There was a swelling of pride in my dad. myself, in the firehouse, sliding down the brass pole he had come down so many times before. Seeing all the turn out gear below him, I made a few adjustments to my drop and came down right by Dad. It was an old brick firehouse in the cities. Located just south of ‘The projects’ and ancient by today’s standard.

A ticker tape in the office transmitted where the fire was and there was a very loud bell that rang to awaken the men upstairs and also signal how many alarms the fire was. Two or three rings meant a big one. Dad was a ‘smoke eater’. Apt nickname as this was way before Scott Air packs. The men just had some sort of filter box and a hose to a mask. Sort of like having a T Shirt on your face at a campfire. Not too effective. Many were the calls late at night to our home telling them Dad was in hospital again with smoke inhalation.

Like most city men who put their lives on the line, the firemen were hard drinkers. Sometimes they even drank with their brothers in arms, the cops. Rivalry and military barracks demeanor. There was already trouble brewing in the somewhat fashionable stucco home we lived in. I adored my dad, even though I would get ‘whipped’ now and then with a dowel rod from Dad’s basement workshop. Much later in life, I realized Dad loved him too. There were just too many half empty bottles in the joists above the basement shop that helped ease the pain of Dad’s life. One night there was a scream that woke everyone up. Dad had made a mistake with the gate on his table saw and cut off a couple of fingers. Another trip to the hospital for a firefighter. One of Dad’s good friends was a neurosurgeon and Dad got the fingers back. Working.

I got into Ham radio rather young, fifth grade. Dad, the old ladder climber, put up a “long wire” from the roof to a tree out on the boulevard. I contacted Russia one night and had my room’s south wall covered with QSL cards. Neighbors were a little prickly about the standing waves coming off of the antenna. Their Jackie Gleason program got scrambled. A few semi-polite knocks on the kitchen door from across the street. We could not change the antenna length or frequency so I stayed off the air for Gleason’s show.

We went up north to Wisconsin now and then. They built a cabin on Gull Lake and except for the resort next door, it was the only cabin on the lake. Fishing was pretty good and I would row out to the edge of the Lilly pads and using a popper on a fly rod, limit out on big sunfish and paper mouth’s. Twice a day. Lunch and supper. Papa was really good at cleaning fish. The owner of the Gull Lake Resort grilled them very well and I still love the sound of a swirl at the edge of a lilly pad.

My father taught me how to survive a fight and at fourteen I succeeded in knocking him out for a minute or two. Special move when grabbed from behind. All in all, we had a good time there in the woods. One time he sawed off an end of the ridgepole and it dropped down on my head. “Are you OK?” I was OK. It was a small end of a 2x 4. Norwegian head vs wood at 9.8 m/s ^ 2

A few years later, my mother had an affair with a city fireman that lived nearby. Different firehouse. There was a bit of a battle one night and soon after, dad came down from upstairs with his suitcase swinging. I ran into the bathroom and sobbed. My mother and sister were laughing with joy right outside the door. They didn’t know how much I loved him, they didn’t know this imperfect man like I did. The other fireman soon moved in and he wasn’t much fun. He smelled odd, he was fat and sexual towards sis and I. He didn’t belong in my life. Never did.

I found my father out in California after the Navy. My girlfriend and I were rescuing an old school bus for the West Bank Diocese in Minneapolis. They flew us out to San Francisco and I found the bus right where it died. Blown Piston. With a lot of help from my old Berkeley friend, Bil Wong. Master mechanic (where the bus was parked) we put a new piston in it.

Bil had the best laugh I have ever heard and we worked together up in that bus engine bay and underneath. Bil was part of the jaguar timing club in Berkeley when I lived there. That club always met at the very first Peet’s coffee house by circling the intersection, loudly. Fun roadsters for sure.

Ellen and I slept in the bus for a week. We changed the oil, put in fuel and drove off to San Diego to find my father. We found him in Rancho Bernardo. Classy neighborhood that was not pleased with an old green school bus that had the word FURTHER on the windshield destination panel. Hippie bus. My long hair the clincher.

Dad’s next door neighbor adjusted the valves while it was running! Stove-bolt 235 straight six. A retired GM factory mechanic that was astounding and tuned that engine till it just ticked over at idle. Smooth as new.

My father was overjoyed to see me and it went well. My girl friend, Ellen,had an old boyfriend in near by San Diego and he picked her up soon after for a visit. She came back very late and confessed to me, after I asked her if she slept With him. “Yes”Things were never quite the same between us.

At breakfast my father said as he looked me in the eye, “they all do that’. He also told me that I was to be the executor of his will. A result of that decision of his you can read about in “The chain saw and the trout stream”

The bus ran great all the way through the mountains and I had accomplished the assignment. Back to working on the section gang at the BN. I had to tell Ellen to leave soon after. However as usual, it was pretty good.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator