There I was, running Camera 1, mounted high at Front of House control booth. Trying to ‘shoot’ what my director had told me to point to on the stage below. It’s a big room with often close to 2000 people seated. A dynamic presentation of the worship music is the goal and the camera shots of the electric guitar both far and near with energy, the drummer building a crescendo of many strikes on the tom toms, snare and cymbals visible to camera 5, a hand held camera.
Cross shots of engaged singers and a little energetic dance from the bass player also convey worship with energy. Somehow, the keys players are sort of hidden in the shadows. I would like the cameras to get close enough a shot to show the keys and the hands of music. It doesn’t happen very often but makes a clean and beautiful statement if it can be done. Lighting is an issue back there in the semi-shadows.
A constant stream of instructions comes over our ‘coms’ which just have one earpiece on the right side. “Look here, move there, pull back wide and get several singers”. You get the idea.
The room is dark except for the lights which can surprise you with a lens flare. I like them, most camera people do. We had five cameras to work with, the bigger ‘campus’ has 9 or 10.
I remember vividly the best shot I found. Near the close of the music, one of the singers stepped forward to her mic and as scheduled, prayed for what was on her heart for the room and anyone watching the screens in other parts of the church. In this case, there are two screens above the main stage too. We were ending the shoot and I swung my camera to the left and there, in the shadows was the worship leader, head bowed and hands clasped as we could hear the prayer. Almost invisible. I pushed my lens as much as it could go and just watched.
I saw a renaissance painting. A Rembrandt of shadow and fabric, capturing a moment of life that was perfect, stunning and humble. My director did not see it nor order the shade control to open my iris. It was just for me to see. A fiery sunset with all the pathos and humanity visible.
I never will forget that picture and it lingers with all the others. Orion as I walk out to our car on a winter morning. A sudden meteor streak through my windshield. You have them stored away too. A high splash of storm surf suspended in an oriental impressionist painting.
What a gift to see these things and realize they are timeless paintings for our miracle eyes. Ours alone to gasp and smile at. It’s pretty good,
Norman Peterson / Jack Gatorwith thanks to Sony for the camera photo
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.
In basic training, San Diego, I joined the Blue jackets Choir and marched and sang with them all through basic.
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!
Soon afterwards met another two 12 string guitar players 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.
Back in Minneapolis I played on the West Bank again and in 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.
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.
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.
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 very 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.
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 $25,000
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
It was always there. A loss, not even known for what it was. An emptiness that fell upon every thing that I experienced through my life. Empty of love and lost it when I was a child. I weep now when I realize what I felt that time when the emptiness took hold of me. I always thought it was abandonment. A memory that diffused relationship with everyone. I tried to cope with that memory, not even aware I was doing that. Clever words spoken and written. There were many times when that empty feeling would diminish and it was always the same thing. Smiles and words that promise embracing mutual friendship. I needed to forgive the people that it seemed I was abandoned by. My family did not know me nor did I know them. Relatives that should have known those things too. Inherited behavior, perhaps cultural.
“I believe that God’s purpose in giving us memory is to enable us to go back in time so if we didn’t play those roles right the first time round, we can still have another go at it now…finish with the past in the sense of removing it’s power to hurt us and other people” Frederic Beuchner
Music was soothing then and a smile inside at a moments of beauty got me hooked into that beauty. Songs and orchestral creations still work well. I remember some of those songs. that I played. the phrases of praise momentarily fill the emptiness. ”I loved what you did” or sometimes just a few notes spoken of. It always makes the emptiness fade. I still crave approval and contact. Applause was nice but fleeting, Playing Ashokan Farewell on the violin perfectly, without an accompanist on guitar for example. Fulfilling for a moment. List, Chopin and Beethoven are soothing time and again. A perfect den of pleasure, even driving. Alone.
It was a coldness in my very core that drove me to play well, and now, to write well. A romantic spirit. Those moments are when the emptiness would back off. Approval and love of just me. I did not know why those times of contact and praise satisfy. It seems selfish to enjoy a secret pleasure in being alone.
Isn’t it like that for everyone? Seeking smiles and laughter from people and amazingly, an interest in us that might be a friend. There are few friends that I can contact anytime for their care and seeing me and they myself for what we are. An empty man, perhaps like they are. Leaning on one another like an unmovable roof truss. Solid wood. With knot holes and defects but Oak or Gopher wood. A trust able to withstand bad storms.
Many of them are Gone now from the inevitable event we all must experience. They died. How inconvenient of them to do so. I still love them dearly and I know they still do. One close friend appeared to me just as he was dying. He was 2000 miles away, so it figures friendship and love is eternal. I lean on Jesus often, especially when I am desperate.
Most of those friends were the kind we all need. A phone call or even showing up without calling, just showing up. Not even a hint of inconvenience from the open door. “You were in the neighborhood? That’s over a hundred mile trip! Tell me what’s going on, I feel that you need encouragement and a good hug.
The day of the wall phone is gone. Now we have Facebook and posts telling us what’s right with us. All neat and clean without any tears or embraces of understanding. Isaac Asimov’s robots now have cell phones and good internet. We edit conversations akin to open book exams.
The two years of isolation and fear reduced our civilization to rubble. The covid theatre that had bodies piling up that where not there when the curtain was lifted. No smiles seen from anyone. The old game of keep away. A scowl if you were in public without ‘the mask’ The deadly bat flu made it fearful to come near and we were so much poorer, even crippled by it. We all lost and the stats and graphs and zoom meetings were just party favors for the worthless messages of untimely death. It’s always untimely for everyone. We always think we will live forever. That is true but not in the limited way we think of it.
There was enough money generated by the scamdemic to weigh it by the semi trailer load. Easier to count that way There was no one accountable anyway, Not yet.
I an not alone in my quest now. The world needs good friends and we must learn how to do it. Smiles. Waving from the mailbox at the lake people with cabins just over our hill that are seen in season. I have noticed that a slight smile and a nod are beginning to make a difference. Smiles and laughter ring out as bells from the steeple. Come. Gather together and be thankful for blessings and deliverance from evil. Look upon the world as a small child’s smile at an adoring adult. It opens our hearts as we look upon our world. Not through rose colored glasses but with clear vision. We take off the disguise of indifference and reveal ourselves and see.
This is who we were created to be. I’m not afraid of you. It’s civilization 101. I have been hiding for most of my life and I have began to offer myself to my best friend who is nearby. Close as my heart beats in synchrony with His. Asleep while I am dreaming, He tells me stories of romance and adventure.
The creator of us all, different and beautiful. Loved and embraced as we listen and the world becomes pleasant and we enter into the joy of the Lord. Well done good and faithful. Well done.
It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator
Photo of my bench on the south hill (the cathedral) built by Soren
I was curious. There was a noise about a mile away, maybe two that was irritating me. A noise like a Chinese water torture. A machine emitting the beep beep beep as it backed up. Over and over, all summer and fall and now approaching winter. None of my family was irritated, but I heard a constant A above C wherever I was working on the ranch. Over and over for months and finally it was time to find the source. Perhaps a bobcat or Track Hoe building a road or parking lot. Big parking lot.
Finally, the last wheelbarrow of dry firewood was stacked on the porch and I had it. I got into the old Ranger and drove to the noise. Backtracked once but found the source. There is a road that goes off the main highway to a gated housing community. New homes. Gravel road. Gator drove up to the gate which was open. An electrically operated gate. There was a new road punched through the woods covered with #3 coarse rock for a short distance. I could hear the beep beep and knew it was the source area. I began walking up after shutting off the truck with it in reverse gear selected.
Realizing I might look out of place, I grabbed a couple of papers out of the glove box. Looking like an inspector of sorts as I walked up the wobbly rock. There was a parked truck just up ahead. It wasn’t bad going until I got past the truck. Then wet clay with puddles. Nope, too mucky.
Nothing within sight, curiosity somewhat satisfied, I started back to the truck. No truck. What! I looked left and right for it and rounding the corner, saw the truck. It was parked in a ditch on the wrong side of the road. A rather steep ditch and walking up to it, I found the ditch as ‘a bit wet’. Truck was ok, started but just spun the wheels (not 4wd). Suddenly a young man up on the hill at the only home on the road so far, called out to him and said he could help. A tractor started and began to warm up in a shop and the young man walked down his driveway with a canvas tow strap and chain attached.
Astonished, I immediately got down on the wet ground and hooked the strap to a convenient tow hook on the front of the Ranger. The strap was of a perfect length and shortly, down the driveway came a nice sized New Holland 4wd tractor. Gator easily hooked the hook to a small length of chain on the top of the bucket. A nod and thumbs up from the driver, back to the Ranger and the tractor pulled me out to the road. I crawled back under the front end of the truck (now with wet pants but not in 2 inches of water) got the strap off and the young man came off the seat of the tractor. He had a lit cigarette and I asked him for a smoke. Standing there with the crisis over, I was back in the military when only a smoke would do to relax. I have not smoked for decades but it is the thing to do when your life has been saved.
Several cars drove by, high end cars without a glance in their direction. Nice Mercedes’. A few minutes earlier, there would have been a serious problem. A sixty thousand dollar car with an old Ford rolling backwards across the road. I must have missed the last quarter of an inch engaging reverse or perhaps it just popped out from the strain of the steep road. The parking brake cables had long ago broken and if you are familiar with rear drum brakes, the repair is not fun, expensive and who needs parking brakes anyway? We never think those are also referred to as emergency brakes. I didn’t, I do now.
It was amazing and impossible. Shaking and humbled, I drove home, thanking the Lord over and over for His protection and help.
My expotition (family word from wind in the willows) was successful as my rescuer filled me in on the development project. It was a driveway to a sold winery that overlooked Little Trade Lake. A good friend and neighbor that lives on the lake, Rick, the was pleased as this turn of events. The winery had numerous parties that echoed over the lake waters late at night.
We could hear those parties now and then, but high above the water with amplified acoustics, it was over the top for our friend Rick. Of course, as a small bonus, lake development in rural America is funding a large amount of township taxes. I lived in the ‘cities’ most of my life and can comprehend the quiet of rural lake cabins. Mostly quiet. Now it’s power bass boats and jet riders but only on the weekends that are warm. As a pleasant sound, those weekends are sprinkled with kids laughing and sporting their parents side by side ‘golf carts’ up and down our road. It has to be an incredible feeling of freedom for them and does not irritate me at all. Just the incessant beep beep backup alarm on a bobcat. For months.
We disconnected that on Rick’s bobcat a long time ago when we serviced and used it. No one has gotten run over yet.
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‘
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.
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
We have all seen the signs at church’s on our drives. Worship at 10. What is that really? How can a church service be also called worship? It would that worship is the most important thing to be conveyed to people driving by, looking for a convenient time to pop in. We know there is teaching or a sermon of some kind. Is that worship? Or is worship singing, music of some kind! Pianos or an organ played by the professional keyboardists?
Memories of a pastor up on the stage, waving his arms, conducting the off key choir of my sister and myself. There, on the solid-tombstone-like sign out by the road, is an announcement of Sunday school. The memories of stiff, starchy shirts and one-day a week shiny black shoes and a suit coat also worn once a week.
Children’s thoughts of school on one of only two days off from ‘regular school’ Incomprehensible words and recitation of forgotten things we were supposed to study quickly on Saturday evening so we looked and sounded perfect. The old flannel graph with cloth cutouts of sheep, shepherds, and Goliath. I did not enjoy Sundays when I was very young.
It was Usually hot in summer and winter and in a basement room with other kids, rolling their eyes at the teacher when she wasn’t looking. The bright side was dinner out at Hart’s with the baked chicken that my Grandpa liked too! The chicken was worth the trip. My only excuse these days for not having a grip on what was being poured into me was the rule we had to be in Sunday school until we were 21. Then we were welcomed into the main church building on the other side of the parking lot.
Now I see what I had not seen in my childhood. Beauty and sermons that take your breath away with the truth of them. The music has the same words. Now with Electric guitars., drums and sound systems that actually work. There is good coffee in the lobby and our friends are there too. There is an eagerness to be with people to experience the Lord and His words. Love letters, scripture. I sing the notes I hear, always have heard. Sometimes I sing Harmonies which can puzzle nearby worshipers. I can tell and so I get back onto the main octave and notes. It’s fun for me to sing loud because the music is loud too.
Not long ago I was joined to a Christ centered music team that sang love songs to the Lord. We traveled a lot and sang at many houses of prayer in Minnesota and Wisconsin. We even had the grace given to sing at Times Square Church in New York City. There was no one else in there but the janitor who let us in. I like to impress people when I mention that event till it comes down to the empty church bit. None of them are empty though are they?
That music starts a life of its own and a path opens up. And so goes the romance of all loves. The love that lasts. The sound of the best sunset you can ever remember. A realization that nothing else even comes near.
How it feels to touch the heart of eternity. Waiting with hushed voices at times, glancing side to side to see that Man that is there. The Man with fire in His eyes. Musicians and scholars seeing for the first time the bridegroom. The singers sing and the scholars dig into old languages, seeking the reason for this romance. The focus. The looking glass of a telescope fixed on light that is impossibly old.
On our side of eternity it seems like the flame on a guttering candle. No one can see what you can see, no one can sing what you can sing. There is no one like Him so open up your eyes and see. Getting to the place where our souls can rest while the fires are banked and steam is rising. A sharp intake of breath. Astonishment and once again time starts anew. The worship, akin to David’s worship in the wilderness or the 40 years of Israel in the desert.
Quite a few times at the end of a session of several hours there is hushed singing with no instruments. The team can hear others from the room also softly singing. They finally stop and there is a feeling that comes to that you can’t lie down and you can’t stand. Absolute silence in the room that is radiating Jesus’s presence. Stunning joy with some tears. People are baptized with John’s water and the Word must be baptized with fire to go into our hearts. A blazing bush drew Moses and a blazing church will draw the world. Music and the truth of scripture are the kindling and you are the fuel that responds to the flames of love coming forth.
“Every poet and musician and artist, except for Grace, is drawn away from the love of the thing he tells, to the love of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot be interested in God at all but only in what they say about Him.” a.
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.
They are almost invisible, very much so on a web stream broadcast. They move about, trailing thick expensive cables back and forth in their wakes. Appearing to be special force units with communication gear attached to their heads. Obviously someone is telling them what to do and where to go, but what is it they are doing? There are more of them than you can easily see.
Before the service there is a ‘huddle’ at ‘front of house’ (control booth in the sanctuary that controls sound and lights) We gather and share, musicians and techs to solidify and encourage one another. Of course, there is prayer from the worship band leader. It is a very important bonding for those who do their best at presenting Jesus Christ in song to the audience. It is not an opera or a performance. It is a privilege to do so. There is pay for some that work 5 days or so a week setting and rehearsing it all. The camera operators and some techs are volunteers. The best pay for all of us is His presence.
Trolley cameras run on tracks and do those smooth side to side shots just above the audience view. It really helps those watching engage in the worship. There are separate grips at the ends of the track to stop it and push it. That grip job is an excellent class on momentum and velocity. Hand held (often on one’s shoulder) move around and can catch momentary shots of the musicians or their instruments. The director instructs operators where to look, sometimes at the audience that are engaging and worshiping.
Big ‘Jib’ cameras with large booms and complex controls do those impossible flying shots but can focus closely on a keyboard. Those cameras have ‘fences’ around them to prevent people from being hit by the wide range of movement by the operator. Complex camera operation.
Tripod cameras are elevated on platforms and are a real asset too. Sometimes there are remote cameras that are run with a joystick by the director or switcher. They can zoom in and out and swivel. It’s all a’ bit more complex’ compared to the usual cameras we use in our cell phones. It is always distracting when people hold their cell phones up to capture a performance. I wonder if they are really engaged with what is going on before them. A small 8 millimeter would not be quite so intrusive but of course, as a technical dinosaur I have opinions on progress and regress.
Leave video tasks up to the men in black. They have time afterwards to be moved by the totality of the production. A review in the room of a recent set shows the crew how to improve the experience for the viewers so there is nothing seen or felt besides the worship. Working on video production is a thing that can distract from the reasons they are there in the first place. They help Convey story, and the story of Jesus beauty can often be accompanied by tears and spiritual engagement to the audiences. There are ‘huddles’ before every service at ‘front of house’ (control of sound and lights) In the sanctuary to encourage and bond production teams. Prayer is essential at those times as well. Almost akin to the ready room in the military.
Hand held, Jib, tripods all have their positions and are numbered through the comms everyone has. Those Cameras are heavy and very complex. There is a director in touch with them and exact instructions are given as to what to capture, how close and the next shot to prepare for. It’s a choreographed dance. A lot of training and experience for both sides of the production. There are ‘grips’ that make certain the camera operators do not trip nor step on the fiber optic cables that send the video feed, in the control room there are aperture operators that control iris settings, lyrics panels that are just for the screens to show words. It’s fast and fascinating to listen to. Timing and broadcast (simulcast) adds to the complexity.
As with many technical occupations, there is shorthand and acronyms. ME mixed effects, SHADER is a control panel that adjusts camera aperture, MI, musical interlude, Load the band, CP campus Pastor, PUSH go closer with the camera control. I like ABLETON controlled by the drummer to add a CLICK track to the other musicians which sounds a click in the IEM’s they wear to keep everyone on beat (IEM is an in ear monitor) This is a beginning list and at first sounds like another language which it is.
So many sounds bouncing around that must be accounted for and the volumes are carefully set. There is a handheld unit that measures that as a sound tech walks through the room during rehearsal. ( It’s called an SPL sound level pressure.) It’s all highly technical. The control rooms and electronics remind you of Houston’s launch control for spacecraft. Blinking lights and fast button pushing and many screens for each person. Of course, the only sign of failure is an audience confused and the sound booth failure joke is; An audience looking backwards towards the the booth. They know who is screwing up.
The main reason the camera folks are dressed in black is to not be visible on the video feed. The camera iris is quickly set for different light situations and most of the people on the stage are dressed in lighter colors. The lights show those video shots so they can be seen by the viewers. As a result, black does not bounce back (it absorbs light). You can see them if you look for them but it isn’t a distraction on the whole. The lighting is another job that works with the director.
The audio for broadcast is another technical job. That audio engineer that controls the ‘in house’ experience. You can only imagine the electronics, cabling, simulcast and internet connections to be set up and tested every day. One day events involve semi-trailers of equipment and adds a lot of work to those teams. At many churches, many of the team are volunteers and do not get paid for this work. They do it for the joy and camaraderie.
Another volunteer is a time traveler. The job is to be an assistant to the director. The music rehearsal is listened to a half dozen times before hand and the assistant director charts which instrument, and singers are in a certain part of the music. There are soft sections and loud crescendos. Then all that assistant has to do is tell the director and the camera operators which shot is the best depiction of the musicians. Before it happens. 4 bars beforehand, gives everyone time to literally focus on the next solo or high point (or ending soft or quickly) Stage lighting is a factor as well.
the director tells the camera operators what shot is indeed coming up and also when their shot is being broadcast to the screens in house. All the camera operators and other control people have headsets with microphones to help them be part of the dance. It’s beautiful and often breathtaking when it comes together.
The main campus that broadcasts throughout the world has the most precise and skilled media teams. It’s called ‘simulcast’ and if you watch on-line, that is the music you see.
The director sees all the camera shots on separate screens, selects and instructs movement and image constantly. “One push, ready 1, take 1, Four push right, take 4, Five push cymbals, take 5.” As fast as you can read this. Things speed and slow according to the songs. Verse, pre-chorus-chorus. bridge. The sound pushes up to emphasize the chorus as the room gets intense with singing praise to Jesus.
It’s not manipulation, It’s invisible and correct and if done right, no one watching is aware of the team doing this. It is energy, very much the same thing that broadcast and movie directing use. Tell the story and no one thinks about it that is watching. That is a good as it gets. The director gives a brief “great shot” over the comm line now and then and that is very well received. Augustine stated “teaching is essential, praise is sweetness but persuasion is victory”
There is a lot more to production. It’s fascinating and now you know why the team is called ‘the men in black.’ Not seen but essential. It has nothing to do with agent K and J.
“My own eyes are not enough for me. I will through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many is not enough. I will see what others have invented…literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege of individuality. In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself…I may be full of goodness and good sense but still inhabit a tiny world. If I was content to be only myself, and therefore less of a self, I am in prison.” a.
It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator
picture courtesy of Bjorn Peterson, my son, at a One Thing Conferencewith a hand held camera.
Jack gators grace notes 