History and Encounters

Often tender moments of Jack’s life

Unrepeatable Beauty

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There it was, so fleeting perhaps and gone quickly. So many moments in our lives that stun us that we cannot reproduce. The fragrance of a smile in the midst of a ferocious storm or a measure of music that was perfect, even in a recording cannot reproduce the moment you heard it. A memory of beauty is not the moment it was seen or heard or even smelled. A farmer working his field with the music of his machines. A hummingbird, dancing in the lilac bush just outside the window that I opened. The sound of It’s wings, the sight of the bird going back and forth, dancing for his mate just inches before him. Exciting, unexpected and so intimate that I had to sit on our bed and thank my creator for that gift.

The beauty of paintings that come close is a slight opening to the painters grasp of a face. The Mona Lisa of Leonardo described by Vesardi :”There was a smile so pleasing that it was more divine than human” As I meandered in the halls of the Vatican almost sixty years ago, I was silent and amazed at the masterful paintings, the priceless paintings that came close. They made me long for the painters mind and visions that he tried to capture. Beauty close but not all of it. The smell of the oils, the touch of the brush on canvas and the gift to see what conveys some of the experience.

Later in my life there are moment’s still strong in my memory of desert sunsets. The sound and motion of lying in my bunk at sea, rocked to sleep with the rush of the warm bunker oil beneath the deck. Describing it can invoke memory but it is not being there. Beauty and comfort in a war.

The sound of laughter and an overwhelming partnership between a couple next to me. We were playing and singing in upstate New York, Cafe Leena near Saratoga . I was with Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson on my left. The song was obscure but the music swirled about them. Judy’s laugh and Bill’s smile created beauty for eternity.

A small storefront in Northwest Wisconsin that my family had transformed into a place of musical worship was beautiful. To the family, remembering years afterward of those moments of unity indescribable. We all played and sang together in the evenings. The small, hand painted sign over the sidewalk, hanging from the awning is gone. (Recently, that prayer room has been turned into a tattoo parlor.)

When we were there, the Pioneer bar that gave free internet to us through the brick walls. It burned badly years after we left and that bar looked like it got the wrong end of a 105 mm. Next to the burned bar building was a closed bakery storefront. No small tables with good breakfasts and glass cases displaying the sugary delights. All memories that cannot be captured with photos, smells or conversation. No more pedestrians walking out with with white bags of donuts. Those memories are stored away within and are precious.

As I edit this, the bar is being rebuilt, with the bakery part of it. A common plaza shared by them offers me a vision of sitting there with a crafted beer and a donut, enjoying the new view and ‘sus’ the ambiance of a rebirth. Worship music on the jukebox perhaps? God does interesting things.

The sighing of the wind through a tree top, the sudden smell of flowers as my son rides by on his opposed transverse 4 cylinder Honda. The sound of the power coupled with that wind. Where does it come from and where does it go? That is an old question asked by Jesus to Nicodemus. No isobars and satellite images that guess at where the breath of God comes and goes. Nicodemus could not answer that question either. Can you? As the song goes, “This is the air I breathe”

A combined beauty of things seen, felt and smelled that cannot be captured to enjoy again. Fleeting and a glimpse of eternity. Our memories are reminders but not the real moments, of stunning beauty

My navy best friend Chuck told me about it in five words. “It’s better than you said!” He said those words appearing to me just as he died several thousand miles away. Another memory, strong, stunning and indescribable. I do wonder what I said when I visited him. We grasp the wind and paint with our camera’s lens, beauty heard and seen.

“At the family burial plot, all the people I have ever known are buried there—the bouncing boy, my mothers pride, the pimply boy and secret sensualist; the reluctant military man; the beholder at dawn through the hospital glass of my first born child. All these selves I was I am no longer, not even the bodies they wore are my body any longer, and although when I try, I can remember scraps and pieces about them, I can no longer remember what it felt like to live inside their skin. Yet they live inside my skin to this day, they are buried in me somewhere, ghosts that certain songs, tastes, smells, sights, tricks of weather can raise, and although I am not the same as they, I am not different either because their having been then is responsible for my being now.” Frederic Buechner: ‘The Alphabet of Grace‘

It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

Rebirth

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We have all done these things. New curtains and carpets, out with the old and in with the new as the saying goes. It was with more than trepidation that a task came to the forefront of our lives. The ‘tearing down and rebuilding task. Two forty yard roll off dumpsters sort of thing. Nails and ancient dimension lumber. Insulation above that appeared to be cotton candy coated with mice having their own free wheeling toilet and dining areas.

All of it, the windows, sill plates and trusses. 30 by 40 or so. Fifty years ago it was old when I bought this farm. I drove up with the rental van and walked in the rain to the barn that faced the house. April fools day, 1976. All I could think of was to play my fiddle on some old bales of hay and look at the house through the open barn doors. First house, my best friend about ½ mile away and a mortgage through the GI loan. A life style remodel, boot camp haircuts sorts of things.

Two years later, I was on the bathroom throne and collapsed on the floor getting up. I could not rise. Excruciating pain. A slipped disk pressing nerves to my legs. I was able to crawl. I occupied my mind by reading old newspapers off the floor. Zippy the pinhead comics were distracting and pleasurable read. That worked for a few days and I began to go into a bit of a decline.

I survived by crawling into the kitchen and drinking the cat water. The black wall phone was unreachable. It was die or get help. I emptied my dresser and made a ramp and rolled onto the bed, There was a princess phone on the wall side of the bed. (not pink)

An ambulance ride and extensive traction gave me mobility. Spike mauls and shovels were a not an option and I ran out of ‘injury’ pay and had to sue the railroad for money to live. The settlement was very low and it would pay the VA loan for a year.

It seemed a good idea to open a repair shop for foreign vehicles! I had experienced many years of repairing engines and with my electronics background, it was plausible. Hand lapping a failed rod bearing in Omaha while under my truck was my diploma for repairing engines. Emery cloth looped around the journal. 100 strokes, turn the engine 90 degrees, repeat, 180, 270 and back to the top. 2 or 3 hours or so, Mic the journal. When it got close, I switched to fine and polished it up pretty good. Perfect oil pressure and never gave me trouble again. It took about 3 days. (The people that helped me were the ones I met on Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1). Amazing people. Their friends had a repair shop and they loaned me everything I needed. Even got me a ten thousands under set of rod shells!

Foreign cars was my niche. After all, there were at least a dozen foreign cars in the county. A kind and clever snap on dealer had me rebuild his 280Z engine for the tools it would take to do it. Micrometer, cylinder gauge, ridge reamer, cylinder hones, ring compressor, torque wrenches. It ran quite well and I was off and running and walking and bending quite well. That tool dealer spread the word and slowly, my business was created. An LLC was obtained and I named it Fine Tuning Auto.

Sliding wood doors and no heat with a somewhat usable floor and foundation. 30 x 40 feet. I was 30 and could do anything, just like my son to come. The barn and chicken coop and old silo foundation were gone soon, along with the summer kitchen later. Oak 2×4 boards that held nails strong enough for mild tornadic winds. A time lapse film would appear interesting. A friend built a chimney in the shop and wood heat helped in the winter.

There was a remnant of a barn on the adjoining property to the north and it had some nice old ‘barn wood’ left (most likely a remnant of the original owner of my land owned that 10 acres) I took that wood and paneled my kitchen with it. (The owner of that property said take what you want.) He came over frequently and was a farmer with a good sense of humor. Claire Melin.

50 years later, our house was completely remodeled but that barn wood is still on the wall. Akin to an old Ford 8N parked by the driveway we have all seen here and there. Fond memories that trigger us to the past.

As I have referred to some of these events in missives, they remain in that section of my mind located 3 ½ inches between my ears. Influential, pleasant in formation and now known as the path and road to redemption.

“Why did this happen? Why would a loving God make me go through this agony? We ALL ask these questions. Puzzled, we attempt to understand and perhaps even control the events of our lives that we cannot anticipate nor control, Since my conception (or perhaps even before) I was made for purposes that make sense, to me.

Here I am, with beauty and fulfillment surrounding my life. I think I have arrived here because of my Resistance and spectrum gift. Gifts indeed. I have to finish as an Asberger child must. I have finished well. It is all due to Him who made me, just to be here with His face turned towards me and giving me joy.

I know now that God does not have a plan, He is plan. As one of my favorite quotes goes:

“Time itself wanted to die with You” Mark Batterson

It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator


			

	


			
				


	

							
Synopsis of a Fool on the road to Redemption
						

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A recall of my life is now being revealed to me, bit by bit. Indeed all the mistakes, roads taken that had no outlet or were literally dead ends, were there to take me to a place I did not know I was going. This is the reason I was given the opportunity to write this book. I thought it was my idea!





The Author whose books anchor a sagging bookshelf in our library, has given me hope and excitement as he has done for so many. C.S. Lewis. The first name Jessie Seline and I decided on for my Fiddling Gator identity was Jack. {It was Clive Staples Lewis’ nickname.}





So many authors have that first name in fiction writing and Jessie and I decided it was perfect. Punchy like Jack Dempsey. Masculine and only four letters long. It stuck after being known as ‘Mr Gator’ for years. That story comes to light in this book. A simple newspaper article about my role as a judge in a fiddle contest with a cartoon of an alligator, rocking back on his tail. playing the fiddle. 










I know, without any doubt, that our Lord Jesus has me on speed dial to my spirit. I did not even know I had a phone like that before others before that have those, taught me how to listen. I listened when I was a big fool and now I am a tool. Those two letters are close on keyboards and are pushed with the left forefinger. Pointing the way to Him.





My counselor, Mr. Beeves, told me he had never met a man with more trauma than I. He also told me it would always be in my mind and would have six tenths of a second to turn off the reaction of fight or flight to perceived new trauma. Recently, I have asked Jesus to have a USB port put into my head and a jump drive with a program to dive deep and encase those memories where they belong. The past. He has recently acquiesced to that request! Very recently. I did not know He could do that or that I could ask. Look for the port if we meet and I will split hairs with you and show it to you.





Go, Set and get ready. Go to Him set your heart before Him and with Him, and you are ready. Stay on that Highway to Holiness, for “the road to hell is an easy slope, soft underfoot with no warning signs” a. I have asked many friends that were near death to meet me as I ‘cross the bar’ to eternity. I saw one of them leave with five words as he disappeared: “It’s better than you said!” It is.





a. C.S. Lewis

			

	


			
				


	

							
Resurrection
						

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A synopsis of the four Gospels account of the Resurrection. There are issues with formatting this document I wrote. The numbers one through four indicate the Gospels themselves. The large font and bold names are the book authors after the quotes. Confused? I was too as the accounts differ in the descriptions of events. It is one of the pivotal events in the history of our Universe and so it’s easy to forget details when you are there when it happened. Astonishment seems to be a common thread. Enjoy, I did when I wrote these things down. 





    

  1. Mary Magdalene went out to the tomb early, dark. She saw the stone had been rolled away and ran back to Peter and John and they both ran to the tomb. John outran him and looked in the tomb and saw the linen cloths but did not go in. Peter then came in puffing and, and went into the tomb and saw the cloths and a handkerchief that had been around the Lords head, not lying with the linen cloths but folded together in place by itself. Then John came in and saw (he did not know the scripture that Jesus must rise from the dead.) They went back home. Mary stuck around and looked into the tomb and saw two angels in white, sitting at either end and they asked her why she was weeping…she told them she wanted to know where they laid Him. She turned and saw Jesus and thought he was the gardener. He said “Mary” She knew it was Jesus. “Do not cling to me for I have not yet ascended to my Father” She then went to the disciples and told them He had spoken to her. 
    2. 




  2. JOHN 20.
    3. 




  3. On the first day, very early they and certain other women and they were perplexed and two men stood my them in shining garments. They bowed their heads to the ground. Those men told them, “why do you seek the living among the dead?”They remembered Jesus’ words about this. They went back and told the 11. Mary Magdalene, Johanna and Mary the mother of Jesus told these things to the Apostles. They did not believe them. THEN Peter ran to the tomb and saw the linen cloths lying by themselves and departed, marveling to himself… Two of ‘them’ were at Emmaus, seven miles away. They talked about things and Jesus drew near, but their eyes were restrained. They told Jesus about the women. They chatted over supper, Jesus broke bread and blessed it and gave it to them and then their eyes were opened, knew Him and He vanished. They went back to Jerusalem and told rest of them about seeing Jesus when He broke bread with them. Then Jesus appeared to them “peace be with you” He showed them His hands and feet and then asked for food. They gave him some broiled fish and honey comb.                     LUKE 24
    4. 




  4. When the Sabbath was past, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James and Salome brought some spices. “who will roll away the stone?” Then they saw a young man clothed in a long white robe sitting on the right side and they were alarmed. He calmed them and said to them to tell His disciples and Peter that He is going before you into Galilee and there you will see Him as He said to you. They fled from the tomb and said nothing to anyone for they were afraid. BUT..on the first day of the week, He appeared to Mary Magdalene and she went and told those that had been with Him, mourning and weeping, they did not believe her. The two at Emmaus followed that story line and then then He appeared to the eleven and told them to go out into the world and preach the Gospel. Baptized (or else) cast out demons, speak with new tongues, take up serpents, lay hands on the sick and be immune to poison they drink. Then He ascended and sat at next to God. MARK 16. 
    5. 




  5.  After the Sabbath, the two Mary’s came to see the tomb and there was a great earthquake and an angel of the Lord descended from Heaven and came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His countenance was like lightening and his clothing was white as snow. The guards shook with fear and became as dead men. But the angel answered to the women, “do not be afraid, for I know that you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen, as He said. Come, see the place where the Lord lay, and go quickly and tell His disciples that He is risen from the dead, and indeed He is going before you into Galilee; there you shall see Him. Behold, I have told you” So they went out quickly from the tomb with fear and great joy, and ran to bring the disciples word. As they went to tell His disciples, behold, Jesus met them saying, “Rejoice!” so they came and held Him by the feet and worshiped Him. Then Jesus said to them, “do not be afraid. Go and tell My brethren to go to Galilee, and there they will see Me.” (As an afterthought), the soldiers reported to the elders and were given a Large sum of money to tell people that the disciples came and stole him away while we slept. If this comes to the governor’s ears we will appease him and make you secure…this saying is commonly reported among the Jews until this day. Then the 11 disciples went into Galilee to the mountain that He had appointed to them. When they saw Him, they worshiped Him, but some doubted. Jesus told them that all authority had been given to Him from heaven and on earth. “Go and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all things that I have commanded you, and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” Amen MATTHEW 28
    6. 


			

	


			
				


	

							
Touring With Really Nice Crazy Musicians
						

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On through the midwest, avoiding Chicago. Touring to and fro. Coffee houses, clubs and university auditoriums with basketball courts.





Broken strings and lost flat picks. Hangnails from metal fingerpicks. Tuning in bathrooms.





Sweet harmonies with one another, appearing polished at the next gig. Rough working mens songs, love missed and lost, broken people and police cold metal racks and bars.





Canning workers in the far North West coast. Looking for women that a laborer can afford.





Poetry with country blues chords and the twang of a Dobro and Banjo dueling with one another as I tried to keep up with improvised keys and balky capos. Beautiful and these things understood by others that have travelled the D’ Adario paths. Poetry and country blues.





Sleeping on or in whatever was given. Green rooms with running water for the toilet and the good ones that had sinks. Now and then a real green room in the nicer venues.





Meals from the college cafes or with the student cafeteria on metal trays. Road food late at night on the highway to the next gig. Hot dogs on eternal greasy heated rollers and nicely wrapped things. Molten lava coffee or southern pop. Sweets that are in boxes of ten and small ones





aren’t on display. We didn’t need them either, they were icky and sticky and stale to boot.





Stopped by the highway patrol wary as they walked with unfastened pistol straps, out of state plates and a car full of musicians. Bright Mag lites through the windows on our sleepy faces.





Wallets with drivers licenses and enough cash to make it to the gas station and on to the next lucky town, waiting with baited breath for their music and stories.





Adventure, the time of our lives when that siren call pulls us to the Ionian sea for the horizon and it’s promise of interesting people and revelation of meaning to our lives.





I miss it or reminisce it as my left finger callouses fall away and I sit in my comfy living room chair. Praying for many things over my horizon that reveal real joy and eternal life. Life with listening and hearing. Harmonies from heaven this time. It’s pretty good. Norm/Jack

			

	


			
				


	

							
Parking Diagonally In Small Town America
						

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Nature and God—I neither knew yet Both so well knew me. They startled, like Executors of my identity”





Emily Dickinson










Frederic Wisconsin, is a small town with almost a thousand people, and several deer. A small red fox runs across the state highway by the gas station around 4:30 every morning. The town has a restored railway station which is very authentic. There’s a caboose on a siding, a semaphore signal, a metal-wheeled cart with wood barrels and a bright yellow track-section car. A chain-saw carved wooden bear, stands near the roadbed where the metal tracks once ran. We live 7 miles to the west. A short buggy ride for the Amish who are half a mile from town.





The train station anchors Main Street, which is about a block and a half long with diagonal parking. Frederic has a smattering of small shops: a hardware store, two bars, a library, and the usual shops that sell antiques and knickknacks to tourists and used furniture to the locals.










Leaving town on the state highway you will find a gas station with well made waist-expanding doughnuts a car dealership and a tidy golf course with another bar. It is a cute town with a nice cafe and a second rate self-service car wash. The people in the town are fairly reserved but will speak with you if you speak first to them. A few of the people will wax nostalgic about the glory days of the railroad and the daily passenger train.





When first told of the twice-a-day train schedule, I knew I had missed something by being born 20 or 30 years too late. Of course, the tracks are gone except the siding with the caboose but the roadbed is now a merged bicycle/snowmobile trail. The bicyclists park by the bakery and the snowmobile folks park at the bar on the corner.





Much to the towns confusion, the bakery has been closed for several years from a fire. Now they only sell wholesale and the main street side windows are covered up. There has also been a fire next door above one the bars. A fire no-sale. Two for the price of 1. Soon, the two buildings, which were destroyed, will rise from the ashes become one. A patio for patrons of the bar and bakery will finish the project. As I write this there is still windows and doors to install and the insides finished. The town is excited about the project. Have a pastry with your beer and relax.





There are five churches of the usual preferences, and even a small Amish community on the edge of town. Their carriages and the clip-clop of the horses add charm and fertilizer to the main street. The small town chugged along pretty well and the years brought the expected changes. A late night two dollar store and an old department store now selling secondhand furniture and dishes. There are treasures worth searching for: top line toasters and old hard-bound books. The two dollar store has a red box for last years latest movies. I always wonder why everything anyone buys from those quick two dollar stores smells like laundry detergent.





The early-morning men gather every morning, parking in the same parking spots and sitting at the same table. sipping passable coffee and eating good sourdough toast. The restaurant on the corner was named ‘Beans’ and now is known as ‘The Tin Shed.’ It is an early morning place of connections and warmth on winter days. The Tin prefix refers to the new metal siding. Well done face lift. The huge ventilation fan, dripping delicious smelling grease is still around the corner over the sidewalk. Bacon and french fries mingle their smells delightfully.





On those snowy winter days the village sweeps while its people sleep, the snow and drift removal goes on with the metallic rasp of shovels and the diesel snort of the plows. Some merchants shovel other store-front sidewalks because they have hearts for it. There is camaraderie in the winter, a hunkering and shared misery too: dead car batteries, ice on the roofs and leaking roofs in downtown with all the flat roofs common in row-house shops.





The down-town sometimes appeared like an old man with teeth missing. There were too many empty store-fronts. The draw of the big box stores about 25 miles south takes a toll on local merchants. A small town can only support one antique store or one that has used books, Jackets and couches. Frederic had a burned out bar, the bakery with no public access, an empty appliance store and an excellent hardware store, an old one with everything you need. A new pharmacy and clinic. There is a friendly grocery store with a deli and things the big box does not handle. (My favorite is Lingonberry jam.) There is an exit power door that sticks open slightly and that is a reminder that the wholesale grocery business operates on a rather slim margin. It still works but keeps the entryway nicely cool in the winter.





There is a food truck that shows up in the summer by the old railroad depot with great gyro sandwiches. A tow behind coffee business is faithful a block up the main street parked at the laundromat lot. Great coffee.                                to be continued





































































































































































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Gratitude
						

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I was feeling very grateful and looked in my library for some references to that word.





“If the only prayer we say in our lifetime is ‘Thank you’ that would suffice” Meister Edkhart





“It puts everything into it’s proper place and perspective Rebbe Nachman





“Taking things with gratitude and not taking things for granted” G. K. Cthesterton





“God is the source of all good, so we must thank Him for it.” Shashiko Mirata





“It’s the breath in our lungs so we pour out our praise to You only” Ingrahm,, Leonard & Jordan (Authors of ”Great are you Lord ‘)





“A good time is a taste of God” John Auelio





Good and perfect advice I have found from these authors. You can look them up and I will tell you where to look if you ask me. (gatorjack75@gmail.com)





One of them is a Hasidic teacher, another a scholar of Islam. There is a Protestant preacher. A Catholic priest. A Suffi seer and poet and a famous British writer. This small compendium is just a start of the wisdom to be found throughout literature. I would earnestly urge reading and searching. This generation does not read in general. A lost art.  Primary and secondary schools not long ago encouraged reading the classics.





It seems just recent authors are taught, many of them with political or radical thoughts. Mathematics still depends on scholars of Greece to which we can say thank you to. One of them figured out how to measure the great pyramid by his shadow without a laser sight or a spotting scope! There is brilliance and mystery available in dusty old books. Seek them out, most if not all of them are hardbound. I look in free book kiosks. (I found one on classic Russian authors!) The kiosks resemble nice bird houses.





A great Islam scholar stated that God is the source of all good, so we must thank Him for it





I was once admonished for writing about religion as a columnist and only focusing on the Bible. Recently I have found wisdom from all sources of faith.  Why do we say ‘thank you’ many times a day? It’s Life 101 and we all have learned that, even our pets thank us for kindness. We usually don’t purr or lick ears to express gratitude. At least most of us. Our family has ways of doing these things and it’s our deal. 





Excitement and pleasure are found in many places. “Hell is excited about your arrival” A quote from C.S. Lewis’ great divorce It’s difficult for me to comprehend my favorite author acknowledging the devil as having any sort of pleasure but what do I know about these things?





As the old paper boys would shout “Read all about it!” It’s pretty good, Norm / Jack











			

	


			
				


	

							
Scrap Yard or a Junk Yard
						

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It was hard to see, I did not know it would be so. I was looking up one of the Navy ships I served in and found it had been scrapped down south. There were a few photos of it and some of the steel that was salvaged and sold. I looked for a moment for the 02 level up by the bridge, a gun turret or maybe my porthole aft on the mess deck when I first reported on board. All gone except for a few guys like me that have memories of the old fleet oiler. It was one of three ships I served in and I imagine the other two have met similar fates.










Recently I went to a scrap yard about 20 miles away, looking for a part for a 25 year old Pickup that we bought from a good neighbor for a dollar. It didn’t run and the windshield is cracked. It needed some suspension parts, it still smells mousy and has a few quirks. I was now seeking a drivers seat belt assembly. It was torn and would not move through the metal belt loop up high. It would get caught when the door closed and it was unsightly and not as strong as it used to be. It appeared to be chewed on by a dog that was bored.





The scrap yard has been there for decades and is known by the other scrap yards as specializing in Ford vehicles. Perfect. I drive Fords. My first commuter car was a Ford that I drove every day for work at the Railroad section yard in Dinkytown Minneapolis. An easy commute from NW Wisconsin of 75 miles. Every day. It was a 1941 coupe and I put in a brand new engine before I moved up nort. That’s local lingo for north. “Hey you going up Nort this weekend or no?” It’s worldwide language quirks that identify our ethnicity. You know how it works eh.





So, off I drove to the scrap yard to see if a seat belt unit with retractor wheel was …somewhere. The owner and I roamed about and he knew where to look. It was a hard job to break loose those 20mm torx bolts and I could tell by the grunts and battery impact tools that it wasn’t going as well as hoped. Language pronouns and other crude exclamations came forth across the weeds and debris to where I was sitting on the tailgate. As I am a retired wrench wielding pro I know that hovering over a tough job is a non starter for fellowship.





It was out and we drove back in his old side by side with all the tools rattling in the little bed. How much I asked. “Twenty five bucks”. OK. I handed him a twenty and ten, got five in change and put the parts on the floor of the old Ford and motored home.





It was the wrong one. I got the year wrong. I had it right according to the door sticker but it was a year later build. That was a moot point as the retractor was stuck. Back to the scrap yard the next day and the search began again. The owner is astonishingly older than I. He was old ten years ago. We got on pretty good as I am ‘getting up there’ as the saying goes. This pleasant fellow was in the Enoch School yearbook. 





This part was close to correct. The seat buckle was OK and the lower fastener was dinged up when it had to be cut out of the body with an electric whiz wheel. I asked him how much and the amount quoted was the same for the wrong one. “Twenty five bucks.” I looked and told him all I had was fourteen. He said, “OK, Fourteen then. I worked pretty hard on that job.”





I acknowledged his work and difficulty for the second visit. He looked at me, my rusty truck with the cracked windshield, and smiled put out his hand and we shook on it.I plan on returning once I get the folding money together and give him the remaining Eleven dollars he deserves.





It was a wreck of a place and there seemed to be acres of vehicles on the property. To a gear head like myself, it was pretty neat. His office had trophies from car shows made from stroked pistons and rods and many accouterments of the genre of car shows, formula 1 racing memorabilia. It was a glorious mess.





A few polite questions and we knew we had a mutual society of sorts. I met his wife who earlier gave me a cold water as I was admiring her patio flowers and wind chimes. I was relaxed in the dark Homeric shop as the Odyssey and the Iliad flowed by in the wind. The chimes nearby were the Siren’s call to comfort on the patio, but I stayed where I belonged.





I put the seat belt in yesterday and it works. It needed some tweaking to fit but it is OK.





Some illiterate people would call it a Junk Yard but that image is of cranes with claws and magnets. Piles of brake rotors and pyramids of squashed cars and refrigerators. Not old cars that had been yours or mine with weeds and trees growing near and in them.





The recycle generation embraces the concept of the scrap yard. Not in my back yard though. It got close when my shop had dead cars that people couldn’t afford to fix were parked in the lot. It’s a gentle slope, soft underfoot and with no warning signs that leads to the scrap yard. a.





Just ask around when you need that rear view mirror for your old 2CV Renault and someone will know someone that will put you on the scent of the right scrap yard. Adventures await.





It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator





A.  A ‘slightly’ modified quote from C.S. Lewis,   ‘the great divorce’ 







See Eleven Dollars Short for the conclusion







What strategies do you use to increase comfort in your daily life?

			

	


			
				


	

							
The origin of Jack Gator
						

			 / Norman Eric Peterson						 / 1 Comment
								

			


		

		






There was young Norm, I was moving through my life as though it was a normal one. I am a high functioning Asperger’s child and did not trust anyone with my love. No one. There was a secret place in me that is a go to place when my life feels scary and in need of protection. I found that comfort in various ways. I have body moves grounding me in a way with a touch on a silk blanket or just zoning out with movement patterns. A little sniffing on the back of my hand. You have seen the movie The Accountant. The main actor was affirming to me with his portrayal of a a survivor of Autism.





I made up stories and submerged myself in music. Still do. I learned piano early on, then guitar over in Italy. I graduated to mandolin and violin/viola later on with country western and square dance bands. That worked for a while until I was almost 70. By then, the made up stories were real ones and music was my dream world. Listening and playing.





Recently, I began writing about my life and observations of astounding events that only be classed as theologically overwhelming and usually joyful. I recently got some good advice on writing. “Try to be original and you will not succeed. Write your heart as best you can and you will be original” I got that advice in a dream as I sat at the feet on Earnest Hemingway as a boy. I’m sure someone else has been quoted but the dream worked for me.





I began writing day by day and I filled up a journal once a year. There is a stack of them on my desk shelf. I began reading them and saw all the stories and many people began to say to me; “you ought to write a book. I like your stories and the way you tell them” As a known raconteur, I told stories all the time. Writing them down helps me to remember them!





I had the nickname of Mr. Gator from a photo I put into the local paper. They needed one for an article on a fiddle contest I was judging. The picture was a little alligator rocking on his tail, playing a fiddle. It stuck, I even had Mr gator license plates too. Decades later, a close friend, Jessie, drew a picture for me of an alligator resting with a fishing pole and I use that as a header now and then. He said it was something he sketched out the night before. I was stunned with his talent and friendship. He also is a writer of action stories with gold coins and thieves and murder. (I can’t wait for the next chapter!)





After Jessie gave me the drawing we decided that the Gator needed a first name if I was going to write with that name as a byline. Jack Dempsy, Jack Ryan, Jack Clancy and C.S. Lewis’ nickname, Jack. It stuck. Masculine with punch.





I began publishing these stories at a local newspaper once a week as the editor liked them a lot. I give a lot of credit to Jesus in most of them and that was OK for a while but the new manager was uneasy with that. After 4 years of writing one a week I had well over 300 columns stored away on several drives. I resigned with grace and dignity from that paper. They deserved it. I still write for a great newspaper in Ashland, Wisconsin. The bottom Line News and Views.





Again, “You ought to write a book.” I already have written a book, I just need to jump in the water and get it published. Of course then, I have to mention my book in conversations and carry several of them in my briefcase to sell. Easy sell if someone says they would be interested in reading it. And paying for it.





Meanwhile, I keep writing and publishing on my web site. Gatorsgracenotes.com No ads of any kind was my decision. I don’t like pop ups and no one I know likes them either. That money stream is out of the equation. The grace note thing is a double entendre. It’s a very fast note or notes played that are too rapid to write down on a score. And Grace is what Jesus gives me time and again.





I have faith that it will all work out. Faith, it’s the very gift of God.





Gator picture by Jessie Selin





It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

			

	


			
				


	

							
An Old Fashioned Cell Phone  That needs no Contact Numbers
						

			 / Norman Eric Peterson						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		






It was over a half century ago that I began contacting strangers and having meaningful conversations with them. It was safe as I was doing it with my ‘Ham’ radio with both Morse code and vocal techniques. It began in early Junior high when electronics took a hold of me and as a very shy and reclusive child I was attracted to actually talking to someone that was interesting and listened to me.





I managed to randomly speak with foreign people from half way around the planet at rare times and all over our country if I planned the time, position of the frequencies that would ‘bounce’ off of the upper atmosphere. Usually from 20 to 10 meter wavelengths. Sun spots were an annoyance and disrupted the ‘skip’ from the heavy side layer. Radio signals would skip in a wave form all around the place when the situations were right. I remember the night when a radio operator in Russia answered my query for a ‘chat’ The signal was a repeated two letters “CQ” Seek you. Asking for someone far away you added the suffix DX which means distance in radio lingo. Lots of those acronyms still linger. 73’s means good bye and 88’s means love and kisses. QSO means conversation. Cops still use some of these. 





I became a fulfilled recluse in my bedroom and became bolder at speaking to total strangers.





Now, things with radio seem very old fashioned. The visions of families glued to their RCA console radios, listening intently to sports activities from Olympic competitions across the world. This has recently been illustrated in the movie ‘Boys in the Boat’ 





  It was exciting and there were no distractions of costuming, personality announcers on the video streams and of course, advertising ‘breaks’ Television has reduced excitement of real time news with entertainment and advertising splash. Not to mention some of the obscene links on the webstream news links. Very distracting on not in real time either. Breaking news of scandal real or invented. Who knows?





You can find those old wood console radios in second hand stores. Sometimes the filaments will glow from the tubes on the chassis in the back filled with primitive electronics when you plug them in. Big capacitors and transformers. Older than the stuff on Apollo 1. If you can rig up a decent ‘long wire’ antenna, you will actually get reception! Those radios were the center piece in living rooms across the country and now, as antiques, they still are. Especially if they still work. The speaker(s) were pretty big (JBL 15”) and the sound is pretty decent too. Usually only AM radio is available. FM (frequency modulation) and SSB (single sideband) came later. Ask me to explain those terms if you want. Electronic geeks like hams, love to talk about just anything about their hobby. Most of it indecipherable by everyone else. 





This training in talking to absolute strangers and has stayed with me and makes it natural for me to talk with check out clerks, people at shoe stores or just someone that smiles from the easy stroll we both are taking down the small town street. At church, the common reasons were are asking them if they or I can pray together is usually pleasantly surprising. It is a position I now hold in a very large church (2000 + attenders and staff). I arrive early so that it is easy to meet and greet staff and volunteers getting ready for the day. I am right where I have been led to be since I was 12 years old. What a coincidence or was it a plan all along? Who designs those plans is a good question too. Ask me sometime and we will have a good QSO. 





It’s been pretty good.  Norm Peterson K0JMV  /Jack Gator 





picture of ham radio shack courtesy of KB1SF