.

They were the perfect pair.

She would say, “Let’s just try it.”

He would say, “Let’s make a plan.”

And somehow, together, they always made it work.

So today, I just want to say thank you, Dad—

for making our lives bigger, richer, more curious.

For the talks, the trips, the quiet wisdom, and the courage to embrace the unknown.

You showed us that adventure isn’t something we wait for—

it’s something we choose.

And now, as you always said—with a smile and a spark—on to another adventure.

We’ll carry your spirit with us, always, Dad.

“You can do anything you want”

Grandkids Tribute

Dad’s Obituary

Louis Petsolt lived his life with purpose, generosity, and an enduring sense of adventure for ninety years. Born in Minneapolis, MN, in 1934, his journey took him across the world, shaping a career, a family, and a legacy defined by kindness, curiosity, and an unwavering commitment to those he loved.

From a young age, Lou took on the role of caregiver, helping support his family and learning early on the value of responsibility and compassion. That deep sense of devotion stayed with him throughout his life, shaping the way he cared for those around him. He met his childhood sweetheart, Adelle (Holmquist) Petsolt, in middle school, and together they built a life rooted in love, faith, and a shared spirit of exploration. She was spontaneous; he was a planner. They complemented each other in every way. After her passing in 2012, he carried her memory forward while still embracing life’s next chapter, sharing companionship and meaningful years with Carolyn Buchanan, whose presence brought him comfort and joy.

Lou was the foundation of his family—its steady center, its quiet strength. His greatest pride was in the people he raised, guided, and loved. He instilled in his children the values that defined him: compassion, education, hard work, and the courage to embrace adventure. But above all, he taught by example that learning never stops. Whether through books, travel, or conversation, he was always seeking knowledge and encouraging those around him to do the same. He believed that curiosity was a lifelong gift—one he passed down to his children and grandchildren, urging them to ask questions, explore the world, and never be afraid to try something new. Whether gathered at the family cabin, playing cribbage, or simply sharing stories, his presence was a constant, shaping the lives of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. The sight of him at the helm of the pontoon boat, a grandchild on his lap, was a fixture of summer—one of the many ways he ensured his family would always have a place to come together.

His career took him across the world, leading sales and marketing teams in China and India at a time when few Americans had worked in those regions. He won numerous awards, but what mattered most to him was the impact he had on others—the advice he shared, the mentorship he offered, the opportunities he helped create.

Adventure wasn’t just something Lou pursued—it was something he encouraged in everyone around him. He saw the world not as a place to settle but as something to experience fully. Christmases were spent as Santa, ensuring magic for every child. Conversations were meaningful with a well-placed bit of wisdom and humor. Faith and friendship were constants, and his lifelong friends, including the best man and maid of honor from his wedding, remained by his side.

Even in his final years, through illness, he spoke not of endings but of falling forward—a reminder that life is always moving, always worth embracing. Though his absence leaves an undeniable void, he has done what he always intended: set his family up for success. He leaves behind not just memories but a legacy—one of love, adventure, and an unshakable foundation for the generations to come.

Lou is reunited with Adelle and leaves behind a family who will continue his legacy: daughters Vicki Jefferis (Jim), Kathy Berglund (John), Susan Baldelli, and Jan Petsolt, son David Petsolt (Kate), seventeen grandchildren, an ever-expanding crew of great-grandchildren, and all those who were fortunate enough to know him.

A celebration of his life will be held at Shepherd of the Valley Church in Afton, MN, on Thursday, the 27th, at 10 AM (14107 Hudson Rd S, Afton, MN 55001). In lieu of flowers, the family encourages those who knew Lou to honor his memory by mentoring someone, as he did throughout his life—offering guidance, wisdom, and support to those who need it most. Most of all, they ask that you honor him by seeking out something new—an experience, a story, a challenge—and meeting it with the same curiosity and courage that defined his life.