THE BURNING HEART

There is a growing angst in our nation right now. Conspiracy theory’s abound and it grows increasingly difficult to hold one’s tongue to express our own opinions on the state of our nation.

Gator has been getting better at listening and just acknowledging what he has heard. Not interrupting, not arguing but quietly changing the subject, gradually and without rancor. “That’s very interesting” is working somewhat. Conversation is exchanging ideas not trying to convince of your right ones. (If I’m right, and I usually am.)

Sometimes, Gator engages conversation about the Holocaust brought about by Margaret Sanger and her close association with Hitler. Most folks do not know who she was. Margaret was a proponent of Eugenics and the idea that certain ethnic peoples are below par and should be eliminated from the population. She convinced Hitler and now, her dream lives on in Planned Parenthood. These ‘clinics’ are located primarily in Black neighborhoods, 79% of them. Black lives matter in a different way?

Black women have the dubious ‘honor’ of being 36% of the ‘almost mothers’ leaving their unborn children at these PP clinics. Interesting numbers, look them up on Goggle after wading through all the sites on the first page lauding the wonders of abortion and the buzzword, ‘Choice’

The current elected president’s political machine put 400,000 flags on the mall for his inauguration which were to represent the people that could not make it because of Covid. The flags could be purchased on-line and the monies went mostly to…Planned Parenthood. Doing the numbers is easy. The percentages are: four hundred thousand is point nine percent of forty four million. (the number rounded off of the abortions made by Planned Parenthood.) The interesting part is that .9 percent is the number of people that have died in this nation from Covid that had a ‘case’! Coincidence?

Gator could go on and on about this issue, this attempted extermination. Indeed, black lives DO matter, especially to those perpetrating this worship of death. It’s an old worship of a ‘god’ that had children thrown into furnaces for sacrifices. Baal or under another name, Dagon. There are many historical accounts of this. We are more sophisticated in our country, we kill them and sell their body parts and fluids! Brings up the bottom line and it helps our medical people do so much more!

“We carry our primary reward in us—a lovesick heart fascinated with the beauty of Christ Jesus. Our primary reward in this life is this ability to feel God’s love for us and to feel love for Him. The anointing to experience God’s love from Him and back to Him is the primary anointing related to cultivating an intimate relationship with Jesus, the Bridegroom God” 1.

Gator’s choice decades ago, our choice in our country and world. Five words spoken to Gator when he was embracing death. Word’s heard by Gator’s ears. “Life or death, choose now” Choice indeed.

Choosing life in spite of our greed and a propensity for personal peace and prosperity. It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator

1. Mike Bickle

There was something about this new guy at the party, this laughing mulatto veteran that reminded Jack of his old Navy friend. Similar sounding and unflappable and generous with the bounty he had. Just back from ‘Nam’ and looking for a place to crash. Jack had an extra room in the apartment he had above a Sherman Williams paint store several blocks on the wrong side of the Tracks in the big city. Frank moved in and Jack and Frank listened to ‘Yellow Submarine’ on Franks stereo he brought back from the war and they took apart the speakers and found something Frank called ‘Park Lanes’. Cigarettes that Frank 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.

Frank knew some people, had connections as it is said, and soon both men were working for yellow cab. It was an interesting job. Both Jack and Frank were somewhat extroverted and that 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 to Jack .

A new friend that Frank introduced to Jack was one of the connections and was a city alderman in the big city. He had a nickname that was sort of odd, the grease man and he was rather slippery and loquacious and ran an after hours joint in the ‘happening’ neighborhood. The beer was imported (fromWisconsin) and cheap. Life was easy and since Jack and Frank played guitars and sang, it was a shoe-in to hang out late at night, drive cab (any hour) and as a bonus, the Grease man also drove cab and showed the boys tricks of the trade. The cab queue line at the airport was the social event of the day at times and ‘connections’ were made there as well. Up and comers with the well known Greasy. Many interesting things changed hands at the cab stand. No one minded.

As the weeks rolled by, Jack noticed that Franks skin was getting lighter. Boldly asking Frank about it, Frank said his deep tan was because of his months recuperating from wounds. Recovery at the famous China Beach. “I thought you were a black guy!” said Jack. “I’m a dark Norwegian” said Frank. Another bonding of humor that ex-military guys seem to fall into. Exposure of truth on both sides. Franks recuperation was the result of ‘getting blown up real good’ with his deuce and a half.

Frank was assigned to Psy Ops (psychological operations) and had a big loudspeaker on it’s 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 truck.

Evidently there was a music critic in one of the villages. Later in their friendship they rode old motorcycles to California. Another story. It’s pretty good.

JACK GATOR

It’s a good friendship. An E4 and an O6. That’s a Petty Officer third class and a Captain. They were also neighbors. Jack and Mark. Neighbors that met riding bicycles on passable blacktop roads. Mark lived about a mile and a half away from Jack and once in a while, they would go for a ‘spin’. There was another huge difference between them as Mark was a category 2 racer and Jack just liked to ride.

One unremarkable day, Mark was riding alone and met a very pretty and friendly bicycle rider. She was riding nearby and as Mark was married to Debra and a pastor, he was safe to ride with for a bit. Not long afterwards, Mark mentioned to Jack about this gal. “She runs a lakeside camp nearby, I think it’s called Talking Oaks. Pretty good cyclist too!” Jack, as a bachelor, was interested. He knew where the camp was and began thinking about Mark’s discovery. Just by ‘chance’ A real woman with a job! Obviously fit too! Mark said she was ‘pretty’ too. He strongly considered calling the camp. Why not?

Meanwhile, the bicycle riding gal, Greta, was out in Washington state at a conference. She was at a local bar near the Canadian border and the bartender was gregarious and asked Greta where she was from. Greta told her where the she was from and the bartender, casually wiping down the bar said, “where in Cannon Lake do you live?” “What! No one knows that dinky little township!” The bartender replied, “My grandparents lived in Cannon Lake” They had a few things to talk about then. The bartender, incredibly enough, was an old friend of Jack’s and gave Greta Jack’s phone number. Greta put it in her wallet and when she returned to Talking Oaks, tossed that piece of paper into a drawer in her office; a wooden holding device to eventually have it’s contents put into a round holding device standing on the floor nearby–the trash.

On a particularly perfect day for cycling, Jack decided to call the Talking Oaks camp and asked for the director. Jack gave his name and mentioned his friend Mark. He also stated that he and Mark rode a lot together and asked if Greta would like to ride sometime. “It’s that Guy! The friend of the bartender way out west!” Greta consulted the head cook who was her entrusted friend. “why not? Sounds safe, a pastor’s friend after all”

So Greta told Jack OK and Jack, being mostly clueless but aware that neutral territory was the place to meet, not his or hers. Jack suggested they ride their bicycles towards one another on a local county road and they could meet that way. Jack saw Greta coming towards him, uphill and riding strong. He waited for her, watching her technique. pretty good climber. They did a short 50 mile ride and Jack asked her out to eat afterwards. Greta’s cook said: “ why not?” and so it went. When Jack dropped Greta off at the camp, the dear cook had some chocolate cake for their dessert. Many ‘mostly’ enjoyable rides later, they were married; a few years rides actually. She really was pretty too. Still is.

The excitement was that this whole thing was a put-up job. Later, when Jack’s old friend, the bartender got in touch. After telling her the delightful story, she related one more fact. The exact place on the road where Jack and Greta met was right at the driveway where the bartender’s Grandparent’s lived. Wow, what a story of coincidences!

After a few years went by and children were home-schooled and the farmhouse rebuilt to double it’s original size Jack and Greta suddenly realized who set this whole wonderful and very challenging life before the two of them. It was a hard life at times and the whole family had many challenges from both Jack and Greta’s past. They are still together and praising their Lord and his way of loving them. Our Lord does not have a plan. He is plan. So now they listen and they follow His words. They sing and play songs about Him, even writing a few of them. It’s pretty good. Jack

I had been working at a steel factory a year before I decided again, to give California another try. My old high school class president had an apartment in Hermosa Beach and I was welcomed in. There was unemployment available for me and I began drawing funds and paying my way. The apartments son (who had the same last name!) loaned me his surfboard and the sport stuck well. I began surfing with one of the Beach Boys, as the beach was only ½ a block away. Surf at sunrise, wait till the wind blew out the waves, go back to the apartment and have lunch. Nap a few hours and go back surfing till sunset. Repeat. It was a high point of adolescence to be fit, tan and consumed by sport. Norm’s friend that drove him out to California a year before, had his old Hudson pass away with a head gasket failure in the high country in Arizona and they parked it near the railroad tracks and stole the tires and kicked the trunk jack out. The old Hudson made an appearance a year later!

Now, back to Hermosa Beach and the trip on the classic Santa Fe railroad. The unemployment ran out and there was just enough money to buy a train ticket and to take the Super Chief back home. No money for food on the trip. Just him, a few clothes and a set of bongo drums which fit quite nicely in the overhead rack. A strange looking fit young man, deeply tanned with long white hair and out of place with his obvious poverty. A sojourner without the false clothing or affectations of up and coming hippies. I was the real deal without knowing it. As the train glided back through Seligman, I chanced to look out the window and there was the old Hudson still sagging into the sand next to the railroad tracks. It appeared like a sad dinosaur that had come onto some hard times. It’s probably still there.

So, three days on the Super Chief with no money for food and listening to the menu as the porter announced southern style baked pork chops with biscuits and gravy followed by strawberry shortcake over and over till Kansas City hove into view and a quick ride on the “local” for the rest of the way. I sat next to a kind woman then and she offered me some butter finger candies from a bag she had. I devoured the entire bag while she watched this white haired pre-hippie bongo player rave on with an unbelievable sugar rush. Arrival back home was rather uneventful with the awesome train depot unseen again by me decades later as it lost it’s tracks and was turned into shops and upscale restaurants. Still there. Iron railings and are artdeco decor. Classy place. The old Milwaukee depot.

It was about 5 years later that I began working for the Burlington Northern railroad. No nice relaxing trips without food, just hard work. Steel gangs, tie gangs, surfacing gangs and the more relaxing section crews. It was towards the end of passenger service for railroads and the only passenger train I wound up on with the gangs was an old bunk car and with Picnic tables for lunch. Usually hauled out to a job site to lay ribbon rail or work a derailment. Real comfy. It’s like being at sea with the luxury bunks and accommodations. Those times were not far in the future as I volunteered for Naval duty soon after the Super Chief left me off in Kansas City. The draft was full on and young men had to make a decision or wind up where our country thought best to us to be. Navy on the nukes seemed more benign than Jungle opportunities. I went to sea for a few years. it’s pretty good.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator