Training Ground

July 8, 2026July 8, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

TRAINING GROUND

It wasn’t too bad, looking back. The success’ outweigh the tough parts. That’s the way it looks now anyway. Like boot camp for everyone on the planet, you’re drafted and you have to do it. Just show up and survive. Some don’t survive, some don’t even show up. The draft notice doesn’t come in the mail, it’s not on your email or Facebook. It just comes and it’s pretty obvious what it is.

Report to recruit depot and get prepared for the toughest, most interesting time of your life. Anyone’s life. When it’s over, you can stand tall and be someone that did the right thing. Fall out, get your uniforms and find your barracks.

Report to recruit depot and get prepared for the toughest, most interesting time of your life. Anyone’s life. When it’s over, you can

Report to recruit depot and get prepared for the toughest, most interesting time of your life. Anyone’s life. When it’s ov

“What am I talking about now! It sounds like going to basic training”…yes?” Basic training for all of mankind and there is nothing

Report to recruit depot and get prepared for the toughest, most interesting time of your life. Anyone’s life. When it’s ov

“What am I talking about now! It sounds like going to basic training”…yes?” Basic training for all of mankind and there is nothing harder nor more rewarding. I have been taking a University Class on Philosophy and it approaches me in strange ways. The last lecture was on Emmanuel Kant. He stated that the greatest example of Moral law was someone sacrificing for another person. Not a cause. Learning how to embrace that concept and make it our operational motive is very hard and can be the only thing we have to decide in this world.

A moral decision. Akin somewhat to the decision to lie to a Nazi guard looking for the Jewish man hiding in your home. Do you lie or do you tell the truth which is a basis for moral decision? Of course, telling the Gestapo the reasoning behind their miscreant behavior would not go well, even though that itself would be telling truth.

These are basic things for maturity, to wrestle with our reasoning. To seek out a ‘basic training’ that will tell us a way to think and act that fulfills, founded in a moral law. A law of civilization. Some folks will say it is tied to survival to assure survival of community and family. Sounds reasonable. Define survival, that’s all that’s required. Evolution aficionados like to use the old tooth and claw to describe survival of the fittest.

That sort of evolution works for watching trees fall when dead and then see what happens to the surrounding forest.

Seems rather random to most of us. What if it isn’t? The old silly question: “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, is there a sound?” What a ridiculous question! As though sound were a philosophic decision. Can you discern the timpani of that statement?

There are decisions that echo throughout our lives. Often seemingly small decisions. A friend of mine a very good fellow writer put it in 20 words: ““What can I do? What should I do? What is God telling me to do? What am I willing to do?” Pretty astute. How indeed do we know what God is telling us to do? It’s a thing that we are taught in basic. Simple in some ways. Keep our mouths shut and pay attention. Don’t call the sergeant sir and don’t embellish the tasks you have been given. That’s boot camp.

Now, we are out of boot and aware that survival depends on paying attention to everything around us. That is key, not fear of the unknown, awareness of who you are, where you are and what can and should you do. At this time the communication is critical. I know these things as I was communications man/radio operator. Handy skill to help me listen. Some of the important messages had such weak signal strength it was only listening intently that made it clear. Shut out the static, the thrum of the ventilator fan and the hatch noise. Stop listening to the ‘world’ and be still. Headphones worked then and now I need self control over static.

As is taught in scripture, it’s not the thunder, the wind and the earthquake that our Lord uses to speak to us. It’s a still small voice and as though you are remembering a conversation you had 15 seconds ago. “Turn left up here” “keep your eyes open” “go visit him, you have the time” “walk slowly and stay alert” These are a few that I remember. Falls in the category of what is God telling me to do.

It usually begins by believing those faint messages are there for you. You alone. Keep listening. He will tell you he loves you right here, right now. Often He will tell me to do something that either seems impossible or simply, I not want to believe what I just heard. It’s ok. The Lord is patient and kind. We can hear Him if we want to. He isn’t going to tell us to go to Africa (usually) and it’s things that we can do to make things right. He’s pretty good. Norman Peterson/ Jack Gator

Prayer in the Big City hospital

June 29, 2026June 29, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The intrigue of the new name, written on a white stone. The only name for you, one of a kind and a blossom in the garden of the Lord. From the beginning of time made to blossom.

As the pattern and majesty of the mighty oak is placed within the acorn, so is our life given as each one of us is created unique, a perfect fit for us and seen on this side of eternity.

The Brief glimpses of Jesus’ heart which can overwhelm and bring us to our knees. Sometimes to the floor. There is a gift given which is the most precious stone indeed. Only revealed on that day we see the beams of light coming from Him as he smiles and blesses us. As the light flows from His beauty, it penetrates our heart, our spirit. The revelation of Christ indeed.

There is a hospital, that a fellow writer I had recently met at the local library was recovering. In hospital as the odd phrase goes. Much akin to a sailor that says “what ship did you serve in?” Conveying a mutual experience. As most of us, being in hospital after ‘procedure’ we become very aware of our frail body and also are anxious to be seen alive and belonging. My friend, Wally, was pleased to see me show up.

He had just come under the knife to save his life. A removal of a growing thing that did not belong inside of him. As he laid in the bed, I was allowed to come in and see him with deeper sight. He also saw me with new eyes. A caring visit from afar just for him. The visit that was as others that have been given to me, Irresistible and also fulfilling in ways of love for another. Also I gave him prayer for a powerful healing and it was well received by him.

(I see him now and then, sitting under a tree where he lives. I try not to stop and interrupt him. He is deep in thought and communion and I love to see him there. He is well.) He rolls his own smokes and I pray he would also be cured of tobacco addiction. I do not chastise or try and guide him away from the addiction. I used to smoke as well and the last thing I needed then was an evangelist telling me the truth. What would I have thought about advice from someone that doesn’t smoke?

After and reassurances, it was time to leave the hospital with the promise of return firmly known. When I left that room, I noticed a tall young man walking slowly by in the hallway. One of those endless hallways with perspective ahead. Walls extending a long ways. I was surprised at the instant inner voice to walk and pray for him. This young man had large hoop earrings. It was merely an affectation I thought. It have been a symbol or recognition trigger. Didn’t matter to me at all.

Right away, I asked that man if it was OK to walk with him. Surprised and pleased that a stranger would walk slowly beside him, the man nodded yes and they walked ahead. ” I walk pretty slowly” I replied to him that there was no hurry for me at all. I am a slow walker too. They began to converse.

This man said that his doctor told him to walk in a every day around the floor that his room was on. Stairways were not on the menu. I slowed down and walked. I am getting used to doing these types of things, not denying that small voice within me. Too many times, I have balked at doing such a simple task asked by my best friend Jesus.

I asked a few polite questions and we began chatting about what was around them and then why they were there. Truth exchanged between two strangers by an arrangement of the Lord. Fear revealed and spoken of. It took a while to get to the turning of the corridor. I said I must go to the right and had to “find the place my car was parked.” (A small joke among people of the city that deal with five story tall cement parking ramps).

I then asked permission to put my hand on his shoulder and pray for him. A prayer of immediacy and details I have forgotten were given to this wounded young man. “Well, I must go” I blessed him and thanked Jesus with the last words of prayer.

Astonished, the man said: “Are you an Angel?”…. I smiled and said “No but I was sent and told to pray for you”

I eventually found my car, and the joy of fulfilling two men’s need for prayer overcame me. A gift given to listen and then pray what I hear. Silence and then listening without thinking what to say.

It is a recent lesson I learned from reading in a brilliant book, “It is a restful heart that will attract those who are groping to find their way through life” a.

As the old Story of the desert fathers is written; “The Messiah lied to me, he said He was coming today and He has not shown up. Ah! replied Father Anthony. “He didn’t say He was coming, He said listen”

It was good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

a. The way of the heart Henri Nouwen 1981

If You come to a Fork in the road, Take it.

June 14, 2026June 14, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There you have it, an old saying just modified a little bit. There is truth behind this. There is no longer any option to travel. One way or the other, left or right. Up or down, etc. Having a good map really helps when this happens. That’s why we have Alexei in our GPS apps to tell us which exit on the roundabout to take. Of course, it gets confusing a lot with those choices and names. At least you can go around for another shot at it.

So it goes with travel. An old Scotsman farmer remarked to a lost tourist. “Well, if I was going there I wouldn’t start from here” So where do we start with other forms of travel such as serious choices? Which way to turn? Travel is a multipurpose word. It can also mean our lives as well traveled or not so much. Of course, if one is of a mind to be blasé’ about life in general, turns and forks just mean another adventure. I lived like that for a great amount of my life. The buzzwords were: Karma, or life path. No choice involved, just what was lined up for you. Studying chapter and verse on such worldviews was a path to meaninglessness. The standby word for unexpected paths was “whatever.”

C.S. Lewis’ writing on these things is succinct:”The road to hell is a gentle slope, soft underfoot. No warning signs, no signs or turning.” There is the thought of my master in writing. That there is no fork in the road once you decide to pursue it.

When I was on our ‘walkabout’ on my Royal Enfield, I knew the destination but took a few forks in the road on the way. laissez faire sort of travel, led to all sorts of adventure. There was a map on board but the dominant thought for me and my best friend, Bruce, was the unknown path. (Bruce was riding an old BMW R59)

Mistakes were made, ones that were ‘challenging’. Both of us had recently been discharged and it was nifty to choose your own path. Bruce’s bike had an arrangement of the front suspention on his bike, it was called an ‘Earles Fork’ Getting tired of the homographs? A few more to go.

There were also plenty of forks in the road in the early days, not even seen as decisions that had to be made. Just ‘chance’ or ‘luck’ or ‘destiny’. There weren’t any warning signs either. A simple ‘rough road’ or ‘falling rocks ahead’ would have been enlightening. I am not certain that forked decisions are destiny or foolishness. After all, if you can even hear the screams or explosions, it would seem prudent to go some other way or just do a U turn. So, random fork choosing can be fun, dangerous, thrilling or destructive. How can you tell which road or path is correct?

There is perfect advice available and it isn’t Map Quest. Consult the map maker himself, He will advise and tell you of the choices. You decide. That’s called freedom. One fork will lead to a fulfillment destination and the other one will lead to eternal captivity of an unpleasant type. The Map Maker will even tell you which fork in the road is good and correct. If you choose to listen to Him. Take the wrong turn anyway and you will not be saved from falling into Judgement, the eternal type.

That’s right. He will save you from His Father. 1. That’s what salvation means. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

1. Gregory Koukl The Story of Reality

A Pontiac Woody and the Minerva Chain

June 10, 2026June 10, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

My dad and I came up north (way north of 8) to build a cabin in the middle of the last century. He had a neat station wagon that had a tail light that swiveled when you opened the tailgate. It always pointed straight back. It was a mechanical marvel to me. A usual car to start driving lessons on when you are around 10 or so. Three on the tree and the high/low headlight switch was pushed with the toe of your left foot. Dad had wise advice when to dim the headlights: “Just when the oncoming car’s lights can be seen as two lights, then switch them to low” These days with bright halogen headlights I switch earlier and when ever I am behind someone.

Our cabin was east of Danbury on Gull Lake. I handed tools up to dad as the roof rafters formed up. The end of the ridge pole was cut off and the chunk fell right on my head. I yelled up “I’m OK” and the work continued. It was a pretty small piece and surprising when it arrived.

It was exciting to be right there when the dream cabin was actually forming up. Dad was a city fireman and used to ladders. He built cabinets on his off times in our basement. Grandpa was a fireman too but he was too old and cranky to come up and help. Besides, Gramp’s didn’t like to fish like his son in law and grandson did.

There was one other family on the lake and they owned a small resort next door. Since it was my first time ‘up north’, this seemed a good place to be. At that time, a small green flat bottom boat was at the dock and it was mine to use morning and night. I was not allowed to row out beyond sight of the resort where the lily pads were waiting for me. A fly rod with floating line and a small popper was my choice of tools to entrance the fish just under the pads.

It was easy pickings and the sound of the swirl and the tug are still vivid in my memory. A dozen bluegills and paper mouths (crappies) in the bottom of the boat and it was time to row back in to the dock. Sometimes I put them on a stringer but those pesky and poky fins were a challenge when the fish were several pounds and my hands not quite big enough to pull the fins back. The poppers were too big for the fish to swallow and that helped get them off the hook.

Dad would scale and gut and lunch was served with the resort owners sharing in the bounty. Every decent day, morning and night was my job to row out and harvest white fleshed fish to be fried in butter. There was a camper that myself and my sister stayed in while the two men went into town at night and they stayed pretty late.

Sis told me later in life that she seduced me when we were alone. I am pretty foggy about that but it would explain my sisters reticence for friendship when we were older and with our children.

We were still in bed when the time to row out and fish so we waited until someone awoke. I was a good swimmer, but the rule was, don’t go out where I can’t see you. Dad’s eyes were closed for a while on those mornings. The fishing was still very good in spite of the late start. After all, the two families were the only residents on Gull lake. The lake shore is filled with cabins now. The fish population was diminished in an equal ratio. F + xC = -F (or fish plus more cabins equals less fish)

It was grand and now and then, just myself and then Dad would get the motor running and troll for bass on the link between Gull and Minerva. We thought they tasted pretty good too but it seemed a lot of effort to get them.

So we got the ‘big’ V hull boat loaded up with all the accoutrements. he always used artificial jigs and spoons, so no bait was needed. The red Daredevil was a favorite It was always exciting to motor up the channel between Gull and Minerva. That old Evinrude just putting along . There was no one around there. No other cabins, no other boats seen. After trolling for a while the motor was shut off and the waves it made were heard on the banks. Ten years later, it was big Navy fleet ships that made splashing noises too. Waves slapping the hull from the battle fleet and sometimes sounds from nearby shores were similar. I would be back in that small channel just like that.

Sounds do that for me. They are music that moves me as a masterpiece of any art can. The movie August Rush lines it out. Try a concerto directed by Jacob Collier in an Orchestra hall.

Wind and waves with shaking trees. Add the mix gas smoke and the vibration of the motor and you have orchestral surround sound. A loon now and then to add the high notes.

I love the sounds. Perfect. Dad’s smiles to remember when things got tough later on. In those early years, I thought a lot about those things, wondered where the fish came from and why it was so good to catch and eat them. I wondered why Dad smiled when they were together. Dad didn’t smile much back in the cities. I wonder about a lot of things as most of us do. It gets stronger when Wonder is manifested in our lives. The symphonies kettle drums and strong brass awaken us and our pulse matches the score.

Over five decades later I got some answers to some questions from Jesus, my friend who created me and all things. We do not think about the thoughts of young children and their questions of what and why. We are very complex and our thoughts on life itself are formed and dreamed about early in our lives. Children are wax recordings of life and can melt away if we don’t listen to those concertos when we think we are grown. I look for the wonder I had with my mouth smiling and my eyes staring at beauty while the music was all there. It’s not gone, the cacophony of life masks the concert.

It became clear why Dad wanted his ashes put in a trout stream, way up north. It was fishing that bonded me and my Father, and it was thoughts of fishing at the very end. After all, Jesus had a lot to say to his close friends about fishing. He still does.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson /Jack Gator

In Who or What do you Trust?

June 9, 2026June 9, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It used to be a little easier, back in the days of solid thinking and awareness of who and what we are. Those days were the times when all men had a grounding of basics. The three ‘Rs’ of education. You know them. Righteousness, Reason and Reality.

The first destruction of these three was back in the fifteenth century. A revelation of correct science removed reality and replaced it with a lot of hopelessness. “Trust the science” as a most recent clarion call we hear. What does that ‘trust’ involve in our world view?

It is indeed odd that at that time, all of mankind believed that our world was the center of the Universe. The sun and the planets and all visible things we could see in the skies above revolved around us. Our lives were the center of creation at that time. Then N icky Copernicus discovered the scientific set up of our Galaxy for starters and no longer were we at the center of the show. Interestingly, we are the center of creation because life is unique to our world. All the radio ‘telescopes’ and the super strong observatories in orbit and headed out of the solar system say the same thing. The universe is incredible. Beautiful almost beyond description. And void of life. Searching vainly for microbial signs from our neighbors and watching the shadows of planets orbiting star systems for any signs of life akin to our own. Trust the science, nothing has been found and obviously, as clever as we are, it seems we are alone. Orbital mechanics are fascinating of course. All true. Random? Of course not. It was easier when we saw majesty in the sky. Now it’s just a big clock that’s winding down.

The second destruction came a bit more recently in the nineteenth century. Another scientist made an audacious claim. He claimed that all life just happened from random occurrences about Megalithic ages ago. You know the guy, Chuck Darwin. Trust the science. Evolution became the backbone of atheism and our centrist existence was tossed on the scrap heap. A big firecracker went off a bit of a distance away and all things evolved out of that one event. No one has yet theorized who lit the fuse. All this from the beak of birds changing shape.

The third ‘nail in the coffin arrived a few thousand years ago from Plato and Socrates all the way up to David Hume and Karl Marx and Chris Hitchins and other humanists that logically decided since we evolved from amoebas and upwards to complex animals, we were animals. Tooth and claw, survival of the fittest and our basic selves were just products of our ‘wiring’. Nothing special about us, just evolved into the highest form of animals.

Trust the science. Right and wrong, emotions and belief in a creator finally proved just a construct by ourselves. Drive over the old woman on the side of the road or stop and help her with her packages. No difference, just a product of our upbringing and philosophic view of life.

There, we have it, in our brilliance we have removed the creator of all life. With our minds and a bit of ink and paper. Carl Sagan voiced it very poetically. “All there is and all there ever will be” Logic and our willingness to believe the science as it were, has reduced us to nothing special. Just a bunch of limpets on rocks catching a few rays and food from the local Algae-mart or Barnacle Bills take out. Evolving into deans of philosophy perhaps?

Science does not show us the reality of who and what we are. It shows us impossible evolution’s such as DNA, eyes and ears and mind. Science does not show us our soul either. There is only one way to know our soul and that is not scientific analysis with wave-forms and electron microscopes. We have been given life, amazing life by a living God. Life begets life. Jesus taught us this way of looking deep within and seeing him as the whole reason we are here. Alive. In need of reality that makes sense without the ‘science’ of it. The knowledge of who we are and why we are and what is the purpose of our lives. Righteousness, rebirth and reality. It’s pretty Good

Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

Credit to Og Mandino’s ‘The greatest Miracle in the World’

Soldiers Of Fortune

June 8, 2026June 8, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There was something about this new guy at the party, this laughing mulatto veteran that reminded me of my old Navy friend. Bruce Berglund was his name. Like Chuck from my ship, Bruce was similar sounding and unflappable and generous with the bounty he had.

He was just back from ‘Nam’ and looking for a place to crash. I had an extra room in an apartment above a Sherman Williams paint store several blocks on the wrong side of the tracks. Bruce moved in and we listened to ‘Yellow Submarine’ on his stereo he brought back from the war and they took apart the speakers and found something called ‘Park Lanes’. Cigarettes obtained in Saigon and were on the whole, very pleasant to smoke. Quite a few soldiers brought home trinkets and other things from the wars. No one minded.

Bruce knew some people, had connections as it is said, and soon both of us were working for yellow cab. It was an interesting job. Both of us being extroverted helped a lot with tips or ‘scale’ as it is referred to in the cab business. Chatting up customers was not only a good way to get a good tip but it also was a bit of an education on the world.

Those cabs had 4 cylinder Continental engines and were heavy and crash resistant. Slow. That left a lot of time to converse with your fare as the mileage and time clicked by on the dash meter.

A new friend that Bruce introduced to me was one of those connections. David Johnson. He used to be a city alderman in Minneapolis. He had a nickname, Oily. He was rather slippery and loquacious and ran an after hours joint in our happening neighborhood. The West Bank of Minneapolis. The beer was cheap and imported from Wisconsin. Leinenkugel’s. Tastier than Hamm’s or Grain Belt. Life was easy and since we played guitars and sang, we were the entertainment. Free beer for us as payment. What a gig.

We had attitudes and were known as vets with experience. David liked us being there just in case. it was a shoe-in to hang out late at night, drive cab (any hour) and as a bonus, David drove cab and showed us tricks of the trade. The cab queue line at the airport was the social event of the day and ‘connections’ were made there as well. Not Vietnamese Park Lanes but similar smoking herbs were on sale.

We were Vets and Up and comers associated with Oily. Many interesting things changed hands at the cab stand. No one minded.

Several weeks after Bruce moved in I asked him why his skin was getting lighter. ” I’m a black Norwegian with curly black hair!” was his answer. China beach in Nam has a lot of sunshine. He spent six months there after his 6×6 was blown up, recuperating from injuries incurred. He was assigned to Psy Ops (psychological operations) and had a big loudspeaker on his trucks roof and would blast through the area playing ‘sunshine of your love’ by Eric Clapton and Cream. Then he would stop at one of the ‘vills’ and show movies from the trucks projector and loud sound system. Hollywood had a lot of fans over there in spite of the war. Evidently there was a music critic in one of the villages.

Soon their friendship began looking for more adventure which led them to riding old motorcycles to California.

Another story. Lives lived with the Grace of God saving us all for His purposes It’s pretty good. ‘Motorcycle pilgrimage‘ is the title of the series about that.

( Five chapters at Gator’s Grace Notes. Com)

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Boundaries and Kindness’

June 3, 2026June 4, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was 50 years ago, give or take. I was a brand new owner of a small acreage farm. Stranger in a strange land, city boy. Far away from the hustle of neighborhood living on the West Bank of Minneapolis. A.

I needed to be here, leaving behind an early drug gang, bars filled with people just like me. Full of myself and willing to share stories of adventure from 2 years overseas.

I would tell of an adventure in Lebanon trying set a friends soul a whirl. That was a place he always wished he’d been. But It didn’t seem to move him much when I mentioned to him then. He was probably thinking about something else and not a listenin. B.

It got tiresome, a pitcher of beer reappearing after work. My best friend told me: “Get the hell out of there and come up here and live near me!” Good advice and I did so. I met some new friends in a bar about 10 miles away. They liked my stories and I was pleased with these country boys. I was new and as a plus, I didn’t graduate from their high school.

They helped me a lot with country living. Gardening, hiring local small farmers to cut and bail my hay field and great help in general because I was a vet and my best friend lived half a mile away. Bruce, was working for his wife’s father selling fire extinguishers and Scott air pacs. He said I could work for him servicing those Scott air supply systems for local fire stations. I took the training but the job never materialized. That was ok, I still had the railroad track work down in the cities.

Hunting, ice fishing with tip ups and what roads to drive home when leaving the bar at night. They put a 30-06 in my hands in the fall and showed me how to go out and hide behind a tree during deer hunting season. Never saw one but got heard ice groaning and popping while I was out there and that scared me. It was very loud and sounded like two huge whales talking. For a moment I thought it was an alien just over the ridge, down by Trade Lake. I walked back to my house at a rather brisk pace and unloaded. No one else had heard what I did but later that week the locals took me ice fishing and I heard some moans and cracks zipping by. Fish at your own risk. Walk to the shack, leave the pickup at the landing.

I tried again, this time at day and walked back to my southern border with that trusty Winchester and came over a hill and there was another hunter in red flannel. He yelled at me; “What the Hell you doing back here!” I told him we were standing on my land and he turned walked to the property fence and hopped over. I walked right behind him and stuck out my hand across the wire. “Let’s start over again. My names Norm” We shook hands. It was pretty good. We got to be neighbors in process.

It reminded me of walking through a hatch at sea, I was a brand new radioman 3 and walked into Officers country. No big deal to a Lieutenant walking towards me and he helped me understand those boundaries. That’s the way it’s done. He didn’t write me up or complain to his division chief. I blundered in and learned about those things. He asked me who I was, smiled a small smile and said “Welcome aboard” Even shook my hand.

He didn’t complain to the division chief. Boundaries. We all have them, when someone crosses Your boundary do you tell them politely that has happened or do you call the sheriff and have them arrested and fined? Could be language you don’t want to hear or a face that looks at you with a leer. Do you have the where-with-all to say something on the spot or do you go to someone in authority and complain?

Always your choice to fix things right away, the right way, or make someone else screw it up and make everyone feel bad and even punished for a mistake. Civilization 101, courage to own up and courage to encourage. Do you really want someone else to do what’s right for you or can you handle it yourself. Every one wins when communication and contentedness is accomplished. The confrontational solution through another person can result in embracing shame and guilt. Self image problems.

We live in an unconnected and isolated time. Addicted to speed. If someone offends you in someway, do not be a grumbler but shake hands and talk. I try to take it to the Lord and He tells me how to lament hard things too, not to complain and as C.S. Lewis put it, to grumble until you become a grumble.

Taking my own advice, It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A. Forty Acres of Musicians, { Gators Grace Notes.com }

B. Bob Frank ‘I saw old Jones today ‘

My Spirit is Moved Again

May 30, 2026May 30, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Another hot, ‘almost summer’ late May day and the commitment to do something around the farm. The rest of my family was elsewhere in the county working and getting chores and visits done. I was Alone and it was in the high 80’s. Lazing about with my Lewis and MacDonald I heeded the call to work outside. Weed whip the small ditch next to the driveway. I can do that! Get dressed in the jeans with a small chainsaw rip on the left pants leg and a white T shirt.

The battery whip was loaded with four strings and the fully charged delta battery. The big one. I began in the approach to the long mini ditch and swung the whip, side to side and it began to get sweaty. I poked an earlier garden wound on my left forearm and went inside briefly to put on one of those band aids that pulls your skin up when you try to remove it.

Swinging that whip and clogging up once in a while and looking ahead for progress. Taking small bites of foot tall weeds until I was almost out of battery power. I was relieved that the lights where down to one. Time to put the big 60 amp on the charger and check the fridge for lunch. Back to C.S. And perhaps Winship or Bunyan. Improvise the day and cool off.

I was afraid I would fall when I was in the ditch. I sat down to rest and could not get out of that ditch. I have an old Karate move of swinging my legs beneath me to stand. It did not work as everything was uphill. I finally scooted out and then flipped upright. The fear of being unable to move was surprising. Fear mode, small or large is not an operative mode to be in.

Is that where I am in world view? Fearful from past experience and therefore always afraid. Of who, what or when it all started. Sixty years ago. I would be unable to ‘get up’ Maybe it was fifty. Trapped and unable to ‘get up and just go’ We all have those remnants, akin to spilled food by a careless sweep of an elbow. Now it’s on the floor and nothing will bring it back. Tasty toast or a tasty meal of doing what we always want to do. Move about and pick up ourselves and justget onboard with our train of thought.

Fear of being chased by a perverted relative, fear of the bully. Fear of the guard who wanted to just see the fear when he stared at me with humor of dominance. The kangaroo court, handcuffs and out of control. Is this my world view? I will be unable to escape the floor, the ditch, or the death we all fear?

“Fear not for I am with you” The words of my creator that I read and listen to. Truth as was asked of Him. What is truth? We are eternal beings and He loves us. How indeed can I fear Him and His love presence?

It’s pretty good! Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Soaring

May 25, 2026May 25, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It’s an incredible photo from a walk close to our homestead. It prompts another deep region, even a place unnamed, and familiar. A perfect photo by my son of an Eagle, flying overhead and a gasp of purpose and life as viewed when Soren showed me the photo. The eagle had a glint in his eye and his claws were tucked in back, out of the air-stream. ‘Rotation, gear up’ A slight flash of light on his incredible beak and I shivered contemplating this aviator with talons and sharp, piercing beak. Danger close. it was flying into the wind, looking down. The intense stare at the camera and us, it told a story. A tale of life lived as a predator from the sky, silent and flying with irresistible death from above. No escape. No way to reason with the eagle. Can you envision a small animal, frozen in fear, unsure how to move.

I thought back to the fighter we saw launch from an aircraft carrier about 300 feet away. On the port side of our ship, a huge fleet Oiler, was Steaming at flank speed. Barely able to stay with the carrier. The oiler’s huge screws, making the aft mess deck thunder and shake. As it must do, the carrier had to maintain wind over the flight deck to help those fighters get airborne. The flight deck blast door up, engine at full, burning gallons of JP4 per second and suddenly, the fighter leaped down the deck, dropped a little off the bow and already had gear up and climbing. Awe inspiring at night ops. Rings of sonic disturbance coming off the engines fiery blast.

Steam swirling around the channel from the catapult, and the power heard of the fighter still climbing to watch over the battle group. Combat Air Patrol, CAP. Just like the eagle, deadly talons and loaded and armed. Looking for anything within range, anything moving where the fighter was, something that an enemies weapons radar would detect and cause terror for them. They are Now a target. A Hornet F16 fighter, armed with a tactical nuke under the wing, just in case it got ugly. A little vaporization reaches everybody.

Later that night, the enemy came near off the starboard and lit up our ship with their carbon arc searchlight and quickly dropped It’s missiles midships, right at me. I was on deck, headed aft for mid-rats. It didn’t look promising. We had 8 million gallons of various fuel in it’s huge belly, a tanker with puny three inch gun turrets on the bow and stern. The strong image of a flaming, roaring death with the sea covered with burning bunker oil. Basic training coming to mind on how to impossibly swim beneath the flames. All hands, battle stations. The 1MC in every compartment giving everyone the news, this NOT a drill.

It wasn’t a movie. Everyone saw the 02 or 03 level on the enemy ship, it’s radar turning around and around and the spotlight from it still steady on our bridge, blinding our helmsman and the combat information bridge, just above. Those missiles dropped from vertical incredibly fast with the sound of a double gauge pump shotgun.

Suddenly, the missiles went back vertical and the cruiser sharply veered off and disappeared into the dark sea at full speed. The F16 was there with the battle group, flying overhead, painting the enemy cruiser with it’s radar. Dropping out of the sky at Mach 1 and It had prepared it’s talons. The sound and sonic boom was heard clearly by everyone. Including the sailors on the Russian Frigate.

I was still alone on the long deck, still poised to go get midnight rations. I lost my appetite for anything available, good or bad. A narrow victory for our big fat slow tanker with friends in high places. The fear felt is still sharply felt after five decades. It was Just a bit more scary than a man with ill intent, coming it at you. Terrifying is the word. Saved by the glint in the eye of our Navy pilot. Ready for command from the carrier, a bit over the horizon, also with eyes on the Russian ship.

There is a bit of prose that Julie remembers while I wrote this memoir: “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint” Old truth, timeless and steady.

It’s very good news to everyone that understands the book of promise and freedom. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Sliding down the Brass Firepole

May 23, 2026May 23, 2026 / Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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.