We have all done these things. New curtains and carpets, out with the old and in with the new as the saying goes. It was with more than trepidation that a task came to the forefront of our lives. The ‘tearing down and rebuilding task. Two forty yard roll off dumpsters sort of thing. Nails and ancient dimension lumber. Insulation above that appeared to be cotton candy coated with mice having their own free wheeling toilet and dining areas.

All of it, the windows, sill plates and trusses. 30 by 40 or so. Fifty years ago it was old when I bought this farm. I drove up with the rental van and walked in the rain to the barn that faced the house. April fools day, 1976. All I could think of was to play my fiddle on some old bales of hay and look at the house through the open barn doors. First house, my best friend about ½ mile away and a mortgage through the GI loan. A life style remodel, boot camp haircuts sorts of things.

Two years later, I was on the bathroom throne and collapsed on the floor getting up. I could not rise. Excruciating pain. A slipped disk pressing nerves to my legs. I was able to crawl. I occupied my mind by reading old newspapers off the floor. Zippy the pinhead comics were distracting and pleasurable read. That worked for a few days and I began to go into a bit of a decline.

I survived by crawling into the kitchen and drinking the cat water. The black wall phone was unreachable. It was die or get help. I emptied my dresser and made a ramp and rolled onto the bed, There was a princess phone on the wall side of the bed. (not pink)

An ambulance ride and extensive traction gave me mobility. Spike mauls and shovels were a not an option and I ran out of ‘injury’ pay and had to sue the railroad for money to live. The settlement was very low and it would pay the VA loan for a year.

It seemed a good idea to open a repair shop for foreign vehicles! I had experienced many years of repairing engines and with my electronics background, it was plausible. Hand lapping a failed rod bearing in Omaha while under my truck was my diploma for repairing engines. Emery cloth looped around the journal. 100 strokes, turn the engine 90 degrees, repeat, 180, 270 and back to the top. 2 or 3 hours or so, Mic the journal. When it got close, I switched to fine and polished it up pretty good. Perfect oil pressure and never gave me trouble again. It took about 3 days. (The people that helped me were the ones I met on Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1). Amazing people. Their friends had a repair shop and they loaned me everything I needed. Even got me a ten thousands under set of rod shells!

Foreign cars was my niche. After all, there were at least a dozen foreign cars in the county. A kind and clever snap on dealer had me rebuild his 280Z engine for the tools it would take to do it. Micrometer, cylinder gauge, ridge reamer, cylinder hones, ring compressor, torque wrenches. It ran quite well and I was off and running and walking and bending quite well. That tool dealer spread the word and slowly, my business was created. An LLC was obtained and I named it Fine Tuning Auto.

Sliding wood doors and no heat with a somewhat usable floor and foundation. 30 x 40 feet. I was 30 and could do anything, just like my son to come. The barn and chicken coop and old silo foundation were gone soon, along with the summer kitchen later. Oak 2×4 boards that held nails strong enough for mild tornadic winds. A time lapse film would appear interesting. A friend built a chimney in the shop and wood heat helped in the winter.

There was a remnant of a barn on the adjoining property to the north and it had some nice old ‘barn wood’ left (most likely a remnant of the original owner of my land owned that 10 acres) I took that wood and paneled my kitchen with it. (The owner of that property said take what you want.) He came over frequently and was a farmer with a good sense of humor. Claire Melin.

50 years later, our house was completely remodeled but that barn wood is still on the wall. Akin to an old Ford 8N parked by the driveway we have all seen here and there. Fond memories that trigger us to the past.

As I have referred to some of these events in missives, they remain in that section of my mind located 3 ½ inches between my ears. Influential, pleasant in formation and now known as the path and road to redemption.

“Why did this happen? Why would a loving God make me go through this agony? We ALL ask these questions. Puzzled, we attempt to understand and perhaps even control the events of our lives that we cannot anticipate nor control, Since my conception (or perhaps even before) I was made for purposes that make sense, to me.

Here I am, with beauty and fulfillment surrounding my life. I think I have arrived here because of my Resistance and spectrum gift. Gifts indeed. I have to finish as an Asberger child must. I have finished well. It is all due to Him who made me, just to be here with His face turned towards me and giving me joy.

I know now that God does not have a plan, He is plan. As one of my favorite quotes goes:

“Time itself wanted to die with You” Mark Batterson

It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator