Another hot, ‘almost summer’ late May day and the commitment to do something around the farm. The rest of my family was elsewhere in the county working and getting chores and visits done. I was Alone and it was in the high 80’s. Lazing about with my Lewis and MacDonald I heeded the call to work outside. Weed whip the small ditch next to the driveway. I can do that! Get dressed in the jeans with a small chainsaw rip on the left pants leg and a white T shirt.
The battery whip was loaded with four strings and the fully charged delta battery. The big one. I began in the approach to the long mini ditch and swung the whip, side to side and it began to get sweaty. I poked an earlier garden wound on my left forearm and went inside briefly to put on one of those band aids that pulls your skin up when you try to remove it.
Swinging that whip and clogging up once in a while and looking ahead for progress. Taking small bites of foot tall weeds until I was almost out of battery power. I was relieved that the lights where down to one. Time to put the big 60 amp on the charger and check the fridge for lunch. Back to C.S. And perhaps Winship or Bunyan. Improvise the day and cool off.
I was afraid I would fall when I was in the ditch. I sat down to rest and could not get out of that ditch. I have an old Karate move of swinging my legs beneath me to stand. It did not work as everything was uphill. I finally scooted out and then flipped upright. The fear of being unable to move was surprising. Fear mode, small or large is not an operative mode to be in.
Is that where I am in world view? Fearful from past experience and therefore always afraid. Of who, what or when it all started. Sixty years ago. I would be unable to ‘get up’ Maybe it was fifty. Trapped and unable to ‘get up and just go’ We all have those remnants, akin to spilled food by a careless sweep of an elbow. Now it’s on the floor and nothing will bring it back. Tasty toast or a tasty meal of doing what we always want to do. Move about and pick up ourselves and justget onboard with our train of thought.
Fear of being chased by a perverted relative, fear of the bully. Fear of the guard who wanted to just see the fear when he stared at me with humor of dominance. The kangaroo court, handcuffs and out of control. Is this my world view? I will be unable to escape the floor, the ditch, or the death we all fear?
“Fear not for I am with you” The words of my creator that I read and listen to. Truth as was asked of Him. What is truth? We are eternal beings and He loves us. How indeed can I fear Him and His love presence?
It’s an incredible photo from a walk close to our homestead. It prompts another deep region, even a place unnamed, and familiar. A perfect photo by my son of an Eagle, flying overhead and a gasp of purpose and life as viewed when Soren showed me the photo. The eagle had a glint in his eye and his claws were tucked in back, out of the air-stream. ‘Rotation, gear up’ A slight flash of light on his incredible beak and I shivered contemplating this aviator with talons and sharp, piercing beak. Danger close. it was flying into the wind, looking down. The intense stare at the camera and us, it told a story. A tale of life lived as a predator from the sky, silent and flying with irresistible death from above. No escape. No way to reason with the eagle. Can you envision a small animal, frozen in fear, unsure how to move.
I thought back to the fighter we saw launch from an aircraft carrier about 300 feet away. On the port side of our ship, a huge fleet Oiler, was Steaming at flank speed. Barely able to stay with the carrier. The oiler’s huge screws, making the aft mess deck thunder and shake. As it must do, the carrier had to maintain wind over the flight deck to help those fighters get airborne. The flight deck blast door up, engine at full, burning gallons of JP4 per second and suddenly, the fighter leaped down the deck, dropped a little off the bow and already had gear up and climbing. Awe inspiring at night ops. Rings of sonic disturbance coming off the engines fiery blast.
Steam swirling around the channel from the catapult, and the power heard of the fighter still climbing to watch over the battle group. Combat Air Patrol, CAP. Just like the eagle, deadly talons and loaded and armed. Looking for anything within range, anything moving where the fighter was, something that an enemies weapons radar would detect and cause terror for them. They are Now a target. A Hornet F16 fighter, armed with a tactical nuke under the wing, just in case it got ugly. A little vaporization reaches everybody.
Later that night, the enemy came near off the starboard and lit up our ship with their carbon arc searchlight and quickly dropped It’s missiles midships, right at me. I was on deck, headed aft for mid-rats. It didn’t look promising. We had 8 million gallons of various fuel in it’s huge belly, a tanker with puny three inch gun turrets on the bow and stern. The strong image of a flaming, roaring death with the sea covered with burning bunker oil. Basic training coming to mind on how to impossibly swim beneath the flames. All hands, battle stations. The 1MC in every compartment giving everyone the news, this NOT a drill.
It wasn’t a movie. Everyone saw the 02 or 03 level on the enemy ship, it’s radar turning around and around and the spotlight from it still steady on our bridge, blinding our helmsman and the combat information bridge, just above. Those missiles dropped from vertical incredibly fast with the sound of a double gauge pump shotgun.
Suddenly, the missiles went back vertical and the cruiser sharply veered off and disappeared into the dark sea at full speed. The F16 was there with the battle group, flying overhead, painting the enemy cruiser with it’s radar. Dropping out of the sky at Mach 1 and It had prepared it’s talons. The sound and sonic boom was heard clearly by everyone. Including the sailors on the Russian Frigate.
I was still alone on the long deck, still poised to go get midnight rations. I lost my appetite for anything available, good or bad. A narrow victory for our big fat slow tanker with friends in high places. The fear felt is still sharply felt after five decades. It was Just a bit more scary than a man with ill intent, coming it at you. Terrifying is the word. Saved by the glint in the eye of our Navy pilot. Ready for command from the carrier, a bit over the horizon, also with eyes on the Russian ship.
There is a bit of prose that Julie remembers while I wrote this memoir: “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint” Old truth, timeless and steady.
It’s very good news to everyone that understands the book of promise and freedom. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
A musical career that started around 1962 when I hung around with a four piece right out of high school. The Fables. We lived right down the block from The Trash Men and it seemed like a good path to follow. I just played bongos at that time even though keys were my strength. The Trash Men’s big hit was ‘The bird is the word’
In basic training, San Diego, I joined the Blue jackets Choir and marched and sang with them all through basic. I then taught radio at the A school in San Diego. Sort of musical with morse code. One has to have a certain ‘swing’ and it is called ‘ A good fist’.
Next I was fresh out of the service and played at the Minneapolis YMCA for a youth gathering a few times a week. That time with my brand new Martin D-28 doing folk music. Peter Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez songs. Got engaged for a brief time too! I was disengaged abruptly due to the Guthrie Theater. Another story.
Soon afterwards I met a 12 string guitar player and toured to the west coast and back. We were calling ourselves “Actual Mexicans” and I wound up living in my truck out in the bay area and playing on the street. Mostly in front of my favorite Safeway grocery store.
Back in Minneapolis I did a few folk gigs on the West Bank at the Riverside Cafe and then toured with Hinkley and Larsen and Mike Cass through the upper Midwest and up the east coast to NY state. We played obscure tunes, some of them a bit risque. Bob Frank, Fraser and DeBolt, and homemade ones. Mostly blues and folk style.
In the famous jams with Peter Ostrushko, Stephan Grapelli and the Grateful Dead. I was offered a guitar job by Jerry Garcia. He liked my odd rhythm chops. The bay area summer of love bands are all dead, heroin. I declined his surprising and tempting offer. Read Motorcycle Pilgrimage 4 and 5 for more details
Off to live in Wisconsin on 30 acres and began playing with a country Western band, Dandelion Wine. Singing classics and playing guitar and fiddle. Bars, clubs, dances and weddings. It was 1976 when I moved to Trade Lake.
Years afterwards with that little farm and a delightful family I toured with Duck for the Oyster, a square dance band for years and even played in my own wedding with Bill Hinkley, Kevin McMullin, and Mary Dushane with our four fiddles for the wedding march. Fantastic wedding in Lewis, Wisconsin, at Seven Pines lodge where Julie and I worked serving meals and acting in mystery dinners. Similar to Colonel Mustard in the parlor with the candlestick sort of mysteries. Guests loved it.
I was on our families worship team, Well Spring and we went and played on the National Mall, sang at Times Square church, Madison, Milwaukee, Superior, and local church events as well as in our own created house of prayer in Frederic for four years every Thursday night.
There was a terrific guitar player, Jeff Warren, I played with at a local church, New life, for several years. Fiddle, Viola and Mandolin with him. And that was about it. I play a little at home and try to keep my ears and fingers working and adding our Cabinet grand to worship in our living room. That’s it for now as I am aging a bit after Otto Uno times around the sun.
I sing along with songs from my PC right next the piano and am satisfied with 40 years of touring. I now work for Eagle Brook Church in Video production and it is satisfying. Often I wonder why I do not get asked to play with some of the groups that I still come in contact with, impromptu gigs as well as posted ones in local coffee houses and the small town newspaper nearby. Protection from my Father. There is no room for old folk musicians that thrived on Bologna sandwiches, beer and applause. Good.
I believe it is the Lord and his Holy paint caravan showing me once again, A fool on the road to redemption (title of my upcoming book)1stprinting 1stbook for sale for $25,000printing costs and editing costs
As usual, It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator
Photo of Bill and Judy with thanks to The Prairie Home Companion
Photo below of Bruce Berglund, founder of Actual Mexicans band and my best friend
My first thoughts on the very beginning was what a powerful nation Rome was. And yet, from poor leadership and inflated senses of self, she fell.
The philosophic, the scientific and the religious thoughts of today seem to be universal and timeless. My favorite is a slight variation from Descartes: “I think, therefore I am an intellectual” Or perhaps a young student who knows no history and runs on temporary feelings and some fools advice.
The mindset, the world outlook all colored by experiences is obvious, but still profound. Since I have read Francis Schaeffer’s book ‘How should we then live? several times, the concept of compromise and personal satisfaction runs through the whole book. Or; “how ya doin’? Fine, thanks! How’re you doin? Fine, thanks for asking” ad infinitum.The god’s we are now embracing instead of Jesus, seem to be somewhat familiar to Romes. Universal reset to the golden calf that ‘just appeared’ out of the fire of, the struggles of life. My generations gods: Sex, drugs and Rock and Roll. A little commune life spiced up with all those things.
Communist Hippies. Precursors to the Woke generation. I am special (true!) You are not (false) All truth is false and that’s the truth! “Eat the rich”, People power, Rent Strike! Make enough money for a pitcher of beer across Cedar Avenue, West bank of Minneapolis which now is totally Somali immigrants feeding money back home from fooling the dole que. I lived there after discharge and it was headquarters of world class musicians and hippies. They don’t speak English there now and they hate America except for our money. I don’t judge them for their race, just their ties to people who hate Israel and us. Thanks president Biden for flying them in on Walz’ sanctuary city scam.
The Roman Empire. Similar to ours in many ways. Conqueror of the known world. Roads everywhere. Most powerful country, best military, Controlled civilization with Caesar in absolute control to keep the roaming gangs in line.
The battle of Christian believers in the first 300 years were pretty bad and then just after Constantine made the state religion Baptist, the whole thing went sour with apathy and slouchy living. Violence, weird and badly done artwork, fascination with sex and of course, the games and government stimulus checks. Followed by inflation. Sound familiar?
Just like us. Then the whole thing fell apart and Rome was not the big guy in the world. Their freeways and secondary roads are somewhat still in use! Just a little narrow and bumpy and the bridges are iffy.
It seems that Greek civilization was not the main model we have used today for government and structure of society. It’s Rome. Not too long ago, our nation rejected our Creator and his Son for no god at all, Hegel, Darwin, Marx and Brilliant Steven Hawking. The god of our own power and science. Pretty flimsy religion.
Oh the Methodists, Baptists, Lutherans and Catholics putter along in competition with one another for the ‘Truth’ and the most perfect worship and doctrine. Good musicianship helps the popularity chart as well.
A Henri Nouwen quote seems appropriate here. ” When I pray, to whom do I pray? When I say Lord, what do I mean? This is the real question, the only question that you can make your most important question…when the question exhausts you so much that you need to read Newsweek for a little relaxation!” 1.
Apathy again. We care about the state of our country and talk about it a lot! As long as we have our goodies, lake homes and boats, recliners and bigger TV screens than our friends, we are on top. Until we get older and weird looking and forget who we are and who we are in God. As if we knew about God in our “used tea bag minds“.2.
We must be very careful to not be as sarcastic as I usually am. There is something wrong with our country, our world and Francis Capon says it well. ‘How should we then live?’2. Jesus Jesus Jesus, nothing else will do. Then It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator
I was in my twenties when I found an apartment that fitted my mood. Recently discharged from the military and I was going to art school! The apartment fit the inherited car from his Grandfather, an old, square shaped Buick sedan. It wasn’t like my first car, the British Racing Green MGA with the real knock-off spoke wheels and Pirelli Cinturados and a Derrington wood rim steering wheel. No, It was the car of my discarded Grandfather, now passed down to me. Discarded because the once strong fireman was not capable of driving or putting out fires anymore. It felt good to me to get that old Buick.
Grandpa had killed my cat when I was young, because it had to be as Grandpa could not have my cat in his home when Mom and her new husband went on their honeymoon to Sweden. I had no say as I was in grade school and felt discarded, set aside and not worthy of dialogue or even gentleness. Mom and her immigrant husband never went on that honeymoon either. One of those memories of the life of a person now dead but living within me. a.
It felt sort of similar too that my family sold my precious MGA when the draft came in with a whirlwind of death harvest for Vietnam. I signed up first before I could have gone west to the jungles. I went east to the Mediterranean sea instead.
So I sold Grandpas Buick right away, traded it for an Austin Healy Sprite. It felt good to be in a roadster again. Made up a bit for the Green MGA and the cat.
My apartment was a dump. Second floor above a Sherman Williams paint store on the wrong side of the tracks. Corner store, separate entrance. I had a neighbor who was down and out and bummed smokes from me. When I would ask him how things were going, the neighbor always said: “just take me to the dump” That memory reminds me of Marvin the paranoid android in Hitchhikers guide. “I’m not getting you down am I?”
It seems that the latest attitude we all have. “It’s at the end of it’s service life” or “that old thing? Too expensive to fix, toss it” “ You’re what! Pregnant! Git rid of it, You’ve got your whole life ahead of you!” and our favorite: “Heck, he’s over 80. Forget that cornea transplant. I mean really, how many years does he have left anyway?” “Put her in a home, she won’t notice anyway” And so forth. As side note, as I edit this post I just had eye surgery for cataracts and I am 81. Love it! I can drive without glasses now.
Feeling useless because the popular philosophy now is Existential in nature. One man in particular, a philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, went insane in the most beautiful country in the world, Switzerland. He came to the point of knowing the tension and despair for the loss of meaning in his life because of the loss of a personal God. His words are profound: “ But all pleasure seeks eternity-a deep and profound eternity”. Groucho Marks said: ” I want to live forever and I’ll die trying it” Truth from a great comedian.
Our country has found itself discarding our God of Creation perhaps because He is inconvenient and is sort of a kill joy because of all those rules he has. “I can’t follow all those rules in the Bible!” Of course we can’t, that’s the point of the rules. We need Him.
So we discard what we feel and know is not worthwhile to us. An old car, out of date food and personal relationships that are used up and don’t make us feel the way we want to. Or the way we feel we are entitled to perhaps. We have so much ‘stuff ‘ that it gets in our way when we don’t like it or need it. Broken things, old things past their expiration dates. Things that we don’t even remember acquiring. And so it goes on and on until it becomes easier to discard than repair. “That car, it was getting old and anyway, I was tired of driving it” How much different is it when it comes to this? “He was getting on my nerves. All this talk about going to a church marriage counselor! It was his fault, so I divorced him”
It seems prudent to us to just put it in a blue plastic container and park it down by the end of the driveway every Tuesday. ‘Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water! Throw out the tub too!’ I can do what I want, that’s what the world says. Another philosopher, De Sade put it well: “If there is no standard, no real moral base, then that old woman walking down the road can either be helped or run over. No difference if there are no moral standards” Those standards have been firmly set by an eternal infinite loving God who knows us and desires us to love him with the same passion he loves us.
So, it’s our choices, the small ones that make a great impact on everyone. Should I discard this friend? This inconvenient baby? This old fashioned religious teaching? This God who never did anything I asked Him to do?
Always, always our choice to build, repair, embrace and seek truth in the eyes of the Man who is more alive than any man who ever lived. Jesus, the master repairman of old and stressed lives. It’s pretty good.
Norm Peterson / Jack GatorFor continuation of this story line see ‘Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1-5
It was a restless night for me. I discovered the morning before that I had lost my wedding ring. I’ve worn it since 1992 and it means a lot to us. It has an inscription inside with the wedding date. There is another one too in italics: “Through headwinds and tailwinds” Julie and I met on bicycles under very strange and beautiful circumstances. Unbelievable ones. That is a story for certain. It involves a Lutheran Pastor, a bartender in Washington state, A camp cook and the bartender’s grandparents. It’s been written and published already, ‘A bicycle built for two’
So, back to the ring. The whole family clan began looking for the ring. Could be it was stripped off my finger when I removed gloves outside? (It’s happened several times) Search the garden, the wood shed, the garden tool shed, the glove box in the house and car. You get the idea. It was perhaps thrown off my hand in the night when I shook off a carpal tunnel numbness! The only way to search the room’s carpet was to move the bed. An awful lot of dust and the usual vacuum cleaner task. Incredible mess. After the bed was moved 90 degrees and the cleaning began in earnest, a dusty journal was discovered. In it were Details of my week long ministering to my old navy best friend Chuck, that was in hospice in Maryland. Cancer. That journal Hadn’t been seen for sixteen years. No ring was found. They left the bed turned ninety degrees and cleaned a lot. Their thorough cleaning was very thorough and they had been thinking about vacuuming there anyway.
Reading the found journal revealed memories that came came like a flood once again. Tears from that long ago relationship came. The trouble and the trauma that had been shared with my best friend. We were together at sea during the war between Israel and Egypt and Syria. Chuck introduced me to what he called a pep pill to keep them awake on long 24 hour watches. Communication duties in the top secret radio room. Wartime status. Those pills worked pretty well, we bought them in port from the pharmacy down the street from our apartment. They were pure meth and Chuck got addicted. I used them as needed. Chuck needed them and used them.
It wasn’t too long until the CID came knocking at our apartment in Naples, asking about drug usage. I was open and honest and told them about the legality from the pharmacy. They asked about marijuana too and I offered that a cook aboard had some that helped with the shakes from the pep pills. Suddenly we were in handcuffs and taken aboard to point out the cook as he sat in a corridor, also in cuffs.
We all got locked into a Marine brig on shore and the cook came after me in the night with a purloined knife. Chuck ‘set him aside’ the cook survived and was still in general population and we decided to escape. We climbed down from the third floor using a handy drain pipe and ran for our lives. I felt threatened and Chuck just wanted to get high. Maybe he made up the knife fight. Perhaps. We actually climbed that drain pipe twice. A week before we left, we just went down to our apartment in downtown Naples and asked our landlord, Tonino, to sell everything we had and get two train tickets to Palermo. A few days later we left on the drainpipe and were down in Sicily before reveille. We travelled all over Italy. Over a thousand miles all toll. I was able to walk into the Vatican in Rome and see the Sistine chapel. We stayed with Street Urchins below ground next to Trevi Fountain. Onward to Florence.
We were captured, taken to Pisa in handcuffs and just before we were handed over to another brig, saw the leaning tower as we leaned over in the backseat, still handcuffed. ” It really leans a lot! About 20 degrees or more”. We were tried and sentenced to hard labor in Spain for a half year and stripped of pay and rank. An honorable discharge ensued after a review years later by a friends uncle, a Kennedy in Washington. My Navy career was over. Thanks Chuck for the disappointment and loss. It was not a good time for me to think about not making in to the brown shoe navy ( chief ) And I was doing so well. My division chief cried when he saw me being led away. I was his protege and successor. That was the middle of the sixties. 2 years sea duty on three different fleet oilers.
Driving alone to an early prayer meeting, I began haranguing the Lord about the ring. The usual rant we all when things are difficult and not making sense. “Where is my ring! You know where it is Lord!” His answer was, of course, immediate and kind. I was reminded that gold ring would not follow me into eternity. Neither would my 18th century viola nor the 100 year old Gibson Mandolin. However, the story of me gently responding to Chuck’s dying request to visit will go with me to heaven. I answered Chuck’s question “So what’s the good news?” Indeed, there is very good news about forgiveness, redemption and the romance of Heaven. However, I still blamed chuck for the disaster and I held resentment within.
A lot of you know exactly what It is about. Years later when I visited him in hospice, I asked Chuck to meet me when it was my time to cross the bar. Chuck cried when their parting embrace ended. They both knew that living at the hospice is not usually a long term situation. When I arrived Chuck did not want to talk about Jesus, just reminisce and watch movies. We talked about Jesus anyway. The tears shared were powerful and knowledge of what was said was understood by both. To meet me meant he had to be there.
A month after the visit, Chucks wife called and said he wanted to talk with me. Right away he said “what are the words?” I answered that there were no words. Lets talk. We talked for an hour and a half. “Let’s just talk to Jesus right now!” So we did. I forgave him for all the trouble he got me into with the drugs and such. We talked more about all the things that matter on the party line to Jesus. After that hour and a half I asked him how he felt about revealing ourselves to one another and with the creator of all things listening in. “I feel pretty good actually” was his answer. ” Is that it?” Pretty much I replied.
A very short time afterwards, Mary Lou called and told me that Chuck was going to be baptized.
A few weeks after Chuck’s, baptism, I saw him entering paradise while I was praying in a local church.! A clear reality, my eyes wide open. He was walking away from me and he turned and pointed his hand over his shoulder and said five words that I will never forget: “It’s better than you said!”
He vanished and there as a bit of excitement on my part. Mary Lou left a phone message at home. She said Chuck had died that morning. I called back and told her; “Thanks Mary Lou! I know he died this morning because I saw him go. I gave her the five words he said. It was and the best good news she could hear! Chuck had ‘crossed the bar’ and was home. I am interested in what I said to him! It will be fun finding out.
All that trauma, the war, the pills and the court marshal led up to salvation for Chuck. Many decades before this happened, I was addicted to heroin and also heard five words as I was going for more heroin in front of me. “Life or death, choose now” Five words, decades apart that were less than one day in the courts of the Lord. Paths to death turned mourning into dancing for joy. Another dying that led to life eternal ,for both of us.
So I surrendered my angst about my wedding ring of gold and realized that the journal with the details of five words were only found when we looked for the ring. It was till missing after five days. Gone for good, impossible to search through leaves and grass around the farm. Sad, but reluctantly surrendering the ring because I now knew I would not take it with to cross the bar.
Weeks later, I went for my usual lap swim at a high school pool about 20 miles away. Early morning, around six am. I began swimming in the lane next to the wall and on the third lap, looked over into the deepest part of the pool and saw a round object that was dark. It looked like an O ring that was black. Could it be? That is where I was doing the backstroke five days earlier.
I asked a young gal that was swimming in the next lane if she dives. She said “sure” and I asked her to please dive down 10 feet and bring up that round object. She did and popped up with my wedding ring! Not so shinny after five days in chlorine and bromine, but it was the ring. The inscription said so.
A wonderful release of the sad loss, I held on tight to the ring and did a short swim and texted a picture home of the ring. It was Impossible that it was still there in plain sight. pool Not vacuumed, not in the drain close by. How deep Lord? “How deep do you want to go?”
I still swim there and I still work it out to swim in that same wall lane. I always look down when I get to the end at the deep part. I saw a necklace a few days ago and told the lifeguard and maintenance man about it. It had beads on it and it looked like leather. Lost and found indeed. I never have seen that young girl that dove for my ring again.
My surrender after the discovery of that Chuck hospice journal was a lesson never forgotten. Surrender. Die to the world and embrace life. He gives and takes away indeed. Grieve and rejoice. The good news, It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator
It was a perfect Saturday morning, cool after an inch or so of rain and a job that Soren, my son, had agreed to do. Cutting down trees. I love working with my family and so volunteered to assist him and do what I do.
We drove up about 15 miles straight north to a remote home. Two 4wd pickups, one older than the other..a lot older. The bed is starting to rust pretty bad and after cutting into the bed to replace the fuel pump, we found out how rusty. Missing hold downs and such. It’s a fairly good pickup and had a problem with fuel delivery when first started. A real problem. A neighbor that we borrow and service a nice compact JD tractor from and have known for many years, sold it to us. One dollar.
We took several chain saws, clippers, hard hats, chain oil and fuel. Soren even tossed in my old 80 cubic inch Jonsered saw., It will break your wrist to start if you don’t pull with total surrender and strength. It started but still needs a fuel pump. It was my first chain saw when I moved up here in 1976. I was working for Burlington Northern as a track worker and lifting and using it was easy. Fifty years later it got heavier and fussier. Good saw, Just set it with it’s big teeth on a huge round and it walks right through it with a delicious moan and power.
We got three trees down an I began using my Joe Biden electric saw to limb it and cut rounds. 60 amp battery pacs ready to take charge. Light weight and quiet. Soren used the new ‘Farm Boss’ Stihl and we filled the old Ranger’s bed after getting the brush cut and piled.
Dinner was ready and our delightful hose, Jane, had spicy chicken soup, coffee, bread and butter, ice cream and strawberries and rhubarb muffins for us. It was great. Conversations about the great authors of faith were the table talk.
A topic which was very personal and direct is how we expect Jesus to ‘fix’ our problems if we ask nice and are respectful. We plead and wheedle Christ when He is asleep in our boat to calm the raging storms around us. Waking Him up to do His thing. Again.
I drove the loaded pickup, sagging down the 1 ¼ mile driveway, trying to remember what we talked about, taking it to heart. The furious storm at sea, decades ago came to mind. That time my rescuer was the captain of the ship and I had no fear (mostly, just awe) Was this a small way that I trusted someone with my life at sea? After all, it was loud and wet and the ship was tossed to an fro as in a child’s bath as the waves worked their worst. The rigging howled and the bow was covered with water as we plowed through breaking 60 foot waves. Trust.
How would I have felt if our captain was asleep in his cabin and only I was at the helm? What would I have trusted in? I knew little or nothing about trusting the Lord in all ways and at all times. I would have banged on his hatch to waken him just as the disciples did.
Jesus knows there are now storms all around us and it is scary and a lot of us are praying for Him to intervene. He knows everything that was and will be and has answered all these prayers in His own way and we do not have to awaken him with our petitions. Be calm and know that He is with us, not against us and His will be done as it is in Heaven.
It is a new prayer that I offer to Him. I do not understand these times Lord, calm my spirit, once again, turn your face towards me and give me peace. Hallelujah!
In articulo mortis caelitus mihi vires, At the moment of death, my strength is from Heaven.
It was a trip that many of us have taken. Perhaps quite a few times for some. Julie and I decided to go North and become relaxed by the worlds containment of a third of all the fresh water on the planet. Lake Superior.
We made a brief stop at the entryway to the North Shore, Canal Park in Duluth. It was a Thursday morning and there was hardly anyone around and parking was a breeze.
An automated parking meter had issues and would not finish its given task. We tried to talk sense into it but the last thing we tried worked. Like a vagrant with an attitude, it wanted money, folding money and not plastic money. I understood that as I was a street busker in ‘The City’. Before credit cards. Only cash or groceries were placed into my guitar case. If you have been to that California city you know where that is.
Square card processing is not a possible sometimes when you are sitting on a sidewalk in front of a parking meter.
There was limited entertainment from the meter and it was adamant about cash. It pulled in our dollar bills and was satisfied and permitted our car to be parked next to it for 4 hours. We went into the basement coffee shop and got coffees and scones and went up to the second floor to the violin shop.
Old friends own it and they repair and sell bow played stringed instruments. A tale was told by Chris, the owner, about the guitar shop on the same floor. An interesting character was there buying a 1920 Martin D28 guitar. He paid cash and stood out side the violin shop with the guitar in his left hand, leaning on the stair case balustrade with his right. No one paid any attention to him as Duluth is rife with odd men. Chris knew It was Willy Nelson who was in town for a gig and was unrecognized and not fawned over either. Willy finally just strolled down the stairs and out the building. Another busker in from the cold seeking treasure. We had no idea what he paid for that Rosewood Martin.
We left for highway 61 to go north. Another famous guitar player wrote a song about that highway. My mind was now peculating along with the lyrics that Bob Dylan wrote back a few years ago about Abraham and his son Isaac.
It was easy to find the cabin they would have for the better part of a week. The really good ones are on the east side of the road where the lake shore is.Forget about the three story mansions and hotels with widows walks and turrets and fantastic views. The quest we were on did not consider those things. It was easy to find the cabin’s gravel road and small sign after acquiring a smoked whitefish from Kendalls just up the road.
The cabin was as close to the shoreline as physically possible. About 25 feet or so and the same above. It was perfect. One room with everything you would need. Toaster, sink, king size bed, table. The civilized things.
Stunned by the almost exotic view, they got everything out of the trunk and made it home there. I made some toast and coffee right away and Julie went down the boulders to the shore. There was some wind and left over waves from somewhere and the crashing waves and foam worked their welcome. She build a campfire and I worked my way down on the big rocks,and with her guidance we settled in. There was a stairway we found later.
We slept with the window cracked and the heater cranked. Two quilts and a wool blanket and we were sound asleep as pillow rearranging was done. The crashing of the waves was a familiar sound to me from my Navy days. The oil on board below the ships compartments made rushing noises as the ship rolled at about 12 knots steaming. It is akin to an ocean beach sound but the regularity is the key. I was rocked to sleep on aboard the old WW II tanker with eight million gallons of bunker oil that was heated by the steam pipes just below deck. it made the compartments nice and warm in Decembers at sea. It was all there in my deep memory and I was asleep quickly. The waves never stopped all night and through the next morning. Storm surf.
A hot cup of coffee and the fingers of foam rising up from the black rocks below was mesmerizing and the anxiety of civilizations rush began to fade fast. Nothing to concern our self with as Eternities Eternal song called us away, calling us home.
Waves for thousands of years on those chiseled rocks. The centuries of time, rolling on and on. Wearing away our world one channel of rock in it’s own ways. It roars and leaps and then there is a passive swirling as the next impact swells up and in seconds, crashes again. Timeless and the soothing power of creation.
We will probably return to Bobs cabins when we hear the Lords gentle voice calling us to the North Shore of Superior for refreshment and reassurance again We rely on the Him for His wisdom and provision for these things. Indeed that time is a gift and a treasure locked in our memories. Forever.
Who do you trust? Have you ever trusted anyone with your life? It’s a wondrous release from fear! Quite some time ago, I was at sea. My ship was massive. Over 600 feet long, 35 feet from the plimsoll line to the keel, 30 feet high to where I was stationed. Pretty big beam too. Somewhere beyond 60 feet wide. Huge ship with two props and 8 million gallons of various fuels. Bunker oil, JP4 aviation, gasoline. An AO class fleet oiler, biggest in the fleet.
Late at night, down below laying on my bunk, I was rocked to sleep and the deck was warm. As the ship would take a slow roll, the oil below would move from port to starboard and back again. A gentle whoosh sound, much akin to the waves washing a beach. The oil was heated with steam pipes and remained very fluid, thus the warm deck. In winter sleep was achieved as soon as your eyes closed. Safe, secure and steaming towards a port over the horizon. In the middle of the sea. (When all land is unseen, you always seem to be in the middle of the ocean. )
Awakening with the CP4 announcement speaker lifted the delightful warmth and sounds quickly away. The high whistle of the bosun’s pipe was our only alarm clock followed by, “Reveille, reveille all hands turn to and trice up, sweepers, man your brooms full sweep-down fore and aft. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized places. Now reveille, reveille” Obviously I have never forgotten that alarm clock.
I like the memory of the sound of the bosun’s pipe in my mind. As a musician, I harbor certain notes, forever. A quick sweep up with a slow drop back down. No one every figured out what a clean sweep down was. Something to do with old wood decked ships.
After a long time steaming, an illusion sometimes comes that the ship is standing still. There is a current streaming by the bow. Nothing changes, the pounding of the props and the flutter from the signal flags up on the 05 level. The water streaming by seems to be a big river, making the bow wave. It’s easier at night and you can see the fluorescent wake.
There is a powerful radar constantly circling above the third deck (03 level) and the signalmen who work up there are are told, if they ever want children, they are to stay away from that radar dish.
Danger came now and then to the huge ship in the form of other ships alongside. Hooked up with large hoses, often on each side. Pumping that fuel into their bunkers as everyone watched their heading and also moving as fast as possible to keep flight ops on the carrier beside them. The carrier was always on the port side (left). That nuclear powered carrier loafing along while our ship was at flank speed and the mess decks would shake in the stern when our powerful props broke the surface.
Once, when the ship was refueling a carrier on the port, and a ‘tin can’ (destroyer) on the right, a fishing boat came in sight dead ahead. Three huge ships, incapable of quick turning with all the hoses and rigging, we just came at that boat at flank speed. That boat passed between us and the destroyer, bouncing side to side and It just spit out at the wake of the ships. It was still afloat with what seemed like a dazed fisherman gazing back at those three huge ships just moving away from him. He was blessed, that’s certain. What a story back at Ville’ France, the fishing boats home port.
There were no ‘fiddle rails’ on the mess deck tables, so the men would put four slices of bread under their trays and then keep their food on the table. Extra work for the baker who’s oven was too hot. Way Soft bread. Norm had to explain when the lieutenant in charge of the mess deck asked him rather briskly why he took the bread just to toss it away. The galley window had a garbage can filled with bread. “Everyone does it Sir, it holds your tray from sliding off to the deck.” ‘Oh, I see’ said the LT. Not too much later, the oven got repaired the bread was pretty good. Then in rough seas, the clatter of an aluminum tray would occasionally ring out along with good humored laughter.
In the midst of a cruise, the big oiler became engulfed in a hurricane. Reeling and rocking with waves seen high above the second deck where our radio division worked. That’s about thirty feet over the water. Craning their necks, the guys in the communication division figured the waves were at least another thirty feet above them.
All hands were then in the skills of the captain and the navigator/quartermaster above, on the bridge. I was afraid and suddenly realized I trusted the old, crusty captain and my fear and worry were unnecessary. Would it help to be worried? Released from my fear, myself and my mates had a contest see which one of them would lean closest to the deck with their pea coats open and catching the wind. I won with a good 30+ degrees before I hit the deck.
Meanwhile, the deck apes were down below the main deck which was open with railings. They had secured themselves with small stuff (Navy jargon for what we call ropes) and they were just washing around down there having fun in their own way. Crazy. Another way to deal with fear.
Now, later in life, I put my trust in the Creator of my soul, King and Rescuer. It took me quite some time to realize, once again, my life was known and protected by our Captain. The course is laid in and station keeping true. Faith and trust and our Captain’s love takes the fear away. He always takes time to tell us that He will never leave us. He is for us, not against us. He is for you, He is for you.
I wrote and copy-wrote a song decades ago when I thought the world was my burger to devour (with fries) and songwriting and performing were my destiny. Only the title of the song now makes perfect sense in the situations we have found ourselves in. Anxiety, fear and restlessness abound.
{Dancing alone.} The original column was written during the Covid19 scare and so called pandemic. Most of us remember the dystopian and totalitarian government actions during that time. The death tolls were not even close to the Spanish flu. None of the draconian measures worked. Masks, isolation, closing everything except for big box groceries and bars. The vaccine did not work either. What a disaster.
We were indeed dancing about. Whizzing down the road, against all declarations of our leaders.
Going somewhere, anywhere, just to once again be free to go somewhere. It didn’t work. Coming home to safety without the plague hitchhiking on us, we did the usual things. Make supper, get the parlor stove laid in and lit. Do the family business out in the shop, get ready for planting and go to one of the few shops down the road deemed necessary by the government. What? We can’t gather with our friends and worship the living God?
We can’t, we can’t, we should not. We are in danger, we are all in danger under a death threat as is the whole planet. Inconceivable! But we accede and say, As you wish. Those who resisted and kept their restaurants open were prosecuted and fined an absurd amount. Especially in Minnesota.
I felt so much disconnect with almost everyone on the planet except a handful or so. The imposed oddness, the imprisonment before imminent execution as we read about in scripture and history. The comfort of my cell, even driving in our car. A cell with bars, not bars of signal from Verizon
I felt the shrug of being rapidly passed. Don’t look at me, don’t get close to me. The hurtling shopping carts filled with toilet paper. Don’t don’t don’t. Please wear a disguise around your face for I know you fear me as I fear you. Social distancing which our head of CDC at the highest level told us was useless and just made up. Six feet apart. Six feet under. Make your choice while fully masked. The masks were ridiculous and actually caused carbon dioxide buildups and not prevent a 5 micron virus with the 24 micron mask materiel used. Fake news? Reality? The Matrix is a documentary, I just heard it on Fox News.
Shop till you drop dead and we’ll send the wooden cart for you. Wear the white or yellow or blue mask, it won’t help. Those helped you feel how I felt about you. Isolated and confused. Fearing the plague.
With due reverence, but very plainly, let it be said that God can do nothing for the man withshut hand and shut life. There must be an open hand and heart and life through which Godcan give what He longs to. An open life, an open hand, open upward, is the pipe line ofcommunication between the heart of God and this poor be-fooled old world.
…S.D. Gordon (1859-1936),
I am stretching out, looking fondly upon memories of freedom I fought for in the military. My leaders for this time are many and none of them make any sense to me. It is a dream forgotten as I stumble in the dark at 1 in the morning to the bathroom. Walk back to bed and actually try to remember the power and lack of it in my dream. It’s gone with a few remembered scenes. A mission of sorts, confusion and almost palpable in my real life.
The blue pill or the red pill. Got to remember at least to take my pills in the morning. I look upon my desk when I awaken later and cast my eyes upon books, journals and the book with all the answers if I would just open it and read. Jesus loves me, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, we are weak but He is strong.
Indeed, I am not dancing alone. I am never alone and David knew this as he danced before the King of Kings thousands of years ago.
Jack gators grace notes 