Perhaps it was too easy to fall for the money. An outside source came hove into view and the world became new before this traitor started his work. His new companion fled to another town till the dust settled and his plan was completed. Or not. Serious outcomes and it did not end well. Selling out for power and money is never a good idea and eventually, comes to a bad end.

The local people were powerless because of paper documents and agreements were written with the ability to fight the invasion disabled. Written out from other politicians with pocketbooks enhanced by associates and directors of power. No one initially knew what to do. An outcry became loud and many signs started appearing in front of homes deriding this plan.

War came, it was inevitable. Statesmen and politicians wangled and maneuvered in their own interests. Quite a few of them actually. They were wrong to do so. The people knew and did everything they could to contest the takeover. The fourth estate did not want to take sides, after all, freedom is all about open dialogue. True for the most part. The betrayal by the Quisling was over the top and even the ‘Hard leads’ in the paper began to strongly favor the people. Oppression began to the opposition. Name calling and ‘straw man’ arguments were put forth.

There were many periodicals written about this taking place elsewhere. They spoke truth, clear truth. Of course the freedom of expression began to take a rather nasty tone and adjectives usually reserved for reprehensible criminals started flying about from both sides. It began to get ugly, somewhat distasteful.

Hidden underground groups began to strategically gather information and also began a straight forward campaign to make things right. Their freedom of living was threatened by the Quisling who should have been tried and jailed. High friends with deep pockets prevented that. For a while. It got expensive for everyone.

The lines were drawn and the battle began in earnest. Power with reward vs individual rights and freedom from oppression. It’s an old and repeated struggle throughout history. Control of the land and control of the law to make it possible has always been a hinge point of history.

The Quisling in this story was Vidkun Quisling. A military man. An officer that embraced the Nazi regime and sold out the Norwegian country. I can imagine your thoughts, dear reader, as you envisioned other men in the similar position in our day and age. In our neighborhood, in our government. Men and women with money and power supporting a vision of more of the same.

Quisling. Winston Churchill, H.G. Wells and George Orwell used the term in their writing. Vidkun’s last name was immortalized in history. Traitor, betrayer of position of authority. Remind you of anyone in particular?

Jack Gator

Forty years after opening it the shop is booming, and my son took the helm.He is as brilliant as the best men. Also, he was a bit difficult for me because I am also ‘difficult’. A lot of grace, some great counsel and the shop, now twice the size it was and heated with waste oil. Many upgrades to the tools and infra structure were done. Upgrades to both the inner men too. The family is doing pretty well. And the blessings and amazing changes continue to happen. The youngest son has built a wood shop where his skills are very evident. The usual upgrades that come with time.

At the beginning of my life on the old farm, it was early and I was just getting ready to drive to my job at the rail yard. The day before was rough and I could feel some pain already. When I sat down on the bathroom throne, I fell to the floor in agony and could not get up. my back had ‘gone out’ I was trapped on the floor and the nearest phone was a new one up on a shelf by the bed. I crawled back in the living room and wondered what to do. After a time, I began to read the newspapers by the wood stove. This went on for a few days. Thirst began to be an issue. The cat water in the kitchen helped for a short time.

Only reading the Sunday comics would take my mind of the images of a bad end. The favorite comic was Zippy the Pinhead. Escape was the game, so taking clothing out of the bottom drawers, I made a ramp to roll up to the bed and grab the phone. Help came and a time in hospital got me on my feet. L4 and L5 seemed to be in poor condition. Nerves to my feet never recovered to this day. At least the hospital bill was paid and his new foreman got his comeuppance for the way he abused Jack with impossible work. I have had to deal with thoughts about that man.

It was logical, get a new job or create one. After the railroad injury, there was no going back to the job of shovels, sledgehammers and spike mauls. There was a little bit of workers comp, but it wasn’t going to last long and the mortgage was looming every 1^st of the month. Food was OK and the power was still on. Phone was iffy but still had a dial tone. The locals knew what had happened to me, and there was grace in this rural area. Even from supposedly hard nosed utility companies. One of my new friends climbed the power poles for a living and so he knew what had happened. People stopped by to see if there was something they could do. Meals, friendships solidified and new friends even brought Zippy comics to show they knew the story. I was amenable to a roommate of a local fellow.

Those are some of the reasons why moving to the area was attractive, and scary. The VA loan was the first big loan that Jack had ever had. His new friendships made it work. Wood heat, gardening instructions and help for me, a converted ‘swampy’ (a nickname for a person from neighboring Minnesota.)

I bought a bicycle to exercise my injuries. On a trip to the big cities old neighborhood, I got hit by a car in a crosswalk. Spun me off the bike. Rehab setback for a bit. Somehow that neighborhood had lost a bit of glitter. It seemed Too busy and now the constant roar of traffic was heard. Nothing had changed but me. Back home with the old blue 1941 Ford that I had put a new engine in with a friend and a chain hoist on a tree. The usual activity for a Jack Pine Savage. That’s how the locals refer to enthusiastic young people. (Jack pines are real trees and there are a lot of them 15 miles north of Jack’s place.)

Living in an old farmhouse was ‘challenging’ Another new friend installed a masonry chimney and I got a chain saw for the firewood. My back was healing and it was time to work on rural survival. Splitting mauls, an old Ford pickup and firewood permits up North in the state forest. Plus the dry stuff on the 30 acre farm.

Wood heat was better than the fuel oil heater but the cat water still froze to the kitchen floor when it was a bit cold. The old well in the barn and it’s pump jack did pretty good as long as it was protected from cold. It did not freeze like the cat water did. Hay bales around the foundation worked a bit and the cat took care of the mice. The workers comp and a small settlement from the railroad were running out. Jack got hooked up with a local country western band. Playing fiddle in a four piece band in most of the bars within 40 miles. Some of the gigs phone notes from the band leader are still visible on the kitchen cupboard uprights. Jack was in a hurry and scratchpads had not been invented yet. (The Bakelite phone was on the wall next to the cupboards.)

A new job was needed, a career. Gator decided to open a foreign car repair shop, right in his garage. I was told more than once; “You’ll never make it!” foreign cars in this part of rural America was a non-starter. Perhaps an old VW bug or type 3 transporter was part and parcel of the local transportation. It seemed a nitch to exploit and I opened shop. The old garage with sliding wood doors, and no heat, and pathetic electric power were a few obstacles to deal with. The local tool truck guy gave a proposition to me. “Rebuild the engine on my Nissan 280Z and I’ll give you the tools you need to do it.” Flat edge bar, micrometer, dial indicator. Ridge reamer and cylinder gauge. A torque wrench plus cylinder hones. It was a beginning of sorts and the word got out of my confidence and skill. After all, I am an amateur radio license holder and electricity and wiring diagrams are not intimidating. Slowly things began to come together for me and updates for everything began. Setbacks and Updates seem to be relatives.

Decades afterward, I met Julie on a bicycle as I still rode for fitness. She heard about him out in Washington state at a bar! The bartender was an old friend of mine and gave Julie my name. She tossed the bartenders note when she got back to the area. A local pastor that I rode with, met Julie on her bicycle when he was out riding. Seems like bicycles had a part and parcel in their lives.

I called Julie after his pastor told him about her. He told me she was a good rider and rather attractive with a good smile. He also said she only lived a few miles away at a church camp she managed. I eventually picked up the old black wall phone and called, her number was easy to find. She answered the phone with an astonished, “It’s that guy!”

They arranged to meet riding towards one another and they met at the driveway of the bartender’s Grand parents. Just another ‘coincidence’ in their lives. As the saying goes, it was Kismet. They like to refer to the marriage broker as Jesus stepping in with undeniable direction. It was years later that I realized Jesus’ role in that fulfillment, for a life that brought joy. We eventually began chasing after Jesus, the incredible man that created all things that were created. We now both talk to Jesus a lot. They sing and play to him too, more joy!

The parking lot has doubled in size as has the repair shop. Beauty abounds around them and it is so beautiful, we realize that prosperity has landed upon them. The opportunity to work, for all of them. A Garden overflowing with good veggies along with machinery inherited to maintain it all. They are not so much gifted in Gold and Silver. Just those aging colors of their hair and Jack’s beard.

Two boys, and they doubled the size of the house too. ‘I don’t deserve this’! Jesus tells me that is correct but there is another ledger that says it’s OK . Forgiveness for our ‘checkered’ past is a big part of responding to the call of life with Jesus. We tell him secrets and give him praise and It’s pretty good.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

(to be continued)

Always, the phone call from the hospital. Telling Gator’s mom that his dad had been taken to the big hospital downtown. Again. The downside to bravery at the Fire Department. Running into yet another fire, burning building to rescue someone. Now and then a fellow fireman overcome while manning the nozzle. Dad always said that the warehouse fires with cardboard were the worst. The flames roaring up all the small channels in the boxes creating an incredible firestorm.

It was from Dad Gator that Jack learned the way of life to conquer fear. To run towards it with determination and the shield of honor. Jack’s Grandpa was a retired fire chief and it had taken a toll on him. Reticent and very somber and unapproachable, Grandpa Gator was the walking wounded. Too many men lost. Too many people caught up in tragedy that could not be rescued in time.

The old manhood of Firemen and Policemen. Serving the city by putting their lives on the line. There was, of course, rivalry and pretty good natured for the most part. Name calling in humor: ‘Hose stretcher!’ ‘Meter maid!’ Things that men do to create a bond with one another in dangerous jobs.

So Gator learned early what facing fear looked like. His dad was wounded too with all the adrenaline rushes at two am as he geared up and hopped into the back wheel of the big ladder truck. Out of the fire barn and the siren wailed down the empty streets of the big city. It popped out at home at times and the big city guys used alcohol to calm down. Gator’s dad was unavailable emotionally for most of Jack’s life. A fireman that was burned out.

Much later, Jack found the lessons from his Dad valuable. Run towards fear, give no quarter to danger of any sort. Be bold and put it all on the line. Calmly telling that big thief in Oakland that fighting to the death was the only way Jack would allow the theft. Replying to the big prison guard that ‘dancing in the isolation cell might be fun’. The time the small town toughs came after midnight and Jack walked side by side with his best friend towards them with their tent poles disguised as shotguns.

Stay calm and mean it. Jack had a dream of walking by a town that had a big gateway over the road going down to it. He could hear screams and awful danger coming from below in the town. The urge to run was strong. Jack turned around and ran down the road to the town. It was just a dream but it felt like a test he was going through.

Later in life, Jack had to face his own fears that were now, just reactions with no basis in reality. Now he would run away from conflict thinking he would be killed by a runaway railroad car (another true life situation) or worse. Complete and utterly false perceptions of his family and friends that was very confusing to everyone, including Gator. “Too much Trauma in your life” the therapist said. He taught Jack how to discern reality. Six tenths of a second reaction time to decide what is almost always false. Shut down the escape. Move forward. Jack was in a battle with himself and he had to run towards the battle within. Not easy, necessary.

Now, Jack lives within his destiny. Always looking towards the one thing that gives him strength to be the Gator he was meant to be. The living God that invites Jack into the secret place, the garden of love. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

But we live in a world that has lost its appreciation for small things. We live in a world that wants things bigger and bigger. We want to supersize our fries, sodas, and church buildings. But amid all the supersizing, many of us feel God doing something new, something small and subtle. This thing Jesus called the kingdom of God is emerging across the globe in the most unexpected places, a gentle whisper amid the chaos. Little people with big dreams are re-imagining the world. Little movements of communities of ordinary radicals are committed to doing small things with great love.

…Shane Claiborne, The Irresistible Revolution, Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2006 p 25

And perhaps, as those who do not turn to God in petty trials will have no habit or such resort to help them when the great trials come, so those who have not learned to ask Him for childish things will have less readiness to ask Him for great ones. We must not be too high-minded. I fancy we may sometimes be deterred from small prayers by a sense of our own dignity rather than of God’s.      

… C.S. Lewis (1898-1963), Letters to Malcolm, Harcourt, Brace & World, 1963 p 23

The smallest things become great when God requires them of us; they are small only in themselves; they are always great when they are done for God, and when they serve to unite us with Him eternally.

    … Francois Fenelon (1651-1715), Letters to Men and Women, P. Owen, 1957 p 55

We bless the life around us far more than we realize.  Many simple, ordinary things that we do can affect those around us in profound ways: the unexpected phone call, the brief touch, the willingness to listen generously, the warm smile or wink of recognition.  We can even bless total strangers and be blessed by them.  Big messages come in small packages.                                                                             …Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D., My Grandfather’s Blessings, Riverhead Books, 2000 p 5

The true Christians are the true citizens, lofty of purpose, resolute in endeavor, ready for a hero’s deeds, but never looking down on their task because it is cast in the day of small things; scornful of baseness, awake to their own duties as well as to their rights, following the higher law with reverence, and in this world doing all that in their power lies, so that when death comes they may feel that humanity is in some degree better because they lived.

…Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919), 26^th U.S. President, The Strenuous Life, P. F. Collier & Son, 1900 p 272

  IT’S PRETTY GOOD. JACK

After several years at sea, expectations were always high with Norm when a seaport was coming into view. A place where a ship could anchor out and liberty sections were announced. Sometimes, I would have to man my duty station so other men in my division could go ‘On the Beach’.

Every seaport has a flavor, remembered by the salty ones. Izmir Turkey was known for pushy vendors trying to buy your pants. Odd to everyone on board. Just for the materiel of the wool it seemed. One could not imagine a Turk wearing a pair of Dress Blues. Malta was odd with many tobacco shops every where. I bought a clay pipe and some pipe tobacco. It made me feel connected with the past. 3 riggers with a man at the tiller haveing a smoke with a gentle breeze coming to port.

Rhodes was only remembered by the absence of the Colossus at the breakwater. There were other images which I have decided at this time to put on the back shelf of memory. Villa France, Palma De Majorca. Home port was the best as that was where I had a small apartment and civilian clothes.

It was Naples, Italy where I began to feel at home in a way. Learning a little Italian and just walking about. My apartment was on the top floor of the Galleria Umberto with good views of the galleria below. In a cross for a city block with the glass dome above me. I met a swell English gal in a coffee shop and she agreed to accompany me on the local train to view Pompei. It was a mistake. The pornographic scenes painted on the crumbling walls were enough to put her off. Fascinating place with all the remants of body imprints where they layed as the Vesuvius errupted and buring the city with volcanic ash. Never saw that young woman again. She saw a young man with a nice Harris tweed jacket at first meeting. Perhaps her impressions changed a bit. The train ride there was most pleasant, the ride back was a bit less so.

Decades later, Norm and his wife Julie went to a seaport that was a bit over a hundred miles away from the home ranch in Wisconsin. Duluth.

Big ships coming and going and the big air horns blasting the letter G (dah dit dah dah) with thrilling low bass notes as they hove into view to signal the lift bridge and say hello. I like that sound. Akin to the big bass notes at the largest pipe organ in the world, run by air. They are similar to the EMI magnets which I have also enjoyed, which astonishes most everyone. “You liked that? The thruming and the tight space too which reminded me of the submarines I briefly was assigned to from Basic training. Tight quarters, in the suface Navy too. More stories I have written about.

At the local seaport it was the same thing I experienced decades ago at sea, but with a complete satisfaction this time. Myself and Julie were broke when we left this seaport but very pleased at the experience. Breakfast with linen and several courses of souffle and perfectly baked rolls and new forks after every course. Ocean front views from the sumptuous room and a steam bath in the bathroom. Unbelievable waterfront gardens and gracious servants and hosts. Expensive. Worth it as you can surmise.

A short walk to the port itself with more things to buy and shops eagerly extending welcomes at their Doors. Glassblowing, exotic ice cream concoctions, carriage rides and fountains akin to Trevi in Rome. A violin shop in a large building with expensive instruments and a very erudite and friendly proprietor. Excellent wares and again, money given with satisfaction by us. A very nice instrument built with Spalded wood that Julie was eager to play.

The best part was when I began to connect and experience God’s presence among the throngs that were present when a ship bigger than my Navy ones was leaving port. Close up at the seawalls at the canal as the ship slowly steamed by. Watching the churning aft as it headed out to sea.This time the hatches secure with the loaded iron ore. Sea gulls circling for the anticipated food preparation aftermath. Of course, there is spilled popcorn for them near the breakwater too.

It was pleasant with the crowds, the best part was that I recognized people that were in love. Something about them would prompt me to boldly approach these strangers and state: “You love Jesus, don’t you!” One hundred percent response that day. A small sign, even a cross seen or the glimpse of a lingering smile. The upturned cheek line perhaps. Mostly a prompt from the Holy Spirit to tell them. Several older women remarked; “How did you know?!” “It shows” I would respond. There was audible delight as they would turn to a companion excitedly and begin smiling as they talked.

It was easy this time, the place was full of believers. They were Just experiencing the joy of spring and a lot of freedom. Faces exposed now and seen with joy. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

The missionary, out in ‘the field’, we have all heard the term and some of us have been one. There are so many ‘fields’ in the world. Gator has an image of this field as wading through a jungle or trudging about a very different terrain in Africa. It seems everyone that has been asked, suggested to about this field, thinks of deepest, darkest Africa. Complete with Indiana Jones types and indigenous people that can kill you in many various ways if you make a social faux pax. The favorite one seems to usually be a blowgun dart or a bent tree branch with spikes. An occasional deep pit with the same spikes from the local spikes and thorns section of the local Fleet of Feet store.

But, there is another mission field, and it does not usually require a stand by ticket. Of course, flying on the frayed cuff involves sleeping in various airport terminals in various positions. Pulling chairs together or dreaming of a quarter activated storage locker that slides out about six feet. Those dreams can come unexpectedly while sagging between those chairs. There are also predators in the terminals which could sweet talk a Chicago cop into taking a limo ride to a fanciful and benevolent location with soft pillows and a mint on said pillow. The world needs missionaries in many locales, not just in far away places. Right in one’s own neighborhood actually.

The Gator family created a mission in their area of the world that gave families a bounty of food for ten bucks.

There are professional food gleaners that acquire food from distributors. Food that is out of date or about to be out of date. Some foods too that just don’t move as fast as thought. Pickled eels, fresh Beetle juice (two stars for that one), Dried mushroom flour, things like that. Gator has a ‘best by date’ that indicates he is prime for sale as well. About ten years ago. The food in reality is good fruit, veggies, breads and often meats as well.

The best part of the ‘Feed The Meek’ mission was the two Gators (Mrs and Mr) that held a meeting before the food was set out on tables. In another room with chairs, filled with people with shopping bags, carts and cardboard boxes. Eager at times to hear what these intriguing reptiles had to say, they listened. There was nothing else they could do. Sort of a standby terminal for flying into the next room and getting your ten bucks worth of good stuff.

So, the Gators talked to the room about how the food was obtained and why the volunteers showed up to help. Even carrying out the bounty to trunks and back seats parked nearby. Skycaps from a different sky locale.

Mr and Mrs Gator earnestly talked about the King who was nearby and had talked them into starting the mission and how the roomful of people could talk to this King themselves. He even touched some of them who had various physical and social ills with the ability to convey a feeling of worthiness. Often these people would be astonishingly healed of these ills. Returning recipients of the bounty had good stories to tell and it enhanced the expectation of extraordinary results. It also brought the King into sharp focus and reality. Truth.

A mission field right in the same country the Gators lived in! Only ten clicks away from their modest ranch and it felt good and right. They even got some of that good food too. So, you see, the mission field can be across the planet or in your own neighborhood. The key is to be available when the King lets you know of an opening that requires some one just like you. A special person that is perfect for the job. You. Completely unique, one of a kind and the mission can involve hundreds, thousands of people or just one. You. It seems the King is not interested in numbers of served or servants. His standards are just and true, just for you. He loves it when the ones he whispers to or writes love letters to, answer Him with an eager ‘Yes!’ Listen for His voice. He speaks softly and at times speaks right into your soul, unmistakable, and exciting. You can say no of course but the task is suited for you and the rewards are simply the Beloved Kings to give. Jesus is the King. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

It was sort of unexpected. The usual surprise when the phone call came. The funeral is up north where he lived.

The smiling in-law and survivor of war and crime was being ‘put to rest’ next week and “could you come?”His pain is gone, but the ‘rest’ part seems a bit pretentious to Gator. As though death was a train station you just sacked out in, waiting for the eternity express to rumble in. Sort of like the one in the movie ‘Matrix’ for those of you that have wondered about that place. What’s on the ticket you have in your hand? They always say Judgment seat next stop. The ticket also says ‘payment pending’ Better get on the train and get a good seat. Might be a slight delay at the Judgment station. The conductor says there is a bit of a crowd there. He also says ‘today’ with a slight smile. If you know what is coming, it gives you a bit of a sharp uncertainty, everyone does it they say.

So with this imagery in mind, Gator softly walked into the church building and took a pew seat towards the front. The front row had the soldiers sons and their wives. It was a different ceremony, a different faith stream but with the same feeling. Gator did not know the drill, so he just read and reread a passage in his NKJ Bible.

At the end of communion, the Priest requested the eulogy to be given. The sons looked at each other and then turned and looked at us. I took my Bible and ascended to the pulpit. I read, almost from memory the few lines of scripture I had read over and over. I finished the short reading and then began to honor the fallen Korean war vet.

I could see the VFW guys in full dress and the colonel and the bagpiper nearby.

I thought about the time when we asked dad to turn down the TV for our young sons sitting with us. He replied in no uncertain terms that we were in his house and would do what he pleased. A little rough language tossed in for emphasis. Then afterwards we all went the Post and played pool. Young Gator made a pretty good bank shot and Dad-in-law offered a fireball shot of whiskey to him. Young Gator was about 14. These images were set aside as Gator eulogized about the fallen soldier as a man of bravery and honor. A Chosin reservoir survivor in the Korean war, followed by decades of police business in Milwaukee. It felt right to bring those things to light.

We followed the casket behind the Piper and experienced the seven men shoot blanks three times. I thanked the Colonel and then went in for the lunch. The Priest was walking next to me and I said: “Father, thank you for speaking of our savior” He turned to me and said: “Yes! It’s all about Jesus!” Gator will never forget that.

There was a proposal by his sons to give the VFW a budget of a thousand dollars for that days bar tab. We said OK but did not attend the after funeral gathering there. Soon afterwards it came time to go back up north and figure out what to do with the estate. Mrs. Gator’s brother handled the record keeping and we all spoke up for what we wanted. The sons wanted the vehicles and Gator wanted the man’s sidearm, an Ithaca 1911 .45. The Grip handles were well worn and there was some cleaning to do. It appeared to have been used somewhat.

Other things were attended to and it was pretty equitable between the six of us.

The house was cleaned and Gator got some Pendleton shirts and some slippers. The freezers were emptied and there was quite a bit of steaks and roasts to be salvaged. Gator also spoke up for the powerful garden tractor that was top of the line. Stuff like that, most of us know what it is like.

We have all been through this and Gator thinks what it will be like when his unneeded precious instruments and other stuff is given to the family and friends. None of it will pay that ticket we all get when we get on that train for the Judgment station. We will tremble and yet look forward to our friend that has spoken to us many times in different ways. There are some tickets that cannot be paid and then there are the rest that will say ‘paid in full’ The next stop is eternal joy but the unpaid tickets will have to go on for the Perdition station. ‘End of the line!’ Lets talk about that ticket payment sometime, it’s pretty good. Jack Gator