It was a beautiful drive, one I take often to a small church about 8 miles north. On Fridays that old Lutheran church gives away bread from a bakery 80 miles south. Every Friday for years they have done so. I pick up as many bags as they will give me as I give away most of to a local secondhand store about 7 miles to the East. Caring Hearts. I like to drive those rural roads.
Today, I drove past a place of good memories, on a lake called Wood and glanced at the places on the road before the lake that I like to look at. Old abandoned houses that used to be pretty swell and houses that have acres of metal junk around them. Wind-rowers, hay loaders, antique bulldozers. Tons of steel, waiting for nothing, akin to tossing old scrap lumber out to be burned out in the field thing. How that stuff got out there and what the price of steel is going for occurs to me. Reminds me of an old forest that is past it’s prime and the mess that is too. Wood lying about is a lot easier to look at.
I drove past wood Lake (we have a lot of nice ones nearby) and remembered an old friend that was a veteran like me. He had it rougher and served on Helicopters shooting people out of the door with a belt fed machine gun. A .50 or .30 caliber. Don’t remember him mentioning that. A war in Vietnam that no one wanted, a war I was drafted into as I was in basic training for the Navy! I just missed that meat grinder. A returning veteran was hated by many Jane Fonda fans. Danny Carlson was this veteran’s name. He was friendly to me and our stories were good to share with one another.
Danny knew I was a country western fiddler on the local bar circuit and he wanted to have some fun and put on a fiddle contest at his lake shore home. OK, I got hold of another fiddler, Bill Hinkley, and we set it up with a stage overlooking the lake and advertising it at the local watering holes. We even took out an add in the newspaper. This was a big deal for towns under 2000.
We got a half dozen fiddlers to show up for the chance for the 1st place prize and the beer kegs would set the stage for some good fun. Bill and I started out demonstrating what fiddling was with Bill’s wife Judy on guitar. Then we started the contest. Bill, I and Judy (official judges) got to sit right up front on the beautiful manicured grass which sloped gently down to the lake. Quite a few people showed up.
Good acoustics too from the water. Near the end, an older fiddle player showed up. He was at least as old as I am now and needed a bow. We got him one and he started sawing away. His tone was off and the speed wasn’t there, but the Bill and I and Judy looked at one another with a nod. This was the stuff of legends. We knew what this man had been and in our ears, still was. Bad bow, arthritic hands, bent over and knowing it was the best he could do. We gave him the 1st place without a doubt. Bill and I were thinking that we can even play at this man’s age we would be blessed to fiddle as well as he was. Uncle Zeke was his name and where he was from and were he went is still a mystery.
“The struggles and events of his life are just the cover and chapter page of the book of his life. The book no one on earth can read is the real story and every chapter is better than the last” 1.
Dan a short time afterwards, died across the road from his lake home in his trucking outfits office from carbon monoxide gas. In his sleep. My wife, Julie almost died from the same danger from a bad propane furnace way out west when she was camp counselor before I met her.
So Every time I drive past Danny’s old lake home I think of these things and ask Jesus, why? Why take Dan and spare my wife with only a bad headache and some temporary cognitive loss’? We will never know until I read that book of real stories that I can’t read now.
Somehow, in some way I find that answer adequate. I still ask why these things happen and am getting better and waiting for the answer I already know. Ask me sometime and I will let you in on what He says to me. Usually stop, look and listen. I am so glad Julie survived that carbon Monoxide and we have this incredible life together. Thank you Lord!
Somehow I know there will be that book about Danny I can read and I will read it with him. I will share those books with my old Navy buddy that will hand me his book as he reads mine. It’s pretty good. I like reading really good books.
There was a time in my life that I was a dedicated surfer. I moved in with the president of my old high school class (King?) and far from being the outcast weirdo in high school, now I was one to be admired. With borrowed a surfboard from a slightly older young man who lived downstairs from the apartment in Hermosa Beach. There was a bond instantly between them as they both had the same last name and were both slightly autistic and emotionally intense in various ways. Different and knowing they both were.
So, I went to the beach every day and learned how to surf. Readers of this column will remember that time in the article, ‘Super Chief’ I just loved surfing and was totally committed to it. I slept on the floor of my room with the board next to me so I would rise early without disturbing the other young men and walk a half a block down to the beach. Except for the jellyfish, it was a time in my life that means a lot to me 50 years later.
At one of the parties in the apartment, a young woman (girl) took a fancy to me and slipped into my room during the party and I offered her the other side of the surfboard to lie on. No seduction. Genuine friendship and it astonished her and there was a bond, a different young man that treated her with respect and friendship. Carrie is her name
She never forgot that and after a year or so, I was in San Diego, Navy training base. After basic, I went to A school at the same base. and was then training young Naval men radio operations. I had a background in radio from my amateur radio days and still held a general class license.
I wondered if Carrie, was still at her Uncles place in Laguna Beach. I called her and she was pleased. She asked me to visit on a weekend. Since I was now on staff, I had every weekend off. I even had civilian clothes to wear. Little did I know I was in a pretty good situation right out of boot camp.
Because I washed out of the nuclear submarine service (bad color vision.) I was no longer striking for nuclear technician,so they told me I would be a radio operator. They knew my skills at being one. I trained young men in Morse code in A school and basic electronics. It was the best duty assignment I had with the Navy. Myself, I learned how to touch type listening to code. Nice thing to know when the code comes at 30 wpm
The San Diego bus to Los Angeles went right through Laguna Beach and I went to see Carrie. She picked me up at the bus stop and drove me to her Uncles place in the hills. She drove 1957 Corvette convertible, bright red and powerful with the first stock fuel injection in a sports car. Her Uncle was on an extensive art tour in Europe at that time and the car was there for her to use. A wealthy art dealer in Europe and he had a pretty good ‘duty station’ too! I never met him nor know his name.
So, I would come up every weekend and lounge around the pool that overlooked the ocean and do a little painting (with Uncles paint equipment. The brushes, canvas, tripod and acrylic paints.) Occasionally my new ‘sister’ would bring a young man home and introduce that man to me as her brother was a way of overcoming the puzzled look I got from the men. I liked that immensely. My ‘organic’ sister never liked me.
They were one-night stands and that was understood by all. A new sister that liked him, I liked that. One weekend, I called my old high school president that was living in the Hollywood hills and asked ‘sis’ if he can borrow the Corvette.
The occasional boyfriends never even got a nod with that question. She knew when they started saying “Hey Carrie can I….NO” I drove up to LA and visited my old buddies who were living large in the Frank Lloyd Wright Circular apartments. Class. The red Corvette fit right in at the curb and I got a smile nod from everyone I saw. Poseur.
That corvette was fast on the freeway!
Back at the beginning of the city of Laguna, the Greeter there gave me a wave. (The greeter was a man that stood for years at the north end of the city and waved at cars)
All in all it only lasted a season of my life and made a big difference in both of us. She shared her heart in a way nether of them thought they would do or even contemplate and it was a good start on real relationships for them both. They had no idea they were both being trained in their hearts near the ocean and some of it stuck. Carrie treasured my paintings too, she said they would be worth a lot of money when I became famous. Still waiting for that, I’ll send her my book if she is still there.
It was a child’s romance. A romance brought into full bloom by trauma and the need to escape it somehow. Fresh from the military that literally tortured me, my path beckoned me strongly to dissolve myself in marriage, somehow.
The only job I had when I got home after discharge was performing songs learned from warm and scratchy vinyl recordings. Joan Baez, Peter, Paul & Mary, Carolyn Hester. The job at the YMCA for youth was better right away than the red line brig in Spain and got me the attention I craved. A brand new Martin D-28 Helped it happen.
At that time the Brazilian rosewood model was an even $400. I bought it right off the exhibition wall at Schmidt music instantly when I came home. I had one shipped overseas a year before and it never showed up and no one knew where it had gone. I had paid the cost and Schmidt’s had the invoice. No charge with hard-shell case ready to play. They even tossed in some strings. I still own it.
I met my fiancé at the YMCA gig and she ditched her date and I drove her home that night. I began to meet her family and she and I became young lovers. I was living in my Mother’s basement and we spent times down there accompanied by the washing machines loud symphonies. An old habit of hers surfaced and she ditched me.
My beloved disappeared. I frantically swam through all the places she should be, and finally, a good friend told me years later that she had run off with an actor from the famous Guthrie. She was a ticket taker at the theater and easy sexual prey to be taken by a Lothario of the stage. After all, better prospects than a recently discharged service man living in his mother’s basement.
Stunned again by sudden betrayal, I went deep into the rabbit hole and gave up the promised good life and got involved with another vet who hooked me up with some heroin smugglers in California.
(check out Motorcycle pilgrimages on gatorsgracenotes.com)
Money, a mansion in the hills of Berkeley and using my Military skill set, I became a member of the air force of drug smugglers. I was an experienced radio operator and built a portable air to ground Ground to ground radio. Flight plans were Mexico to the California desert.
We had a steady customer in The City, Sly stone and the musicians that lived there. My pilot gave me the magic white powder that the whole team was using. I thought, wow what a gift.
Heroin gave me relief from all the pain of life. The poppy blooming in my core became the path to victory. No back pain, no mental anguish, no fears. Just nirvana and total oblivion. Betrayal covered by powder on glass.
Deep into addiction, a voice entered my room in the mansion just as I was getting ready to snort a line of the drug. The voice said Five simple words: “Life ordeath, choose now” Stupefied and thinking hard about voices from the thin air, I chose life and was instantaneously delivered from my death path. No withdrawal. No craving.
Of course, the swell new job was over and the usual reaction was another betrayal and a narrow escape. I left the flying circus of Berkeley close to the ocean trade, alive and another life came upon me. I lived in my home made camper truck for a while and played that Martin front of Safeway stores. I got rescued again by a friend and finally made it back to Minneapolis.
Back home to a drug free city government gang that drove cabs. I was a Hippie restaurant singer and dishwasher and then got a good job as a steel track worker that finally paid well. The city gang was left for the railroad gang, but Something was awry and had to be done for freedom from the inside pain upon me again. Never trust your heart to another. That was entrenched into my very being, traumas of the past.
Through that old city friend, I found my ex’fiancé’ locked in a mental ward downtown and bluffed my way in posing as a youth pastor to see her. Her father was the senior pastor at Central Lutheran and I knew him from the visits, and meals when I was engaged.
My old lover was heavily drugged and overweight, groggy but she came into focus for a short time and asked me “why are you here?” ‘Because I love you!’ came quicker than thought and the pain of that rejection was over. There is still other trauma within me but I am learning how to quickly recognize it and shut off old learned instincts of survival and to run away from perceived trauma.
The heroin that never lasted and blinded me to the fact that the miracle of deliverance was love. This was Jesus seeing and telling me truth about what I really was. The the light grows slowly but surely. There are plans being revealed to me to take me to places I can’t imagine. Places of trust. Real fulfillment. Reality. Now I am writing columns to others to share that love.
‘Never betray the sword, never betray beauty, and never betray a friend’. It’s a good way to see the life we live as men and warriors of the Word. Freedom from fear and self hatred is a special gift that can only come from our Lord and Savior Jesus.
“I sacrifice the land unto you, all who I love there, and who loved me: I sacrifice this land unto you, and all who I love there, and who loved me; when I have put our seas between them and me, Put Your seas between my sins and thee.
As the trees sap do seek the root belowIn winter now I go where none but you, the Eternal root of true love I may know.” John Donne ‘Hymn to Christ’
The beginning of the deer rut was in full bloom and visible to our family. Reaching up to take an hour off the living room clock, I saw four deer on the driveway. It’s only about 25 feet away from the front porch and those deer were in top gear. Two does, two bucks. One of the bucks jumped into the fenced garden and seemed confused when he hit the corner pole. Tumbling back into the Brussels sprouts bed, he leaped up and tried another jump. After that try, he ran back where he came in and performed one of those steeplechase leaps over the fence and into the woods close by. We noticed one of his horns was missing. So it goes.
I was running late in the next morning. It was still dark and the vehicles behind me were lighting up the road, same as I was. Of course, being the leader of a string of cars means you are first in discovering fur covered obstacles in the right of way. I swing my electrical side view mirror glass away from my vision to reduce the glare. It’s nice that their high beams reach miles ahead but it can be deafening optically.
As expected, all the cars a distance behind passed me on the flats. Good, now I can drop down to five under instead of ten over! Remembering from my youth, the two speed signs that had day limit and night limit. Usually ten under for nighttime. Coming up to ‘deer alley’ I saw a vehicle on the opposite shoulder with it’s hazards blinking. About half ways down the hill. Very close to where a few years back an eight thousand dollar deer was encountered by our car. I pulled over to the shoulder, put on my emergency flashers and went across to the other car. I brought my tactical flashlight as well.
The driver of the car met me and filled in the blanks. “Hit a deer, front right tire went flat and I’m trying to get this original equipment toy jack to lift the car.” I held the light and we finally got the plate under the pinch weld. The car began to rise and there was a hopeful lug wrench coming out of the trunk. Custom wheels, it didn’t fit. At least they weren’t theft proof lug nuts but the size was bigger than stock. A sixteenth of an inch bigger than the wrench for stock wheels. A rough guess but after 40 years of wrenching I was confident my guess was correct.
They began to chat about the coming election for governor and other offices. It quickly segued into the state of our country. As the two of us began to share our analysis of the unbelievable destruction of the economy and morals, we agreed to do what we can to counter this disassembly of our democratic republic. The last things we said to one another was about our money. “It’s worth about seventeen cents on the dollar since a few decades ago, but the money we have has not changed in one way. Yet. Our wallets and pockets all contain the reassuring statement, ‘In God we Trust’ They both agreed this was a very good idea in these times! Faith and Trust in God.
The stranded motorist had a friend that lived close by and he was contacting him on my cell phone as I got ready to leave. Knowing about the lug nut socket and wrench to turn it, the man had heard from his friend it was handled and the tools would soon be there.
Saying thanks to one another and I then turned on my flashlight feature again, it flashed bright and I waved it to the vehicles approaching. No one had stopped when myself and the stranded motorist were at work, and not one even slowed. The oncoming cars, seeing both hazards on and my flashing light swinging, slowed down. I crossed safely and headed off to my late appointment with my son at the coffee shop, still miles away.
I did not speed but kept the limit. I looked behind me on a long hill descent into Saint Croix Falls and the vehicles behind were perfectly, safely spaced. It resembled a string of pearls going down the road.
Very surprised, I pulled up to the coffee shop right on time, a little ahead of my son!
I was only one minute off rendezvous time. The shop had just opened up. It didn’t compute as I had spent at least ten minutes with the stranded man. Compression of time. It has happened at various times and in different ways throughout my life. It made interesting conversation after the Bible study that my son, Bjorn and I brought our coffees and Bibles to.
Things in the sixth fleet were perking along pretty well. I was informed by my team that I was allowed to have an apartment in Naples as it was our home port. I found one through shipboard scuttlebutt and moved into a classy five story shopping center, the Galleria Umberto. The entire roof was glass and the view from the top floors was magnificent.
My landlady was very experienced with navy borders and gave me all the lowdown on her rules of the place and the lack of heat in this beautiful masterpiece of a building which is made of marble. The use of a gas space heater was available to me. It was winter in Naples and there is no snow but it was chilly. The galleria was built in 1887 and central heating was not part of the construction plan. It was, and is, a shopping center. Way ahead of the Mall of America.
Also as an advantage to having Naples as my home port I also wore ‘civies’ when I was ‘on the beach’ (civilian clothing and on land) We weren’t in Naples a whole lot of the time, but it was pleasant to buy clothing to wear in town and not be conspicuous as a military person.
I met a very pleasant English girl touring and dressed in my Harris tweeds looked respectable.
I invited her to join me on the local train to Pompeii to view the very old ruins from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius 79 AD. The town was buried in 9 feet of volcanic ash so there are a lot of body impressions and quite a few buildings there. I love history and so did she. Unfortunately all of the extremely pornographic frescoes also were preserved and the train ride back to Naples was pretty quiet and she left quickly at the station. She did not understand it was the first time for me to visit the ancient ruins as well. The brief friendship was nice but later on I lost all the nice clothes including the Harris tweed jacket. A total misunderstanding with the Navy.
Once I was out late and walking out of the elevator to get to my room, the iron gate to the extended walkway was locked. No problem. I just hopped up on the railing and twisted around to the other side. I did not look down to the marble floor five stories below. I was surprised that I would do this bold move but I wondered about the real sailors who climbed the rigging to the top gallant sails back before my enlistment. The elevator took a 10 lire coin to go up but the sailors who used them had a trick to avoid the coin slot. Press the call button and just a moment before the elevator stops, push the stop button, open the door and push the floor you want to go to. It hits bottom and then heads back up with out a stop nor complaint. 10 lire which was nicknamed the ‘deech’ worth about a penny or two. Old time game console just for fun.
I had an alarm clock in my cold apartment so I get back to fleet landing in time. It would have been interesting if it was built at this time so if I recorded a wake up sound of my own. “Reveille, reveille, all hands turn to and trice up. Sweepers, sweepers man your brooms. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized spaces. Now reveille, reveille”
That greeting at 6 comes every morning on the 1MC speakers. (Except when we were in the war and everyone was standing 24/12 watches.) This wake up call was accompanied by a bosun’s whistle in the beginning which started out high and dropped about two octaves at the end. It was very akin to a locomotive steam whistle at RR crossings on the last of the letter Q. Long-long-short-long. I always liked that sound of the lonesome long end note. Sounds like a lonesome loon call. I Still like it. Not the reveille part though. Old navy stuff. Sweepers? Smoking lamps? Back again to the tall ship sailors who slept in hammocks. (that’s the trice up part) Another tradition that all military embrace. Comforting to be linked to the past. We did not sleep in hammocks but the bunks were tightly placed. Your head, next bunk beside you, his feet.
Rising up in the morning, getting my dress blues on and walking down to fleet landing to catch a ride on the liberty boat. There was a push cart vendor on the dock that sold hot sugar donuts that were big around. On those cold winter mornings in Naples those warm donuts were a saving grace to an espresso picked up on the walk down. Still like that morning sugar and caffeine blast. I use cinnamon and sugar on my toast now. Tradition.
As I reminisce and still see and hear those things of 60 years past, I also thank my Lord Jesus for the memories and the sharp recall of those times. Memories I can give to others and the stories found to be uplifting and reassuring in many ways. He has told me so.
Think upon your past as you also realize this miracle of life and a lot of the lessons learned. I must have a lot to learn as I realize I am still here and getting somewhat older. Or old period. He loves me, he loves you. As my favorite movie of all time, is titled “It’s a wonderful life” Indeed Clarence, it is.
It was a perfect day for a garden party. Carrie had everyone there and she and Julie were out in the garden. Some tips were welcomed about potato bugs from Julie. She showed how they moved and where they came from. “Under the ground?” Yup. But you can control a small amount of them by just squishing them as they. Or there is a benign way by using diatomaceous earth powder! Any bug with an exoskeleton can be controlled. It was a new word and very good advice from an expert on those things. Bugs.
The round patio table was set with delicious looking pastries and snacks sorts of things. Crackers and French Brie. Croissants and small glass dishes filled with pesto. There was fine china cups that seemed to expect coffee and linen at the places where lawn chairs were set.
A high English tea picture set for the honored guests. Gary began digging into the brie and, as another writer, was delighted with all his fellow writers, and good friends, coming over to the table to join him.
There was lively conversation approaching as Dave and Sally were on either side of Nigel excitedly filling him in on Scripture verses that explain how this glorious party resembles another to come. Bob was dancing before them, sometimes walking backwards and giving encouragement to the three of them. How exciting it must be to hear these grand stories. Battles and victories with noble people. Suffering with unbelievable impact. Many things almost hidden from casual reading that book.
Dana showed up with fresh smoked lake trout and whitefish from superior. It got picked clean in a short time and the guests were welcomed into the house with towels and hand soap handy at the kitchen sink.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, just off the porch, Norm and Peter were whipping up a brew of excellent coffee. Fresh ground and just flown in with Carrie and Peter’s earlier visit to St. Helena island. Best coffee beans on the planet for only forty dollars an ounce. What a smell when the grinder did it’s work. Oh my,I never thought I would even smell coffee like this! Ecstatic with my history knowledge kicking in. The very island that Napoleon was exiled to! I wondered if it was worth the exile to have that coffee every day. It is said that Napoleon was a coffee aficionado. There weren’t better places for him to be exiled.
Eddie came in with a really nice linen towel around his arm and he was dressed to ‘the nines’ with an excellent servants black outfit. He delighted everyone when he walked out with a tray loaded with the best espresso ever. Sugar and cream in matching china as well.
It was a gathering of writers that came to enjoy one another’s company and hear stories from experienced raconteurs. The soiree lasted until the evening dew began and the grass was sparkly with the moonlight.
Have you ever thought what heaven would be like? What the King’s table that Moses and seventy some people got to dine at with the creator of everything that is and will be? This was a dim preamble of sorts.
Writers can be persnickety and filled with themselves, but not today. Not in the garden of delights. What a gift for these poetic people to try and capture it in words that just didn’t seem adequate to describe it all. It’s pretty good, Jack Gator
“Hey, introduce me” Thinking of all the prefixes quickly to describe the person standing next to you. Uncle, Aunt, child, spouse or parent are the usual choices. We are all faced with that a lot and the easiest one I have found is to say; “We both have the same best friend! That’s how Social situations are the usual place that question is put forth. A gathering. Anywhere really.
If asked we can expound on the situation but it often suffices to settle the polite inquiry. Conversation then can go deeper between the three people. It’s fun to find connections between us. Often it seems serendipitous when mutual discoveries are found.
Some people refer to this as “providential” but to me that sounds like an insurance company.
Many times I have used ‘Miracle’ for so-called chance encounters that are incredible and so complex with place/timing and circumstance, that I like to use the word miracle. Things happen that we can’t explain. I have had plenty of them and have given up on randomness to explain them.
I can tell you about some of the real interesting ones, I have already written of them. They are at my web site publication, ask me and I will give you the location. One of my favorites is the way I met Julie, my precious wife. A miracle, no doubt about it. Undeniable and funny too.
How about you? Do impossibly neat things happen to you that can’t be explained by the Brownian movement of randomness? It happens every day most days for all of us. I look ahead to it. I am willing to venture that is a common occurrence for you too.
Do you have a best friend? Most of us do and of course, as we get older, a lot of them die. Pass away is the polite term for that. My new friend that I share a relationship with as having the same best friend have that in common too. Our best friend died some time ago but is still in our hearts when we talk about Him. He lives on. Eternity is like that. Time can’t stop love nor destroy it.
Talk about miracles! Our mutual best friend didn’t stay dead! He still talks to us. It is very subtle sometimes when we hear from Him. We have to be quiet, real quiet and open in our spirit to Him. No cell phone or text needed. Just listen.
By now, you have figured who our mutual best friend is! The nice part is, He be yours too. He gets around a lot and spends time with many people. Of course, you can ignore Him but the nice part is, He doesn’t get mad when you do. He never forgets anyone and you can talk and listen anytime day or night. No long distance charges. Let me know who your best friend is and chances are, if you have read this to this point, It’s probably the same one as ours. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe
It was bewildering and rushed for young Milan. He got vague answers from his mother. Dad was evidently not coming back. Ever. He had gone off to Italy during the war and the only thing that Milan knew was tears.
Italy is almost a next door neighbor and there was pressure on the adults to fight in the war. . Before he went away, Dad taught Milan a few things about life and survival. Basic things that suddenly seemed very important.
How to be a man was one of the things Dad taught, and how to fight. It was father son stuff and made Milan feel grown up and tough. Soon after those times, there was a uniform and a backpack sitting next to dad at the dock. Milan not see across the sea but it seemed like his father was going to know the sea and some of it’s secrets. Milan was bright for a four year old boy, but had a lot of questions that he didn’t know he had.
The uniform Dad had on was a brown one, there was a lot of talk in the neighborhood about that as concentration camps were being staffed nearby and many of their friends were being targeted to be taken to the camps. By men in brown uniforms. Sometimes young children dressed in a similar way. You know the history and have seen the films of Germany in the late 1930’s. Obedience to death for ‘others’
There was something about where some people went to worship and Milan wasn’t on board with church anyway. His soccer friends were confused as he was. One family that lived nearby moved into their home. They were Jewish and afraid for their lives. Milan’s family was compassionate and filled with faith.
That family upstairs didn’t go out, ever. Food was getting scarce but the two families were tight. Their sons were forbidden to play outside. The upstairs family was not seen nor heard when Dad’s friends came over to play Bris Kula cards. Milan liked the mora cantada finger games. Guessing in games is an appeal to most people. The card game was colorful and brisk. And loud. It seemed that was the game of choice when people were visiting or stopping by.
Most of the world was unaware of the extent of Jewish persecution in the Slavic countries during WWII. Tens of thousands killed. Milan’s father was not there for that, he was in Northern Italy getting ready to accept an M1 round.
From those days onward, Milan hated military uniforms. All the medals and sashes, the epaulets
It was after the war was obviously over except for the big meetings with more fancy uniforms and formalities that it convinced Milan and his remaining family to emigrate to the United States. Fleeing the inevitable disasters and revenge that trots along after military losses or victories. Someone is to blame and the horror continues.
Our country knows these things and true refugees were always welcomed to Ellis island. The inevitable learning a new language, customs and even games is customary. The most natural movement into the population is into ghettos. A bad name for a pretty good idea. Markets with familiar foods and signs and schools that taught language and rules for America were the way Milan and his people survived and thrived.
[New York City still has these neighborhoods and some of the food cultures are amazing. People do not call them ghettos nowadays. Burroughs and ethnic enclaves is the language now. When you visit, those neighborhoods have the best food and the owners will tell you things about the neighborhood and It’s flavors unique.}
The uniforms were still a trigger for Milan. Any uniform, especially brown ones would rush into him and cause the fear and anger. Today we call it many names, PTSD, trauma reactions.
Milan (by the way, pronounced as Melan) was living in a big city neighborhood and stood out with an usual first and last name. I just remember him by his first name. He lived down the block and over.
I am a rather odd person and so was he. There was something that was understood between us and we shared stories when we met at the local candy store. The store was directly across the street from the elementary school. Location, location, location the Realtor’s always say.
I was a three musketeers guy and Milan liked the crunchy ones like Butterfingers. I was the only kid that pronounced his name correctly and he never made fun of my unusual name,
We were never close friends, but we did rely on each other on the playground and walking home. There were the usual idiot bully types and name callers. Milan was good to be around as he knew protection.
We had a little revenge on a few of them. Milan knew how to do those things too. We tied open wire trash cans in alleys with the wire connecting two of them strung across the alley. Lighting them on fire when we knew one of the families parents were coming home Then we ran. It made quite a racket and the cars were worse for wear.
I learned a French word, Sabotage. Old country stuff from Milan’s wartime experiences. He was pretty stealthy but we eventually got caught. I was beaten in our basement by my father. He used a dowel rod on my backside. Milan never talked about those things. Neither did I.
We were ‘different.’ We both were. I shared my three musketeer bar and developed a taste for the butterfingers bar. Back I those days, my candy bar came with two grooves and was split in three ways, I haven’t had one since those days. Probably the bar is so small now that it would take three of them. I still like butterfingers. (Read ‘ Santa Fe Super Chief ‘ at my web site for a butterfingers redoux)
The last time I saw Milan was on a winter day, walking to school. I was wearing my boy scout uniform and he became someone else as he pushed me into the snow and washed my face in it. His face was twisted in rage and it was beyond scary.
I had all my merit badges on a sash and his mind was instantly back in Croatia. The snow was cold and icy and we did not shake hands and make up. He didn’t even know it had happened.
Brown Hitler youth was the trigger from his childhood. It got between us and I never saw him again on my way to and from Grade school. Decades later, I tried looking him up but there was no trace. A brown boy scout uniform destroyed our friendship.
I made it to star scout and all my pals were eagle scouts. My dad was a scoutmaster for a while and wasn’t until I was much older I began to understand what had happened. During my war experiences I developed some ‘triggers’ too and if I ever meet Milan again, things would be very different. I miss him.
It was a good friendship. An E4 and an O6. That’s a Petty Officer third class and a Captain. We were also neighbors. Myself and Pastor Russ. Neighbors that met riding bicycles on passable blacktop roads. Russ lived about a mile and a half away from me and once in a while, we would go for a ‘spin’. There was another huge difference between us as Russ was a category 2 racer and I just liked to ride. Cat 2 is pretty professional and impressive. He was a very good rider to be with. I learned a lot.
One remarkable day, Russ was riding alone and met a very pretty and friendly bicycle rider. She was riding nearby and as Russ was married to Debra and a pastor, he was safe to ride with.
Not long afterwards, Russ mentioned to me about this woman. “She runs a lakeside camp nearby, it’s called Whispering Pines. Pretty good cyclist too!” Myself as a lonely bachelor, was intrigued. I knew where the camp was and began thinking about Russ’s new friend. Just by coincidence a real woman cyclist that lived nearby and with a job! Obviously fit and friendly. Russ said she was pretty too. I considered calling the camp. Why not?
Meanwhile, that cyclist, Julie, was out in Washington state at a conference. She was at a local bar near the Canadian border and the bartender, Margaret, was gregarious and asked Julie where she was from. She told her where the she was from and the bartender, casually wiping down the bar said, “where in Trade Lake do you live?” “What! No one knows that dinky little township!” Margaret replied, “My grandparents lived in Trade Lake” They had a few things to talk about then.
Margaret, incredibly enough, was an old friend of mine and gave Julie my phone number. Julie put it in her wallet and when she returned to Wisconsin and the camp, tossed that piece of paper into a drawer in her office. A Junk drawer holding device to eventually have some of it’s contents put into a round holding device standing on the floor nearby.
On a particularly perfect day for cycling, I decided to call the camp and asked for the director. I gave her my name and mentioned my friend Russ. I also told her that Russ and I rode a lot together and asked if Julie would like to ride sometime. “It’s that Guy! The friend of that bartender way out west!” Julie consulted the head cook, Cora who was her trusted friend if it would be OK to go ride with me. “why not? Sounds safe, a pastors friend” she replied
So Julie told me OK, and being mostly clueless but aware that neutral territory was not at her place nor mine, I suggested we ride our bicycles towards one another on county road M and we meet that way. I saw Julie coming towards me, uphill and riding strong. I waited for her, watching her technique. Pretty good climber.
We did a short 50 mile ride and I asked her out to eat afterwards. Little Mexico, a great local restaurant with homemade guacamole and chips, they had good Mexican beer too. Cora said: “why not?” And so we went. This time I drove my car, a Volvo wagon with a bike rack on the roof of course.
That wise cook had some chocolate cake for our dessert when we returned. After many enjoyable rides later, some of them with pastor Russ, it began to be clear that this whole thing was a coincidence of extraordinary circumstances.
Sometime later when my old friend, Margaret, the bartender, got in touch, I told her the delightful bicycle romance story and then she added one more fact. The exact place on County road M where Julie and I met, was right at the driveway where Margaret’s Grandparent’s had lived. As this story has been told many times, I always say; “It was a miracle, God’s handiwork”.
Julie continued managing the camp until another director was chosen for the job. She moved in to my farm and we played house for a time. We also began working at 7 pines lodge nearby in Lewis. Fresh caught brook trout and fried carrots was the main menu. It was also the only thing on the menu.
The manager was a good fly fisherman and had us, the waiters, put on mystery dinners. All the guests became suspects in the mystery murder and myself and Julie played the hosts of the hotel where the murder was. The manager did not take part in the play as he was busy in the kitchen.
Out of the blue at home, Julie and I proposed and it seemed to make a lot of sense to us. ‘Shacking up’ later on when I became baptized, we realized living in sin was also a description. It seemed good and right. I did get the wedding ring made from my Grandmothers ring. Proposing was an equal opportunity proposition. It worked for us. Still does. More perfect timing. We were married at 7 pines lodge and the wedding was a fabulous affair. The square dance band that I played in (Duck for the Oyster} came to help with the music as well as Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson and Mary Dushane from the Powder milk Biscuit Band. Myself and three fiddlers stood in a circle around my beautiful bride and we played a Swedish waltz, Helsa Hem Dar Hemma.
A Real log lodge with a stream house that straddled the trout stream, that was where we spent our wedding night. The running water made bathroom breaks occur often. It was glorious and one of those memories that is permanently set within us. The dance was at the West Denmark church hall and we still have a photograph of Julie’s dad strutting down the middle of the Virginia Reel dance. More food and leftover wedding cake.
My mom drove up in her Buick convertible to attend our wedding. She almost left in the beginning of the ceremony saying that her dog needed her at home. She stayed with some gentle urging from a good friend of ours. It was obvious that something was going on with mom. Dementia. Her dad had the same issue and died not long afterwards of the onset. Mom was still living in her third home in Bryn Mawr Minneapolis.
After a few years went by and our two children were growing and our farmhouse was rebuilt to double it’s original size. (right before Bjorn, their first born arrived) My Mom agreed to help finance the huge mound system that was needed for the ‘upgrade’ to our home. Bedrooms for the kids after all.
My mother was fading and I drove down at least every week to help her out. Managing the bills and looking after things. Not too long afterwards, about a year, we moved Mom up to our area into a nursing home. Julie had an old pastor friend, Barry, agree to come up to talk to my Mom. however, she died that night and he came up anyway and spent hours with me at the kitchen table. “Mere Christianity” was referred to a lot and I brought up other religions, Buddhism, Islam and my early family attendance at a Christian Science church in Minneapolis. “What about you? What do you think about all this, we are talking about you” It was a very important Question. This was serious and I had a lot think about. Barry slid the C.S. Lewis book across the table and it made sense the more I read it. Still do.
Barry’s church, a Congregational one, agreed to do mom’s funeral with a meal and even light a candle every Sunday for a week or two. No charge. Character in a great man of faith. We began attending as we both were becoming closer to being Christians. Julie already was one, I was still wary.
Soon thereafter, I had a life changing experience at Russ’ church (Russ was in the Navy as a chaplain then and there was a new pastor) . A Christmas cantata was offered and I reluctantly said I would go. Of course, Bjorn and Soren, our sons, were in Jammies, and went up on the choirs risers just before the concert! Great embarrassment for us as we were not well known even though the church was only a mile and a half away from our home. Zion Lutheran.
The Holy spirit overcame me as the choir was singing ‘Mary did you know’. A man in the choir began reciting the words of the song. All I saw was his face and those words changed my Life. Forever. “It’s all true! He is creator of all things! Somebody had to do it! Random evolution never made sense to me.
Pastor Barry said Christ loves me! I still believe the Holy Spirit was running the spotlight up in the balcony so the man reciting had the light directly on him and the angle of the light reflected right to me. It was the major point in my life. The church is still there and once in a while we go to a smorgasbord there. That experience was so overwhelming that attending would not work. The memory is too strong. I stopped once and told the new pastor about these things and he showed me the sanctuary where it happened. It seemed to encourage him. He has the same last name as ours, Peterson. Small world indeed.
Our marriage continues to grow as Julie was already a believer in Jesus. It was good news to her as well. Many times that story still brings tears to me. You know the feeling. Words began to fall short and it’s hard to speak them. That song, obviously, is my favorite and I weep and worship when it is sung.
Our whole family began attending Pastor Barry’s church near Amery, but with the two boys, it was hard to go 80 miles round trip every Sunday. There was a ministry too even further away at Lake Elmo, it was an automotive repair ministry (God’s grease monkeys) and I continued to be a volunteer there. Our Volvo was filled with food while I was working. I was a foreign car shop owner at that time and I was pretty useful. It was another blessing that continues on in various ways. Every church gathering we attend has miracles when we look. He is pouring His spirit out on us. You too.
Later, at a sweet corn feed at a local church, we met Pastor Roger Inoway and the relation with Grace Baptist, a church association for us began. It was only ten miles away in Grantsburg, Wisconsin.
Our family began attending that church and eventually we started a successful food ministry there. The monthly event was named Feed My Sheep. It was coupled with an automotive repair ministry, Grace Garage. The food ministry was a bright spot for us as we got to minister and pray for the people waiting in an adjacent room. They were waiting to be called to get in line for the food distribution. People still comment to Julie and I about those prayers and some healing that occurred. The church made me a deacon in the process too.
News came that the camp, Whispering Pines, was in need of a temporary manager while it was up for sale. Julie and I stepped into that position and soon after, two pastors showed up on motorcycles at the camp. They expressed interest in buying it! Perfect. Keep the camp Christian owned and run. A good vision for us for certain. We got baptized at Whispering pines soon afterwards. Pastor Barry had never performed a baptism and so dunked us three times. “Father, Son and Holy Spirit” and I saw him above me in the clear lake water. I asked him what he saw as he looked at me. “A dead man” he perfectly replied.
There was a quick transition to those new motorcycling pastors church with the blessing of the Grantsburg leadership. Back south of Highway 8 again! Our family fit in well and eventually became the worship team there. We were licensed as Pastors but weren’t installed. When the two Pastors they were hoping would buy the camp didn’t buy it we left. The camp was sold to a real estate developer and after a neighborhood fight about loosing the beautiful Methodist camp to a developer, it was developed into high end lake homes (½ mile of lake shore went with the camp) It was time to find a church closer to home and after dreaming together about their next move, both of us got the same named local pastor.
That church seemed appropriate and it was only a few miles away. You have noticed that a lot of what is called ‘Church Hopping’ occurred for us. It wasn’t that at all. It was Church involvement and being led by the Spirit. About five years at each house of worship was average. All of it extraordinary and good.
It’s a hard life at times and our whole family has had many challenges from both of our pasts. We are still together and praising the Lord and his way of loving them. Our Lord does not have a plan. He is plan. Now we listen to Him and we follow His leading. The Lord speaks quietly and we are getting better at listening.
We continued singing and playing songs to Him and about Him, writing a few of those songs as well. It’s better than my bar band, and I am not even obligated to wear a cowboy hat. We did move to another church again to a refurbished bar that I played with the country western band! It was a new life about 30 miles away. I occasionally played Viola and the Mandolin there. South of highway 8 again. As I write this we have again been called to another gathering, Eagle Brook in Minnesota. I am working with Bjorn who is the media director and he asked me to become his AD (assistant director) It’s a long drive but he drives most of the way after I drive to his place about 28 miles south. I am also being trained as a camera operator.
We do wear our faith on our sleeves. Just like in my Navy days in a way. This story catches attention to unbelievers. It still catches our attention around May 23rd as well. our anniversary day.
Who can foretell the leading of the Lord? Jesus guides as he provides and that is challenging and exciting.
I have always been an actor. It’s my nature to behave as though I were someone else. More clever, Experienced, or just dangerous. More akin to a chameleon. Whatever the surroundings demanded,
I made use of it. Often, just for fun. Very seldom, to save my life. My son, in the photo, acts too. He picked up the habit from me. Acting as a well dressed English man at a hotel in Kansas, just for laughs at my son’s wedding just next door. We all act really. As it is said, some of us are very badly rehearsed. I asked at the desk if there was a coffee shop nearby. I was directed and my perfect Peter Sellers accent was believed.
There were several times that I had to be someone else to survive. That time in Oakland when I was playing outside a Safeway grocery with my guitar case open for spare change. A passable country blues player by this time, I made enough money for food and fuel for my house I built in a truck bed. There was change and even a couple bills in the case when a large man approached face on to me and declared: “What you gonna do if I take that guitar?” Menacing. Big, especially if you are sitting on the sidewalk looking up at him. The guitar was a fairly new Martin D28 which I had purchased right after my two tours in the Mediterranean. $400. I casually replied: “well, I’ll just fight you for it till one of us dies” Staring into each other, eyeballs to eyeballs for an interminable time. The would be thief was not used to this calm behavior from a potential victim. I said that. I also meant it. The guitar was my life line to a can of Dinty Moore stew and a bridge toll to get to the ocean. Not to mention gas for the truck. No one moved, no one sweated. The big guy finally said, “ That’s cool” and spun around and walked away. Another acting role success for me.
The would be thieves across the street from my house, coming out the window seeing me, standing with that Luger, calmly. They left. I was not going to shoot them of course, the pistol wasn’t even loaded. Murder though, according to scripture. Not my proudest moment. They were just looking for their forgotten keys. Unknown house guests of my neighbor. They thanked me for looking out for them, but were wary and distant because of how I did it. I thought it was OK. The actor gets a bad role.
In Italy I confronted a policeman as street kid (wasn’t too hard for the costume department as I had been living on the street for a month) I knew the cops were looking for him, so approached the Carabinieri and in his best street urchin from Naples dialect, asked directions to Trevi Fountain. I knew it was a half a block away. Not fitting nor smelling like an escaped top secret military man, the cop gave me simple directions. After a brief “Grazie” (dropping the last vowel) the cop said disdainfully’ “Napolitan” Whew, that was close! Joining the other urchins in a sub basement catacomb, they all pitched in their begging money and gave it to Pino for his birthday and he ran out and returned with pizza’s and wine. He spent all of the money for a party for us. I never forgot that. Brotherhood of the lowest of the low down citizens in Rome.
The toughest acting was when I had to tell a plausible lie to evade arrest by a Federal agency when I was mistaken for a man I used to work for. It was awkward and is a long story. It came out ok and it was a ‘think fast’ situation. They went away and I left that person’s house shortly thereafter. It was a setup from the man I knew and I turned the tables on him. It was a good thing the house was not searched and that’s another story as well. The man they were looking for had used my military and radio skill set to smuggle heroin. It’s a somewhat long story. I knew the agents figure there was a connection and I put on an angry face and told them that man had stolen my girl and left the country. They went away and I was not brought in for ‘questioning’ I decided to leave that acquaintances house that was on vacation. When they came back there was a kerfuffle, and I was persona Non grata. Better than the other choice.
There were other times I had to act to save my life. It was second nature by now, I was and am a pretty good actor. I believe it is a method of acting. That role I played was a time that I and Bruce, a Vietnam vet, bluffed some bullies down in Kansas with two tent poles held underarm that with the metal ferrules only visible, looked like ‘shotguns’ Stuff like that.
I even acted at the Frederic log cabin as an old warrior, now retired as an inn keeper. It was a film set in the middle ages for a Russian film maker. Acting, it’s natural and scary at the same time. I thank my Savior for that skill that has saved my life so many times so I can write about Him. Jesus, He’s pretty good.Jack Gator
Photo courtesy of my son’s portrayal of a secret agent on our hill in winter. Chip off the old block
Jack gators grace notes 