Olga Peterson

September 1, 1943 - January 17, 2023

     After a courageous ten-year battle with cancer, beloved Orland community member, Olga Peterson, 79, passed away on January 17, 2023. She was surrounded by her loving family as well as an array of hand-painted Santas and tole paintings she produced for nearly half a century as a seller in—as well as the founder and organizer of—the annual Orland Craft Fair. She was a force, a truly creative spirit, and someone who made a positive impact on the lives of many. She will be missed deeply by family and friends alike. Follow the link below to view the full obituary.




by John Masefield

 I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.


I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.


I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

[1] “Sea-Fever” was Olga’s favorite poem.  It had a special meaning for her as a teenager living near the ocean in San Francisco.  In her final years she shared it with Dan.  He would read it to her when she was bedridden because of her chemotherapy.  When Olga died, Dan—with Jim and Butch present—read it to her one last time.  After he and the hospice nurse prepared her body for retrieval, dressing her in her favorite blouse and pajama bottoms, Dan printed a copy of the poem, rolled it up, and placed it in her hands.  Once outside, he, Butch, and Dad watched as the body, now sealed and covered, was rolled out on a gurney and placed in the hearse.  Butch wrapped his arms around them both as the car, like a vessel carrying a body out to sea, rolled out of the driveway and took Mom away.  The last two lines of “Sea-Fever,” Dan feels, will never be the same.