Heart Awakening

Maps and Destinations

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There were two rebellious mid twenties men. Just out of the military and eager to break out of their mediocre lives and go reaching for meaning, adventures. The usual. It’s in an earlier story of the ‘Motorcycle Pilgrimage’ series one through six at the website: Gatorsgracenotes.com

Just two reliable, strong, determined young men traveling across this wondrous country they had just finished defending against all enemies, foreign and domestic. I did not know that the domestic enemies would be soon in control. Some of us with any classical education and moral knowledge are aware of our human condition. We follow our wicked hearts and believe they are right and true. Same old game of new ideology. Interesting how the core of that word translates really well from the Russian word; Idiot.

We had to find a way to San Francisco and in those days there was no Alexa, Map quest or cell phones. Paper maps, usually free in friendly gas stations were the guides. We had heard of Route 66 and that was the path they traveled. The maps helped a great deal as we got sidetracked now and then with short cuts that were not.

This is all well and good and not the real topic of this column. It’s just a lead in to the real focus of my mind. Of what use is a map, a good one? How does it help us reach a destination or better yet, an achievement at the edge of the map? Memory savants can memorize the entire map in a second or two but that isn’t the point. Arrival, fulfillment, are these destinations? Of course not on the map as promised by our minds.

Our destination was freedom, fellowship, worth and enjoyment of life itself. The map said San Francisco. “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair” went the song sung by Scott MacKenzie. It was number ten on Billboard and everyone knew it and the sentiment. Destination for the true believers of freedom. 1967, the summer of love. It wasn’t but that’s not the topic of this column either.

If we have a really good book, the best book about anybody. An autobiography written by a new friend Would we know them? Would I know about my wife Julie? Facts certainly but knowing someone is only done with intimate relationship. Talking, looking, asking and conversations. The heart of the person that is in print is not felt by us. Nearness, face to face and honesty are keys to knowing a wife, a friend and the object of a map of some kind. A complex map, a map drawn by the lover of our souls.

Being a scholar of scripture can be wonderful but it only goes as far as the map and our imaginations can go.

Asking brilliant questions and getting answers from other seekers of Jesus. His wonders, His appearances and guidance are spoken of and the most brilliant teachers are eagerly embraced and listened to.

But.when you have studied this map and followed it to the end a decision must occur. Listen and focus on Him and Him alone. Pray for His prescience in your heart. Do not invent pious sounding prayers and expound on your extensive knowledge to script your thoughts. Embrace Him with all your heart and just be quiet without expectations or images. Pray for His spirit to be seen by you as it has been there within you when you have asked for it. Open up your heart and accept, the beauty and love that you believe. This is the promise of Faith and it is the very gift of God. He will put the robe upon your back and ring upon your finger. He is the lover of your soul, created at the beginning of time. Yours and yours alone for such a time as this. You are embraced.

The navigator has indeed been correct and the map is good and true. The Helmsman has followed the stars, compass and the sextant and the destination comes into view. Just over the horizon is landfall and joy breaks forth within. Now reality firms up and studying is over, conversation and excitement now occurs that’s right and true. The harbor pilot comes aboard and it’s time to put aside the maps and charts. Prayer becomes intimate conversation and when it’s time, then comes the liberty boat to take you across the bar and home. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

Decisions in the Morning

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Another early morning with sub=Zero temperatures and the house is a bit cold, down to 64 in the kitchen. The radiators are on and the big wood stove in the parlor has good coals but needs refreshing of some dry wood. A chore for the earliest to arise. Put away yesterdays dishes in the drainer, make the coffee and some toast. Then light up my computer screen and take the usual pills with some juice.(Always taking the anti-seizure pill as the first one, It tastes awful . Wash down the distasteful pills with orange juice. Every day. Always good and this winter especially. It’s comforting to have a schedule. And be warm.

Now, for a reading choice. David Hume’s ‘The standard of Taste’ or Suess’ ‘The birthday bird’ (perhaps Snetches) as a continuation of Hume’s opinion of the Koran. Maybe I’ll just check email and watch a movie about a Japanese bullet train intrigue. Or perhaps complete editing for the umpteenth time of my book with compilations of these columns at the end. Maybe all ot those things, the day is dawning and In the parlor it is warm and comforting.

It is a good clear morning as I extinguish the lights and watch the American flag and flying in the wind. Then I step out on the porch for a few pieces of dry wood and try not to wake anyone up with the clack of the living room door. Snow is piled up feet high this year. I Carefully grab a few logs and check to see if the cats have snuck out to persue the mouse family beneath the pine bush, next to the porch.

These rituals are stabilizing and and easy to do when I am half awake.. Get the keurig going and make a somewhat decent cup with the added ½ and ½. I Put the coffee on the left side of the desk and the warm toast with cinnamon on the right. Keyboard and mouse in front of me and monitor up about 8 inches on it’s shelf with a accumulated pens, paper clips, jump drives, pocket knives, small speakers and headphones. A rather clumpy mess but familiar. A junk drawer right in front of me.

Are you getting the picture? I am an Asberger survivor. My favorite movie, ‘The accountant’ featuring another ritualistic man with a gifting of oddity. Especially the part of sniffing his fingers just before he does his work. Autism spectrum’s are similar. I did have a problem relating in childhood and still use fabric to stimulate calmness and concentration. It’s complicated, an old friend called it ‘pointing’ and that’s pretty accurate. Ask me if you are interested. My wife Julie, is completely at home with it as is my youngest son.

Perhaps now I will start on a column based on Hume’s razor sharp analysis of Plato/Aristotle but that seems a bit foggy until the second cup of java has been drunk. My readers will either enjoy the writing or get confused a bit as I can be until I had read some of those books for the third or fourth time.

I have been called an obsessive intellectual with nearsightedness in several ways. I like to refer to these things as entertainment and stimulated analysis. My family just rolls their eyes verbally and are used to that too. If you find this particular column a bit familiar, perhaps you are as odd as I am?

Psychiatric pigeon holes have to include the roost for the pigeon and the newspaper on the bottom of the cage. If you understand that analogy you are more akin to me than you think. Ritual is stabilizing and necessary to this world’s ways. Grounding might be another way to describe it. It works. It has been a part of my life since childhood and there is no ‘cure’. There are some side effects which can be dealt with. Through good and acurate advice from professional counseling I found I was subconciously driven by fear and rejection. Perceived threats is one of my reactive situations.

My counselor taught me how to read the triggers and the road signs. I have six tenths of a second to make a decision of fight or flight and part of that time to realize there is no threat at all. It’s a good thing for me to know. I usually would choose flight. Suddenly running out, slaming the door and often driving off fast and muttering to myself about something said that was not meant to hurt me at all. Rather awkward to say the least. Scary sometimes too.

I pray that this column is illuminating someone’s behavior and at least, illuminating their friendship with me. My family is very gracious with me and this is indeed, a gift from the Lord to give me a family that will understand and put up with me. I have gotten better at sitting still and listening, talking. There is a humerous line in Monty Pyton’s movie about getting better. I can hear you laughing right now, but if it doesn’t register, I can fill you in. Fiddlingnorm@gmail will get you in touch with me.

Life is good and my best friend Jesus understands everything. He always answers my call for help, and I always need lot’s of it! I do need reminding at times to rely on Him instead of my own understanding. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator.

The Firebricks of Orion

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It was a hard morning to get ready for a 30+ mile drive south. It was early, my coffee was getting cold and I was getting cold as well. It was still dark and I was getting depressed. It was from fear of the world’s ways and loss I was seated in the impossible heavenly beauty and renewed and encouraged once again. The usual triggers that affect us: Checking account down under a C note, bills creating a breeze magnet on the table and prices getting into the ridiculous range at the grocery stores. Six bucks for a somewhat light loaf of bread? It must be organic, Vegan and sort of good for you if you like that sort of thing.

It is not good for anyone in the family to concentrate on those negative things, let alone the destruction of our state and country. Demented teachers running hard after perversion and seduction of children that, impossibly, seem paramount to the education agenda. No one I talk to has the slightest interest of those ideas, incredulous of how such a thing has happened.

Certainly the striped and incorrect depiction of our flag folks will respond to the above short paragraphs. I have strong memories of being underway on my Navy ship, flying the flag night and day. With a strong light upon it. The real flag, Superman’s flag of “ Truth, Justice and the American way” Not indoctrination, brain washing and the Orwellian ways. No one I meet, casual or acquaintances, has any truck with this nonsense. It’s the rural life of family, neighbors and reality.

It was time for the ritual which my young son enjoys. Laying out his coffee equipment before he awakens. Thermos, sugar and long stirring spoon. Turning on the Keurig and holding the storm door open for him (from the outside to clear his load of lunch, motorcycle helmet and warm jacket.) Then standing on the porch that faces the driveway to wave him off. It is a family tradition. If he is driving his car, he keeps the dome light on briefly so I can see him waving back. I watch till he turns north at the end of the ¼ mile driveway. With colder temps and snow, the bike goes into the storage shop and his pickup comes out of the big shop door. Power door. The exhaust from the truck swirls and a bit of heat is lost until his remote commands the door to close. The luxury of a heated garage with a hoist and many tools from the days of running a repair shop.

The parlor wood stove is now working well with new firebricks and angle/strap supports. All installed by their son. welded, ground brick to fit and cleaned and got filthy in the process. It works so much better. Warmth in later fall is welcome and secure feeling.

And so there I sit, in my chair in the dark living room of early morning. Holding my coffee, looking up at our library walk and above it at the big half round window. This morning, it was perfectly aligned just for me and, showing the families favorite constellation, Orion. His belt and his sword clear and the words came loud and clear . “He made me alive, when I was dead and he raised me up and seated me with Christ. And it’s by His grace that I am saved and it’s through faith, the very gift of God.” a.

Once again, I know my creator is smiling at me and the ‘coincidence’ perfectly arranged to show me I am seen and loved. The message is clear. Jesus is with us and sees all the trepidation and troubles of our lifes. “This time too, it will be OK” Just as the way the Lord has used his power and audible voice to literally save my life several times. This time the Lord of Lords is with me. It is not the book of Job, It is the new Testament books of Jesus healing and loving that are reflected in that window. High above and in the darkness. My family is seen and we are not alone.

It’s pretty good, Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

a. Justin Rizzo

The Salesmen’s Chuckle

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We notice it without knowing what has just happened. The chuckle. Or, as Jack sometimes refers to it as a cackle. What is it? The contrived sound, practiced for decades to be as smooth as a well known radio announcers voice. A deep voice in some ways, captured by seven hundred dollar microphones. The ones with all the rubber bands, suspended. High end dynamic mics. Smooth, easy on the ears and in the case of the chuckle, made to put you at ease.

Unfortunately, this vocal response is a fear reaction to uncomfortable conversations. Just mention a serious concern you have to an insurance salesman. Within a split second the chuckle rings out to disarm the conversation. It’s nothing like laughter, don’t misunderstand this. Laughter and gaiety are good for us. Even rolling on the floor with laughing sobs. A joke or a pun that just explodes in the room with merriment. That’s good! It’s good humor and the relaxation is very good.

What Jack is pointing out is obnoxious and frustrating at the least. We don’t notice that we have been conned out of intelligent conversation. Try it sometime. Select a person that you know and ask them in an inquiring way about a serious topic. Something you state you are having difficulty understanding.

An illustration will do: “Hey John, I’m glad I ran into you! I have a real problem with an old friend that just won’t talk to me about our friendship” (slight laugh) Well it’s not me that’s for sure! “No it’s not like that. We used to be really close! (another chuckle) Ha, maybe you forgot you owed him some money! No John, this is serious. I need your help in understanding it. (more light laughter) You know me , I’m an idiot when it comes to women! Getting the picture? It goes on and on and it is a technique really good salesmen use to put people at ease. Nothing happens then, but somehow, this laughing salesman convinces you he is your friend and you sign on the line. They have classes that teach you how to disarm people with the friendly laugh.

OK, now go to the next level. You have just finished listening to a very moving sermon that so affects you that you journal: “I was having such a great time thinking about my sins!” You were moved. The power of conviction overcame you and you knew it was true. You knew the man spoken of is most like you. In this case, a man that enjoys his comfort and the knowledge that God has a special Lazy Boy chair waiting for him in Heaven. Serious reflection and thought. The room is silent. The man speaking asks if anyone has any questions. Jack thinks about the explosion in his heart. The deepness of the sin still running around in him that he thought was normal.

Suddenly, an experienced ‘salesman’ makes a joke with a chuckle! “hey pastor, did your wife write those slides for you? Chuckle chuckle.”Every one is familiar with this, including the pastor and his wife. It’s over. The intimacy with everyone in the room. The held breath of believers that just heard conviction and truth. It’s over. Time for lunch. The salesman has done his work and he doesn’t have to think about what was said either. Am I ready to die? Nah, chuckle chuckle. There’s a lot of time left in this old carcass..chuckle chuckle. It’s disarming and it’s deadly and it’s a total waste of time.

Jack can only imagine what it will be like to meet Jesus face to face when his turn comes to face eternity that he knows so little about. Smiles and the laughter of dancing with his Savior. No chuckles, just love. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Rainbow Over the Garden

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There it is. A rainbow, in it’s original glory. Rain reflecting the colors of the spectrum. A symbol that the Lord said He would give us as a sign that He would never flood us again.

Quite a few people have taken the symbol and the miracle of refracted light and have used it to illuminate fractured light of their own designated symbols and message.

There are many people that also have taken the beauty of the rainbow and used it as a symbol of a product. Quite harmless but still, diminishing the astonishment a child sees. Do you remember the first time? I remember the first time my son saw it. He was fascinated with the arc and even went to England to meet Ken Ham that came up with building a 1:1 copy of Noah’s commanded Arc. Rainbows of covenant between us and the Lord.

Another outfit decided that the rainbow would instead be a symbol of freedom for them. The concept does not make sense in some ways. Freedom? from what? The rainbow’s only freedom is freedom from an earth flood.

The Governor of our state thinks it is appropriate to fly a rainbow flag for a month celebrating endorsing the hijacking of the beautiful rainbow image. For freedom to embrace perversion. How enlightened. It will please 5% of the population that are on board with birth control by having pregnant men.”How many fingers Winston?” (Brave New World)

Remember Judy Garlands song, ‘somewhere, over the rainbow’ ? That symbolized the promise. We of the last century (don’t ask) would never believed that someday our public schools would be teaching the ‘new’ symbol and language. No more does the rainbow offer a promise of protection and commitment. It now offers the symbol of flesh used for pleasure and a prime focus of our awokened sensibilities. Awoken to the real freedom of endorsement of a child being able to be whatever sex they want to be. When our new Supreme Court Justice cannot define what the word ‘woman’ really means, then we are on the way to Ephesus or Pompeii redux.

Maybe the words ‘on the way’ are inappropriate. That train is here, at the station, engine idling. It has already arrived . How about sliding open that boxcar with the really neat rainbow painted on it? Oh look, it’s already open but there’s nothing inside but an unpleasant odor. What’s in the rest of them? Famous authors and ‘experts’ for Newspeak magazine perhaps. Professors and liberal teachers to indoctrinate the children.

That open boxcar in particular had a whole wardrobe for the King! Splendid it is said. A veritable rainbow of color and coordinated accessories. The parade has already started and has startled one young boy…”the King doesn’t have any clothes on!” He is walking around, prideful in his power. Naked and seen as a fool. You and I know the difference between men and Women. Counterfeit money is in the till. Try and spend it. Jack Gator Scribe

Creativity of a Wordsmith

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, does glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination brings forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing, a local habitation and a name.” a

There is a great deal of unread and unnoticed wisdom floating about. Often, those words get clouded over with brash recitation. The meanings almost completely lost for the listener to the erudite speaker. We all do it. As a radio would just become background noise to alleviate the lack of conversation, so does great literature and poetry become in the hands of a tone deaf musician. After all, music is poetry put to sound. Prose and poetry are intoxicating concertos when done well.

Of course, there is a beginning to listening and that is a decision to be made by us all. Do we believe in what is being said as truth, real truth? Or does the effort to inculcate us with excitement in discovered truth not appeal? After all, You and I are most ignorant of great wisdom that lies just about, flat and bound in cardboard or fine leather. Stacks of those at times around my comfy chair that somehow manages to lull me to sleep. Just when my hungry mind starts to come awake, I fall into a slumber. Too much of the fruit of the mind can be intoxicating. Small doses work better for me.

Am I getting tedious and bit vague now? Good, that’s the point. Trained at an early age to embrace ‘speed reading’, I become a bit of a prig without understanding well. The words were read correctly and their meaning understood. There is a word that showed up on the old, yellowed report cards now and then, comprehension. A good illustration would be a story about a young boy that had an extraordinary experience. This boy in the story found a treasure that was revealed later in the book. I instantly thought of booty and coin like. My intellect was not engaged in the story.

The story in mind was a fantasy about real things of spirit and life. The author (a recognized master) had written the story to engage both our excitement and awareness of our selves in the story. After a paragraph or two, stories like this one should be vivid. We paint pictures and set in a sound track. After the story or movie per se’, the author rather insists we go beyond and play the melody of words that add a great deal. Great literature can resemble piano lessons. Suddenly the flatted fifth is beauty..

The next time this happens, I catch himself either dozing, editing to make the story make sense in my mind. ‘This isn’t relevant to me. Why am I listening/reading this? Just as wheat is combined, the sifting begins to yield the golden kernel hidden in a plain looking stalk. The loaves of bread in the promise are not seen by casual glances. Gleaning it is called and we are called to glean wisdom from everyone we meet in person or not. Our choice. Be arrogant and think of ourselves as complete as we are, or open up our hearts and find treasure at hand. Treasures abound if we look for it. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

a. William Shakespeare With much thanks to George MacDonald for his novel, At the Back of the North Wind

Conversation Desire and another Glimpse of Eternity

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was one of those soirees, delightful providence of food and people well all yearn for. It went on for the perfect amount of time. Beautiful children, eager pets and faces and voices familiar. Polite words of promise and the search for lives barely understood. Surrounded by a choir, singing a light opera of intimacy, queries and laughter. The author of the notes and stanzas still in the wings waiting for the stage call.

Bits of the score, heard but not completely understood are jealously embraced, acted in a dream that night. The unrecognized but palatable yearning to be written into the opera at various stanza’s almost heard and ended many times with recognizable laughing voices.

Sometimes, you have the impression that the author has saved your savoring for last powerful measures. The ending of stunning beauty, only felt by a few actors still remaining on the stage. Duets mostly but with engagement of song between several singers. Fulfillment and with the dishes put away and the snap of tables folded for the next production in the background. The final notes played like beautiful, loud trumpets and kettle drums building to your then silent departure.

We have all been there. It was an invitation with promise and the invitation given casually. Turn on the voice in the car and follow her instructions. ‘Turn left’ almost going through the stop sign while looking for the road she was telling you about. Blue tooth on the car radio and it works. Sometimes. Upon arrival, it was anticipated that parking would be somewhat complex. It was a breeze this time. A few decades of months in the winter past, the sleigh and the snow complicated parking. A wonder of landscaping came into view. The stage was set.

The guest of honor spoke after a delightful lunch. myself and Julie, sitting in the front heard him plainly. The intriguing thing was his demeanor. Engaging. You knew he was not used to speaking and it really helped him. Not smooth but truth easily heard and personal as weakness’ and surprises as well.

After he spoke there were the inevitable requests for clarification and he handled that very well. Professional speakers are a dreadful bore in those circumstances. Thanks be he was again, engaging and the time sped by.

Since we were in the front row, it was natural to approach him and reassure him. We talked and talked well. There was no lecturing. Fascination. Worlds presented from far away. The mission to intrigue and cause a slight tip of the head to look beyond sight. The author delighted in us.

A light opera, conducted just for us it seemed. As indeed the accouterments were put away and no one else was seen or heard around us, we realized it was the curtain call. The car was easily seen as the other ones were gone.

Every one of the guests and hosts had politely exited and we felt very honored as we conveyed the mutual pleasure of the evening to one another. Real conversation. After all, the opera of honor was well written and well sung by all. Silence and delight at what had been given.

The author of the play is still with us. He has a habit of doing that. He rode back with us and is, as usual, still about the ranch. He helps me write, he surprises us with snippets of astonishing beauty that we have never seen before. We long for more, always. We hunger for the meal again as we wait with eager anticipation. At times, He shouts his name over us. Jesus, author and finisher of our faith. it’s pretty good.. Jack Gator Scribe

Sproul Plaza in the Genteel World

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Some of you older folks may remember the ‘free speech’ movement in Berkeley back in the 60’s.
There were all sorts of speakers ‘for the people’ declaring the freedom to say anything they wanted to and thus, enabling everyone to do the same.


Mario Savio, Jerry Rubin and others were up there on the steps at the college,ripping up the air with
megaphones and every filthy word they could muster up. The lizard was let out of the cage and it really
still belongs in there today. I have noticed things that are acceptable nowadays that were not so a short
time ago. Movies, literature and people on some sort of insane voyage seem to be heard and amazingly, understood and endorsed by many. It seems as though Allen Ginsburg and his ‘man/boy’ agenda has been given a new look and found politically correct this time around.


It appears that insanity and the collapse of thinking is here. Turning our children into the opposite sex
and actually having people in Washington unable to define the difference between a man and a woman.
That sort of thing happens in fantasy movies. Usually it is some sort of super power that appears in those
kind of films.

Now, the super power is saying things that are not real and people that hear these things
believe them. These new believers get angry when those of us see absurdity spoken and written. Easily
seen if you haven’t drunk the cool aid. Feminine personal products available in men’s public toilets just in
case they are needed. Men competing in Women’s sports events because they have changed their
names to female and wear clothing to match.


Our country is on a acid trip that Timothy Leary stated would be so cool if LSD was put in all the water
we drink. Conspiracy theories abound. Free injection needles for drug addicts. Creating ‘safe zones’ for
rioters we now call disenfranchised and troubled youth. Shootings every night by criminals that ‘we
created’ because of our racist history (which is being re-written by George Orwell’s ministry of truth)

Now we have criminals from other countries who just drifted in to enjoy the home of no savings and the land of free stuff. It is insane and we wait to awaken again in the morning to unlock the doors and peer out down the driveway to see it is still calm. Even here in rural American farmland.


I experienced the tip of that iceberg a few years ago at night. I was at a public reading by a university
professor with many endorsements and accolades from the usual foundations and politically correct
intellectuals. Books for sale too. Autographed as soon as the cash was given. An author that I worked alongside decades ago in a local food co-op we put together. It’s still there. I was eager to see her again and reminisce.


It was Sproul plaza again. This time without the megaphone. A totally inadequate sound system and
refreshments for those of us who need those sorts of things. It was put on by a government funded
institution, the St. Croix Falls Library. We were out in the delightful perfect summer evening on a plaza. Nice chairs and very friendly people.


A lot of them were friends too. The main speaker, my old friend, was reading a book of her own and it began to segue into language that is now free to use. Language of bar habitués in questionable parts of cities.


The small gathering of intellectuals began to titter and appreciatively express their delight in the continual use of curse words and the denigration of our Lord. As though He was the cause of sorrows and arbitrary wrong doing. “Is He safe? Of course not, He’s a lion but He’s good” A.


The lemonade and grapes and crackers were leaving traces to follow the crowd along. It was a
courtesy by the staff to comfort us and prepare us for the endorsing of the cool-aid of the times. How
exciting to hear an endorsed intellectual (with the mandatory book signing afterwards) speak those words
that we all want to speak casually. Polite society is not ready for that yet. It was sad for me to experience such drivel and ‘worldliness’ from an old friend.

Before I left, I asked why she used so many F bombs and added I was offended. She replied, “I was just reading a book!” That disconnect was incomprehensible. She wasn’t reading an old Ginsberg book, she wrote this one and she owns it.

I had brought some of my columns for Sharon, my friend and fellow author, to enjoy later but I tucked them back into my journal and left. It was not very good. I was sad. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A. C.S. Lewis. ‘The lion, the witch and the wardrobe.

Mail Call

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Catching attention is that announcement over the 1MC (That is the speaker system throughout a Navy Ship)

Mail call! Overseas, it was a light moment, usually news from home. Packages of cookies and such were obvious and demanded attention from one’s division. Hopefully a large box. After doing a few tours in a war zone, it was a welcome diversion. Mail was found aft, at the Mess deck by the ship’s Gedunk.

Being on watch 24 hours with 12 hours to sleep was a bit uncomfortable. The mail call was a pleasant relief besides Folgers coffee or Mid rats on the mess deck.

We all do it, walking out now to the box at the end of the driveway to see what’s there. On Tuesdays when the trash is also in it’s container there, it’s an easier job to not have to clutch the rolling trash can and the mail at the same time. You can tell what to toss in the empty can. Sometimes, it’s the whole days mail with all the ‘Special offer just for you!’

Every one on a rural route knows the drill with the flag up to signal there is outgoing mail in the box. Country folk nowadays usually skip doing that flag thing. It used to be convenient, but now there are a very small minority who have a calling to inspect boxes late at night with flags up.

There is almost a romance with the mail. It is something our government really got right to establish the Postal Service. Our language has responded with phrases and words particular to our mail. Special Delivery, Tracking, Return to Sender, Postage Due, Return address’, Zip codes and the inevitable, Junk Mail (spam for Gmail)

There was a rumor afoot that messenger and email type communication would completely eliminate mail. At first, paper mail was called ‘snail mail’ but electronic mail is easily lost and addresses are tricky too.

A few years back, I was told to walk a bicycle trail and then cross the highway to find a treasure. One of those gentle commands that cannot be ignored. He told me to keep my eyes open!

Or course, I thought of treasure of some sort. Nothing but trash and discarded cigarette butts. Not even field stripped. (ask a vet about that phrase) Then He told me to cross the highway, leave the trail. A nice ditch next to a golf course came into view.

There was old mail in the ditch. Dozens of envelopes. I opened one and it was from Korea from a local soldier asking about the crops and the tractors and things like that. Keeping in touch and letting the folks know he was thinking of them, their dad, a soldier overseas. There was a broken cedar box in the midst of the scattered white envelopes. The last name on the envelopes address’ was familiar and it was a name of a girl we had in the Kinship program

We called the number of the last name and the local town. It indeed was that girl and when we told her what I had found, she excitedly said; “There was a break in at my grandfathers house not long ago!” It was a flash of understanding that the thieves opened the box in their getaway vehicle and seeing the old letters, tossed the box out the car window. We bundled up the letters and gave them back to the family and it was very good to do so. There was the return of precious memories.

Personal mail, ah, that is the treasure at our mailboxes! It even surpasses envelopes with checks to cash. A real letter that shows a friend that cares enough to gather ink and pen and encourage us immediately when we see the return address. We all get Email and that has no impact as a folded piece of promised love from an old friend. I get those letters often when I need them.

So, what have we always had that is faster and never has any junk mail or spam with it? We have a passel of love letters from a very dear friend which bear re-reading and we have the incredible permission to answer those letters with just..thoughts. Spoken alone or with friends or just found behind our eyes. The only requirement to receive those letters is to understand them and if needed, ask for clarification with our response. To hear and read and feel our hearts move to get closer to the writer and speaker to our very core.

It’s time now to read and understand and respond to the best correspondent that is and always will be. You know his address. Jesus. Among His many names is ‘The Word” He’s waiting for you to read his letters. Pay attention, it is very important that we do so. Think seriously about those spoken and writtern special letters from your best friend and devour them with joy. Send a response with all your heart, mind, soul and spirit. He is delighted to hear from us, especially you.

It’s pretty good. Norm / Jack

Another Day in Small Town America

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A trip to town, only about 7 miles on a good highway. It’s hilly with familiar landmarks seen and spoken of. Around the lake just over the hill from the farm, there is what appears to be a small village out on the ice, fishing for whatever is down below the ice. Dozens of trucks and fishing shacks (wimps, we just sat on upside down white buckets ‘back in the days) No tip ups seen from this distance of over ¼ mile.

Then up the hill and there’s the old brick church with red crosses on the doors and a beautiful brick chimney for the coal furnace. Stoked in the past by Walter Wilson every Sunday morning. Good worker and farmer. A family name that is still around with his generous son, Lloyd.

Onward past the old auto yard of Nelson Motors which was the home of Doctor X, wrestler extraordinaire on TV. It was pro wrestling back in the days of cathode ray tubes and rabbit ears. The Crusher was a big draw too. They were very good actors with perfect athletic skills to fall and crash and bounce around. There were no stunt men nor mixed effects modifications. I liked the bouncing off of the ropes moves.

My dad watched wrestling every Sunday while the rest of our family went off to the ‘Mother Church’ downtown. I would have preferred to stay with Dad but most the cigar would not be shared. It was alone time for Dad, everyone needs it now and then. My dad made a mean pot of Chow Mien then which was waiting for our return. With noodles. No fortune cookies. A memory all from the distant past brought forth from passing a junkyard on the highway. Fred Nelson motors, (pro wrestler is not on the old sign)

Memories flood me as I drive the twisty highway now past the resort where Dad and I rented a boat for our last fishing expedition at the mouth of the local river. The Lake is called Round Lake, how many round lakes there are just in NW Wisconsin? This one is not round either. Pot holes are round. The resort is gone and so is Dad, but the memory is clear even with the color of the boat and the squeak of the oarlocks.

Up the hill now, passing the old schoolhouse which was turned into a pretty nice antique store.

Around the corner where a memorial used to stand by the ditch where a exchange student from Russia was killed in a rollover accident. His hockey stick which leaned on the cross was still there. Jack weeps internally every time to town and back at the loss and the thoughts of that kid’s parents back in the old country. When I tell the story of the many car ditch events right at that curve, I include the name of the owner of the house right there. Rolloff.

Past the milking barn with the huge ventilation fans on it’s front and across the road from where Edwin Anderson lived. I went to the estate auction there. Steamer trunks with old passports inside with the folded linen and other treasures are suddenly images within me.

The thought of how to give country directions to someone from out of town. Just turn left at Tony’s barn which is right across the highway from Edwin Anderson’s old place.

An old Irish story comes to mind: A tourist asked a farmer near a road which way he can get to Dublin. “If I was a goin T there I wouldn’t start from ere” was the reply.

There are many road markers for me. Einer’s mountain (long climb for a bicycle, we did it a lot. You had to keep an eye on your rear view mirror for Edwin driving his Buick. ) A weaving driver with questionable eyesight he was.

Then you pass by the Amish farms and then down a small hill into own. You can make it all the way to the post office if you put it in neutral at the top of the hill. A few errands are done and the snow and ice and drifts are a challenge to get to the library.

Suddenly, a lone maple leaf blows by in the snowy ditch. I picked it up as a sign or signal of some sort. Maybe spring is coming soon? I made a visit with my editor at the newspaper publishing building and he gave me 15 bucks to pick up some strawberry/rhubarb pie mix in the bigger town down the highway. Our smaller grocery store cannot stock those sorts of delicacies . I then met someone new by the library and a conversation ensued about the man’s forefathers coming over in the 1600’s from England.

We met by an older building next to the Pioneer bar that my family had a prayer room in. When our family was there, there was a drum cage, singer mics, my instruments and a keyboard. Our family worshiped Jesus with songs and sung prayers a few times a week. There was even good WiFi from the bar next door, right through the brick walls and with permission and the password. Four years of memories there. Now it’s locked with a Realtor’s coded lock and the scroll work scripture is gone too.

It’s an average short trip to town in many ways and it’s time to head back home. I forgot that man’s name but the conversation was another bright exchange of history and is not forgotten.

It’s slushy and cold and the recent snow fall has made the roads slick here and there. My newer car has automatic stability control and antilock brakes to go with it. A few jiggles on the curves and it’s home to check the mailbox at the end of the 1/8th mile driveway. Oops, the wind turned it 90 degrees (or was it the plow?) No mail today. I can see that it turned before the mail delivery was attempted. Otherwise the mail would be scattered in the snow.

There are many trips to towns nearby 30 miles away but they do not hold quite as much nostalgia. Turn up the worship music on the CD player and sing along sometimes. Today I was trying to sing acapella the Patsy Cline song ‘Crazy’

I love the octave jump back at the first line. Doesn’t everyone have days like this? If you share them, people either think you fit the Patsy Cline song name or they share their roads traveled with you. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe