A fascinating and puzzling story has been told many times. No one seems to agree on it however. It is a story with a very pleasant ending, but the pleasantness seems to be up for interpretation and again, there are as many opinions as there seem to be people. Some folks say that we are eternal and when we die, we get to meet up with all our dear friends and relatives and have a big party that goes on..well..forever. Of course, you don’t meet up with ‘those’ relatives, who would want to? The sky palace subway has various fees. Of course, there are varying opinions about that as well. Be a nice person and don’t do too many bad things is a popular thought but that one is actually an invention of the Santa Claus set. You know the contract: Naughty or nice makes you OK but the naughty ones get coal in their hosiery. Fuel for thought.
The religious viewpoints vary quite a bit on eternity. A popular thought is that we get to be ‘one with God as a drop in the ocean of His eternal presence’ Sounds a bit like annihilation. A very interesting viewpoint is a religion that promises eternal worldly pleasures if you kill enough people who don’t believe in such things. So much for the ‘nice person’ clause. There are so many philosophical and theoretical opinions that eternal existence seems up for grabs to the highest bidder, winner take all. The most truthful and authenticated viewpoint is really a breath of fresh air among all the voices.
The stunning viewpoint that tells us in simple language that we are not very nice people, even though at times we think we are. We, of course, get worse as we do what we think is right in our own eyes. Easy enough even for me to understand. I have spent almost a lifetime doing what I wanted and thought was good. The worst was worshiping myself and looking for that platform where everyone knew my name. The talented one, pervading with incredible combinations of music and known by all as a sexy reptile. An easy religion, I knew all the rules and techniques to worship the god that everyone knows well. Myself or yourself are the gods of this age. (small G)
Totally selfish and totally devoted to Baal. Similar to the shelf gods of ancient times. With actual photos and awards of us on literal shelves at home. We all do it, c’mon, admit it! There is even a new name of this worship. Selfies! Who better to show off to the world of the connected than a photo of yourself? “I have changed my portrait!” Again. And incredibly, I think of myself as a nice person’ blinded by my self worship. But the real God saw me there and because He is rich in Mercy and because of His great love, He made me alive when I was dead. The only requirement for us to change all this and become alive is to die. Not a little bit, saving that special slightly off center activity that really harms no one.
All of me. my heart understands what was said to me and now, I am on my way to becoming the man I was made to be. The living God saved my life decades ago with five words.
You have heard that term “born again.” It literally means to be as innocent as a newborn child. Ready with clearing vision to see the world and fellow children the way we were meant to be and to act that way. It is painful as birth but fulfilling as we take our first toddler steps. Steps as we wobble towards our Father who waits for us with open arms and an overwhelming joy as He watches us move to Him. Determination to grow, and grow well under His gaze of Mercy and His gifts. The goal and the prize of an eternity gazing upon our loving father’s beauty. It’s pretty good. (to be continued) Jack
It was a full moon night when the whole Gator family walked to the new prayer cabin on the west end of their property. A bit over 1/8th of a mile uphill and then a steep drop down. The cabin was cold. The old wood stove, looking a lot like the Arc of the Covenant in shape and ornate scenes. The final pipes and thimble (look it up, we had to) and Mrs. Gator lit the paper under the kindling. After communion with bread and wine, it began to heat up a bit and Gator could barely see his breath now.
It is a real beauty of a cabin and the view resembles the boundary waters. A small lake in front, rolling hills on the other side with hardwoods and nothing else in sight. A dream of a retreat and now, we were taking off our jackets and hats and the family dog finally settled down and snuggled Greta on the small love seat with Jack on it too. The boys reminisced about the building of it and everyone was checking the heat from the wood stove. Drowsy now with the warmth and realizing it was late, Jack and the boys walked back to the ranch house. Jack turned for a glimpse and knew immediately his mind would be the camera he needed. The soft white wood smoke floated in the moonlight through the branches of a nearby white pine and it was suddenly hard to leave. A full moon and upon turning around to go back, Jack saw the hoarfrost of sparkling jewels, tens of thousands of them spread before on his path.
Jack knew now the blessing of revealed beauty once again had begun to overwhelm him. He knew Greta would see it too and that the boys who left earlier had seen these things as well. The house drew him down the hill, stumbling a bit on gopher mounds. Electirc candles in all the windows pulled him in and there was nothing more to do except write before his wandering mind would tone it down to a ‘nice time’ It was the stars song and the galaxy swirling to the beat of those stars. Just for Jack, just for all that bother to look. Once in a while Jack will experience timelessness and beauty unbound.
It was one of those time markers that are planted firmly in our minds. The dream that you never forget and you try to remember that beauty you saw. The beauty of events and visions. Jack and the Gators were all together in that little cabin. The first time at night. The last day of a year of incredible challenges.
Deaths and arrangements for both sides of Greta’s parents. Father-in-law and beloved Grandma. The liquidation of two estates, far away and with eager relatives claiming certain ‘items’ before the auctions. Gator’s family got a few precious things as well. Memories and markers. Watching precious Grandma die hundreds of miles away on Christmas day. Moving Grandpa into a home so he would be cared for with his dementia. The veritable boatload of projects at the ranch. A big new building with a wood-shop and storage, a sidewalk dreamed of for decades, Romantic involvements for both the boys. Topped off with a world-wide plague that the Gators dealt with when they fell ill with it. Most of the rest was the usual: Garden and canning, property maintenance and firewood. On premises business’ new equipment and expenses. More room with the old wood-shop moved out to the new building. Cleaning and painting and siding for the main house. A few more things that got done into one years time.
There was emotional growth through it all. Gator himself maturing along with the rest of the Gator family. Closer knit than ever. Actually, perhaps a world-wide growth because of isolation. All in one year. Casting off and loss combined. Spiritual growth unexpected and fulfilling. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
I think good preachers should be like bad kids. They ought to be naughty enough to tiptoe up on dozing congregations, steal their bottles of religion pills, and morality pills, and flush them all down the drain. The church, by and large, has drugged itself into thinking that proper human behavior is the key to its relationship to God. What preachers need to do is force it to go cold turkey with nothing but the word of the cross—and then be brave enough to stick around while it goes through the inevitable withdrawal symptoms.
… Robert Farrar Capon (1925-2013), The Foolishness of Preaching,
Genuine controversy, fair cut and thrust before a common audience, has become in our special epoch very rare. For the sincere controversialist is above all things a good listener. The really burning enthusiast never interrupts; he listens to the enemy’s arguments as eagerly as a spy would listen to the enemy’s arrangements. If you attempt an actual argument with a modern paper of opposite politics, you will find that no medium is admitted between violence and evasion. You will have no answer except slanging or silence.
…G. K. Chesterton (1874–1936),
Was there a moment known only to God, when all the stars held their breath, when the galaxies paused in their dance for a fraction of a second, and the Word, who had called it all into being, went with all his love into the womb of a young girl, and the universe started to breathe again, and the ancient harmonies resumed their song, and the angels clapped for joy?
An appropriate time of the month for leftovers from the Thanksgiving feast. Solidifying green bean casseroles, dry stuffing and aging pumpkin pies. The mashed potatoes are also dry and in desperate need of hydration. The mince pie ages on the counter quite well and is attended to by Gator in most gracious manner. It’s gone. The turkey was perfectly roasted, due to lasting oddness from the latest plague, is dry and tasteless. No sense of taste unless spicy, sugary or well salted. Very good for a dish that is sweet with hot peppers and inordinate amounts of salt. With powerful dill pickles and green olives. The pertinacious experts of these things say that the sense of smell and taste will reappear in a few weeks to never. Sort of like the weather on TV.
So, with the election of high offices, there are a few leftovers as well. New and in the usual fashion, clusters of officials that may wind up tasteless and unpleasant soon afterwards. Also useless and in plain site, left on the shelf or counter of the power of the new regime. Leftovers that were somewhat tasty at the outset. Fresh out of the oven of ascendancy, too soon reheated and unsatisfactory to the countries fickle pallets. It has always been so. To quote the biography of Queen Victoria’s court, The nasty old men, debauched and selfish, pigheaded and ridiculous, with their perpetual burden of debts, confusions and disreputable behaviors. ”1
There are, of course many of these ‘leftovers’ that are quite nice and have survived the transfer of powers and influence. Courtiers and advisors too of the utmost reliability and honesty. Appointed for that very reason. Governors that actually consider the people they are responsible to from the highest court to the very local satraps and heads of small townships. Effective or out of expiration dates in many instances. More leftovers to be closely examined and even tasted to ensure their continued good functionality. Some forgotten on shelves of uselessness until the decay and mold gives them away. Into the big trucks with flashing lights and interesting hydraulic gathering devices.
The curious thing about leftovers is the preservation and care given to them. The really good ones such as pecan pies and managers of sound fair behavior, are still good and usable. It matters not at all whether they have ‘connections’ such as lineage or the reputation of their kinfolk. Decay is usually easy to discern (except, of course by the bad deviled eggs all together) Throw them all out, the others will soon go bad as that is their obvious nature.
So the leftovers can be suitable for a long time, some even put back for continued use. (cranberry sauce and beneficent landlords) The true nature of them and the care and skill of the cook can ensure no waste and the satisfaction of a job well done. Both advisors and their companions.
Saltykoff’s story of the two generals illustrates things with great clarity: “The generals served all their lives in some registry office or other; they had been born there, reared there, had grown old there, and consquently they understoood nothing whatever” 2.
Our choice. Back in the larder for usefulness or out to the big green, plastic container of wheels for quick transport to the compost pile of decay out of sight and memory. It’s pretty good, Jack Gator
A gift given to us, a surprise gift, is usually a surprise that awakens a feeling of thankfulness. We don’t call the store where it was bought to thank them for the gift, we thank the giver who thought enough of us to give.
A quote from a very well known evangelist is apropos as this time in this brief column. It is a quote from a well known evangelist from the 19th century. Her name was Hannah Smith.
Hannah Smith was known as the “angel of the churches” both for her eloquence and for her appearance in her evangelistic addresses to huge gatherings throughout Britain. In 1875 she published The Christian’s Secret of a Happy Life, a guide to sanctification and total surrender to divine will that was translated into several languages and sold some two million copies around the world.
A quote from Hannah’s book:
“Thanksgiving or complaining – these words express two contrasting attitudes of the souls of God’s children about His dealings with them; and they are more powerful than we are inclined to believe in furthering or frustrating His purposes of comfort and peace toward us. The soul that gives thanks can find comfort in everything; the soul that complains can find comfort in nothing.”
Gator certainly has been a whiner and complainer for a great amount of his life. His excuses were many, most of them based on his choices that he thought were someone else’s to blame. Then Gator wondered why he had so few friends and felt ‘off ‘ most of the time. The good things were just referred to as ‘good luck’. The coal in his stocking was someone’s mistake or merely ‘bad luck’ Gator was/is pretty dense and finally the repeated rescue of his life by the ‘good luck’ became clear there was someone looking out for him that was mysterious and unexplained. It took years for Gator to discover who that was. It was akin to finding he had suddenly died and the doctor that saved his life was standing at his bedside. Smiling and pleased the foolish Gator finally had opened up and realized what was reality.
Car accidents, angry people with guns and missiles, heroin addiction and many others. These are the ones Gator knows about. Thankfulness was bubbling up from a long forgotten and ignored artesian well within. The creator of everything that is and was and will be was that smiling doctor. The healer of Gator’s stone cold heart (which still continues as there is a vein of very hard rock deep down) The doctor, the first and last, Wellspring of our souls, Beautiful one. Many names is He known by and the names continue to be put forth in Gator’s speech and song. You know who it is.
There has never been a man more alive than Jesus and He deserves thanksgiving from us. It’s pretty good.
It was right there all along. It’s been right there since the beginning of time. An undeniable feeling that there is nothing to life and that to reveal that extreme angst would be disastrous. What if you are the only person feeling this way? Would you be up for some sort of peer review and judged as a hopeless person. Depressing to be around. Destructive to ‘normal’ social interaction.
Lately there has been an overdose in print of that despair in the NY Times, the ‘leader’ of the news in our country? Gator has been keeping track of the transitive and intransitive verbs and so far has 20 of the most common ones used by their columnists. Gator will list them for you now. Be prepared to the obvious despair generated. Why this ‘news’ is prepared for us is somewhat of a mystery. But then, most of the columnists do not speak of it directly and never mention the only place to look for truth and the freedom involved in finding confidence.
Here’s the list: Chilling, Raging, Surging, Terrifying, Disturbing, Severe, Bizarre, Suffering, Hardship, Worst, Exhausted, Pain, Difficulty, Perilous, Intensely, Most Difficult, Terribly Painful, Staggering, Nervous and Spectacular.
This is the newspaper hawked by newsboys on the streetcars everywhere…Ok, Gator’s memory is a bit out of date but you get the idea of the far ranging effect of this sort of oppressive journalism. Can you envision the rustle and snap of newsprint being read on a bus and all that wonderful encouragement settling in to our frontal minds? Given a chance, Gator finds solace in Opus or Zippy the Pinhead.
Of course, there is the utter distraction of the sports page and Gator actually uses that information to initially bond with others. Gator was fascinated with baseball and the athletic ability of a second baseman to grab a fast grounder, touch second base and get off a snap throw to first for a forced out and then dance back and forth to get the runner who was on first tagged out. Training and physical achievement hidden in a man with a glove, resting his hands on his thighs. Waiting for what would need to be done instantly. Of course, now Gator cannot afford to attend a game but would like to in Kansas City as an excuse to visit some good friends down there in Grandview. Besides, the BBQ in KC is by itself a standout. So, sports can be used to entice conversation into deeper waters.
First the trust has to be engendered. Bait and switch to the clear cool waters, miles deep within. It works often. The verbal newsletters of old London in the pubs or coffee shops comes to mind. There were no newspapers then and small societies formed of writers and poets to share and, of course, critique each other’s drivel. The topics then were a bit deeper than the Kansas City Royals. Raison d’ etre (look it up) was a favorite. Why are we here? Who are you and who am I to see you? What is my destination and why do I feel despair? What is my soul? Things like that. Things we all think about
unless we are so dull that only sensations and pleasure float in front of our vision. Look farther, look inside and ask someone else what is going on. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
It was a long drive to the first big city. It was so big, people just refer to it as ‘The City’ If you had been there before, you knew the code word. Massive bridges, incredible hills and subculture ‘to die for’ as the saying goes. Good description. Best food, ethnic food. Best everything. A bridge to another big city that has six lanes in each direction. Fifty cent toll. I loved it there, it was exciting and at the cutting edge of what passed for civilization then.
One time I crossed the bay bridge on a hotted up Triumph and feeling the shocks open up and the front wheel begin to lift. Short handle bars and no oil in the transmission. Rather a short and thrilling ride. Oh well, it was a loaner from a man that was ‘away for a while’.
There was a crowd of Jaguar owners that met at a local coffee shop in Berkeley. Peets coffee. Mr Peet’s first shop on the Northside. That bunch of young men had an older mentor that showed them tuning tricks. He would put a crayon in his pocket and get in the right hand seat and tell the driver to head out to the Bayshore freeway. This man, ( Mister Denny), would tell the driver to stop on the edge of the pavement. He would get out and wait a few minutes while he slid under the rear bumper. Then the crayon would be dragged down the tailpipe a few feet to the end. “Take her out and hit it. Swing around and come back here” When the Jag came back Mr. Denny would slide under the rear again and note where the crayon line had melted. “Cut ‘er right there, that’s your exhaust extraction pulse”. Cool trick.
My new friend, crazy Micheal, played excellent boogie on a piano in his second floor apartment. It was great music for rowdy know it all mechanics. Late one night there was a visit from the local police. “Nice music, shut it down at 10 pm!” We were stupid young vets but we knew a bit about authority. So, the next night Mike stopped playing and picked up a battery powered megaphone (left over from the usual riots) He then opened a window and blasted out..”You will notice I have stopped playing at 10!”
Boy, he rocked it. There are many such stories, a lot of you have them from big cities too. Trolley cars, ethnic food, and artistic enclaves. I had a brief job at an art movie theater as a projectionist. Old style with the carbon arc and two projector switch-overs. The little dancing dot on the upper right of the film indicated the switch to the other projector. The idle projector was then available for extracting any smoke with it’s powerful exhaust fan. I would light up right next to the projector and the smoke wound up in the courtyard of the pretentious grape vine lattice décor below the film booth.
The smell attracted a bit of attention but no one found the source.
One night the movie I was presenting was about a sniper. One of the scenes was the shooting of a movie projectionist in a drive in movie. The cross hairs fixed on the little window Projectionists watch out of was the scene. The killer was waiting for the right time to shoot and the dancing dots were exactly in sync with the movies and my changeover! I started to crouch down and made the changeover just as the movie projectionist was shot. Humorous film editors, what a joke.
There were so many characters in The City that you needed a tour guide or one of ‘Humbeads maps of the world’ made by Earl Crabb that had all the names and places. I looked, but my name never made the press. Too late on the scene (motorcycle diaries at this website)
Isn’t that our way of looking for our photo in the yearbook, on a Facebook page or even in a live production where perchance the camera caught you there?
So in the bay area, everyone’s gear box was in neutral headed down Lombard Street. Risky business’ abounded. Musicians from high profile rock bands began to have a funeral now and then. The music at the funerals was sought after. life was fast and loose and somewhat deadly which was very attractive to Norm and his new friends. Youth no future. The war did that to a lot of us. We learned how to get by and how to expect miracles offering life.
“stumbling around that lonesome town in a fifty three black ford, lookin’ for the kind of woman that a laborer could afford“ Bob Frank It was pretty good. Jack Gator
It was only by a random act of kindness that I wound up at a old whore house in the middle of the city. I was living in my truck at this time. In the bed of the old International was a wood frame camper. I had built it a year ago with a saw, screwdriver and a Swiss army knife. It even had skylights of Plexiglas that were now covering up with snow. I was sleeping in the camper and was very ill with Hepatitis and with no heat in the truck, shivering a bit. The renter of record at the apartment had pity on me and let me in the upstairs shotgun apartments to sleep on the couch. After all, I had eaten there a few days before and the chef had Hepatitis.
That kind man who welcomed me in was William Teska (Bill) an Episcopal priest whose Diocese funded the New Riverside Cafe as a neighborhood ministry.
The neighborhood was mostly tie dyed with a few bpm motorcycle club members hanging out at the Triangle bar a block away from our apartment on 605 1/2 / Cedar Avenue. Second floor, above the free store.
It turned out that my recent friend, Charley Jirousek, from the Berkeley adventures lived there and sort of reluctantly, had room for me and my guitar. After all, the two of us shared a love for country blues on our guitars and we both ate a lot of peanut butter to survive. Charley still had his massive black and white Malamute and the dog was always delightful and took up about as much room as I did.
It was not long after I showed up that there opened up a job at the local restaurant/coffee house down the block. The New Riverside Cafe.The job’s wages were: Rent, food and an occasional pitcher of beer at the 400 bar, kiddy corner from the Cafe’.
There was a stage and seating at the Cafe’ and nights brought in an audience from all over the city. The big light of talent attracted as lights usually do to flying life forms. We served organic vegetarian food and it was pretty good stuff, especially the soups. For a while, we had no prices for the food. People would come in for the incredible music and ask how much for the menu items. ” Pay what you can.” I would lean over the counter and comment, “Nice shoes! Where did you get them?” People did pay well as they could afford. A few locals a bit up against it would ask for the soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. We gave them the soup and the grilled cheese was a paying proposition. Free coffee too. Working in the kitchen was a ballet and it was a good dance. I was a swamper (dish washer) and I liked it. After all, the only things I knew how to prepare were PBJ’s and Dinty Moore beef stew.
The music was also excellent and it was a mix of blues, folk and bluegrass mostly by the musicians in the small neighborhood. It was not, however, a usual neighborhood in a big city. It was Hemmed in by several freeways, a river and the downtown tall buildings along with the state university. Approximately 40 acres with small business’ that reflected the times. The West Bank of Minneapolis.
It was obvious that the population of that neighborhood consisted of a majority of eager and talented professional musicians. Singer-songwriters, Guitarists, fiddlers, banjo players, bass players and so forth. It was stunningly thick with them. I remember five world-class fiddle/violin players alone. One of them turned out to be a roommate, Bill Hinkley with his wife Judy Larsen along with a harmonica player and stand up bass player. I was invited to tour with a handful of them to the east coast.
We played college campus’ and coffee houses throughout the Midwest and east coast. This was heady stuff. A bit of a learning curve of the professional circuit sorts of things. A few of the locals were a bit puzzled by my being included in that tour. Most of the local pickers played and sang well, but the overwhelming number of them all wore cowboy hats and had rodeo buckles. Horses and corrals were never seen nearby. Their outfits were the folk music image of that time.
My new friends were the remnants of the beat generation. Tough and a bit rough around the edges, I got to play with Jerry Garcia when the Grateful Dead came to town and I was asked to join them! A good friend who was the hip radio stations night time DJ, Alan Stone, was at that music party. KQRS radio and he began recording me and my fellow veteran, Bruce Berglund of the motorcycle diary series at this web site.
The cowboy folks did not care for us. Nor did the locals who had made it to vinyl records that sold pretty well. Koerner, Ray and Glover. It was the usual musician fear and ego. We all were competitive for the stages in the area and most of the music was pretty swell really. The local guitar shop sold lots of D’Addario stirng sets for sure.
By the way, I declined the invitation to join the Grateful Dead. I knew the band name was very prophetic as all those musicians are gone now, most with heroin OD’s. Living in Berkeley and being involved with a heroin smuggling outfit, I got addicted. It takes all the pain away, physical and mental. I liked it. I remember those times vividly as we sold most of it to Sly and the Family Stone across the bay.
Another story of God’s deliverance when a voice in my private room said: “Live or death, choose now” I obviously chose life, it seemed a pretty serious event. The addiction was gone immediately and there was no withdrawal. A miracle from the Lord. It was one of ‘those events’ that are life saving and we don’t know who to thank.
The whole Cedar-Riverside scene ended when a developer (Heller and Segal) bought the entire neighborhood and began building high rises. I then quit the Riverside cafe and began a career as a railroad worker but still lived on the west bank. I eventually moved to the country, hours north. A small farm on the GI bill, about the same acreage as the old neighborhood. Rural Nothwest Wisconsin where I and my family still live.
Moving north to a farm was scary. I played fiddle in the barn before walking into the house while the rental van with everything I owned in it sat parked. It was raining on April fools day. The walk into the house was very strange. Alone and I had Never owned a house before. It smelled funny and the first challenge was to find all the light switches and figure out where to sleep. My orange cat didn’t come out of the van for a day. The house was heated with a fuel oil furnace and the previous owner left a note that mentioned the fuel oil tank was over 1/2 full and figured “It was a pretty good deal”. Of course, the new home smelled a new smell to me.
My old friend, Bruce, lived about 3/4 of a mile away, just down the road. That helped a lot. Bruce is the other motorcyclist in ‘Motorcycle diaries’ He introduced me to some of the locals and one young man became a good friend and was my roommate for a while. He taught me how to cut firewood and built a new chimney for the house and then proceeded to hook up and run a wood stove. It was a ‘step stove’ made locally and it worked quite well until it later developed a hole in it’s side. my new friend was a good man known for his kindness and smile. His nickname is Smiley, of course.
I started playing my fiddle on the back of a bunk car, feet up on the brakeman’s wheel when I worked the steel gangs on derailments down in southern Minnesota. The other men never complained. It felt like I was sitting around a campfire playing a harmonica after a long day on the trail. Folksy along with the missed notes and scratchy bowing.
At first when I began section work, I worked with the section gang at Dinkytown, just over the Missisippi from the west bank. More stories of a great foreman, Big Leroy, and all the trauma and injuries when men work around trains.
A visit to an old Cafe friends hardware store in Cedar-Riverside after work brought forth a sturdy chain saw and really swell touring bicycle. Still have both of them although the Jensrud 80 doesn’t start very well and pulling the starter cord almost breaks my wrist. My youngest son won’t even use it. Why bother when his Farm Boss Stihl weighs half as much and also starts pretty good.
I was injured at a section yard just across the St.Croix and I could not do the 12 pound hammer swinging anymore. I first began playing in a local country western band. Bars within driving distance with three other guys. Dandelion Wine was our name. . Mandatory cowboy hats for the band. No horses or rodeo buckles but nice vests and boots. I guess the lesson was to look the part as it made it easier for the audiences. We played the classics; Bob Wills and Johnny Cash sort of things. A touch of fiddle tunes and a hint of bluegrass. One of the local bars we were regulars at is about 30 miles away, Louis’, became a nice church called New Life. Appropriate.
The house business of repairing foreign cars came to life and I ran it for 40 years. It was a good income and the commute was a breeze.
Much later, I met my wife Julie, riding bicycles together (another column, (Bicycle built for Two).They built a real home together. Men build houses, women build homes. I then started playing with a square dance band as an upgrade. No cowboy hats, but Julie made me a really nice vest with ducks on it. The band was called Duck for the Oyster it is the title of a a square dance.
Bill Teska wound up marrying Julie and I about 30 years after I met him. A few of those 40 acre musicians played with me in the wedding. Bill Hinkley, Mary Dushane, Kevin McMullin and myself played a Swedish waltz surrounding Julie in her wedding gown right after the processional . It was pretty swell.
A decade or so later, I became aware of Jesus during a choir presentation up the hill from our home. Good move. It was a Christmas Cantata conducted by Hellmuth Bycoski at Zion Lutheran church. The holy Spirit got through to me during the song ‘Mary Did you Know’ and I have never been the same since. I love the changes even if they are very painful. It takes time to surrender. Julie is patient with me. I got better and continue to do so.
Our family got good at playing and singing worship music It was a big change from seeking admiration and money to the fresh air of a calling that began when I was 10. I now had discovered worship is the best music on and off the planet. Our family built and staffed a small house of prayer about seven miles away in Frederic. We were there about four years until the building was sold.
Now I write these columns about the transformational life and love that comes from Jesus, our Creator.
I still have the instruments and occasionally take them out and I play at home with recordings of some worship leaders I have met. It’s a world of growth in many ways, and the spirit within me and my family keeps growing stronger every day.
Jack gators grace notes 