Self worth

Sproul Plaza in the Genteel World

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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


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


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

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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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

The first signs of things to Come

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Signs of otherness. Different ways of looking at the world. Wondering about the people involved in these things. Speculative questions, because history of things of the past can only be derived from writing of eyewitnesses (the best type) or records from the time and place. The more corroborating evidence,the more assured history can be derived. Autobiographies are the best. They have to be believed of course. Fiction does not read as history does. Historical accounts usually have odd things and twists of life that authenticate them.

A few examples: I had the earliest General Class Amateur radio license when I was in grade school. The examiner at the downtown courthouse said that. That examiner didn’t specify whether it was just in the state or the nation. Thirteen words a minute Morse code and the ability to sketch a power supply and an oscillator circuit. Things like that. Laws and rules of radio frequencies and basic electronics/electrical knowledge to round it off.

I remembers too asking my 3rd grade teacher when the class would be studying soil and earth crust stratification. She laughed and said “later for that” Odd, I thought. I really wanted to know those things. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself and the class’ was also said. Don’t stand out was the message. It won’t go well.

I wondered why his classmates talked about leaves in trees and stars and other things far away. I was very nearsighted and finally was examined and got my first set of glasses. ‘Four Eyes!’ Bullies, finally finding an in road to beating me up. My ‘favorite’ was a Croatian boy. Face washing in the snow was one of the highlights of winter. All that young boy wanted was to have a friend. I was perfect, an outcast and very different. Third grade children do not talk about ionization of the atmosphere and radio signals blocked from the sunspots. I turned out pretty good and I really know now what I have been prepared for. All that curiosity I was gifted with, all those other gifts. These things were designed to help me write about another man. A man that I don’t need a radio to communicate with, a man I can hear in my mind and spirit. Clearly.

That man lived a long time ago, and did such astonishing things that are written down in a very reliable history book. Quite a few books actually. That young man, not a child, but a young man of no reputation, did things that no one has ever done since. He was at a social event, a wedding with his Mother, and the guy who was throwing the party ran out of refreshments. A social blunder of the first sort, especially at so important an event. The revelers had drunk all the wine and it was getting embarrassing for that host.

The young man’s mother, she knew his father very well. She pointed out the problem then, and her son told her it was “not His time”. An odd thing to say of his life from then on. Never the less, Mom told the waiters to do whatever her Son told them to do. As recorded, after a short time, her Son told the waiters to fill up all the empty jugs with water. A lot of wine jugs and a lot of water. One of the guests drew a flagon of the fluid from one of the jugs and pronounced it the best wine of the celebration. “Most hosts save the cheap box wine for the end! This wine is exquisite, the best I have ever tasted!” Water to wine, bypass the vineyard and all that messing about with stomping grapes and aging. This was the very beginning of the young man’s tale. Just a peek behind the curtain of eternity. So, Discerning historical events isn’t too hard to do. No one would make up a story like that.

The things that I write about are similar. No one can make up stories like that. If you know where and how to look, you know. Other historians, distant in the past, or right now on this page, want to tell truth. It is so fascinating and astonishing to discover a world outside of ourselves that tells us who we are. Tells us what we are and why we are here.

Of course, the young man was Jesus and his Mother was Mary. His Father I leave to you to discover. It’s a great family tradition. Don’t get confused, Just talk to Jesus. He’s pretty good. Jack Gator

The Chain saw and the Trout stream

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments

It was an average late spring day and I was up in the birch trees in the middle of my land. The fairly new big Jonsered chain saw was running good. I had recently purchased the saw at a friends hardware store in the 40 acre musician neighborhood down in the cities.

I had washed dishes with him and we listened to incredible folk, jazz and bluegrass music with our hands in the sinks.

So, with the new saw, I was cutting light firewood for the new wood stove to go with the old farmhouse. City boy, railroad gandy dancer swinging that big saw around with muscles from the railroad track gangs.

Spotting the mail get delivered about a quarter mile away, I set the saw down and walked the hypotenuse of the field and got the mail. There was an official death notice of my father in California in the mail. I hadn’t heard from Dad since he and his third wife went to her home town in Tanzania.

Dad had sent me a a postcard when he remarried. That postcard had a picture of his “new family”. Most of them were working for Jacques Custou exploring the ocean or were involved with climbing Everest and getting their PHD’s in research of some kind. I felt a little out of it with Dad’s new family. Railroad Track worker on 30 acres seemed of at the other end of the success spectrum. I had no idea what had happened and did not get an invite to the funeral or the reading of the will for that matter. I went back and picked up the chain saw, walked or staggered back to the house and dialed the old black wall phone in the kitchen, I knew only one number in California, Dad’s,and got my uncle on the line!

The will had already been taken care of and my uncle now lived in Dad’s ritzy home in Rancho Bernardo, near San Diego. “He told me I was to be the executor of his will!”I shouted into the old Bakelite wall phone. I was puzzled until I realized my uncle has the exact same name as I do. “What did he leave me?” Was the somewhat broken question.”Nothing but we will send you some pictures he took and his camera too.”

Staggered by the theft, I could only say one thing, “I want his ashes, I know what he wanted me to do with them” Uncle and Cousin sent the ashes of my father and photos/camera and as a bonus, a metal box with fly fishing hand made flies. It was a small box in the mail box at the end of my driveway. Dad wanted his ashes put into a trout stream. They fished together back in the days before the family imploded when I was in high school

At a folk music gig way up the coast of Lake Superior, I noticed a small stream next to the lodge and in the morning, took Dad’s ashes down to the stream and tossed them in a hand full at a time. There was a surprising swirl of man sized ‘smoke’ over the waters each time! I took the identifying metal dog tag and skipped it out in the lake at the mouth of the river. Just like a flat stone would skip. I got a triple splash before the metal tag plunged into the water. It was a tough goodbye without knowing the story of the death and not even knowing he was ill. The tears fell into the small stream at the loss and shock of a ruined family coming home in yet another surprising way. Coming back to be burned down again.

I went back home after telling that pleasant man that owned the lodge the story. It was a nice place to stay and the owner was an acquaintance of my Berkeley house mate, Charley, who played with me the night before at the lodge. Good music to get lost in. Old country blues with a 12 string and my 6 string D28.

About a week later, got a call on the old black wall phone from the lodge owner. “Hey, just wanted to tell you I caught a really nice Rainbow just up stream from the lodge” The owner knew the story. It felt right, It was a trout stream, a good one and I still remember those man size swirls of ash from the ceremony beside that stream. I tossed the box, but not into the stream. It was a perfectly done task for my Father.

So, there was no inheritance from Dad’s money but my cousin did get to send his kids to college with the estate. I asked him when my boys were grown, decades later, if now he could help sponsor their expenses for college. “Nah, I’ll pass” was his response. My other cousin refers to him as ‘Rotten Rodney” Seems to fit.

The memory of that funeral by the river still lingers long afterwards.. It was the perfect and right thing to do. The stream’s name is the Cross River, way up shore of Superior, and later in my life, Jesus became the center of my life. I found the eternal truth about the Cross and the money I lost means nothing now. The honor that the Lord set forth for me is on that steam is the real treasure.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson

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Featured

Falling in Love

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

This column appeared in the Paper around March of 2020. I snipped out the column and did not snip out the date. Often, I will look at a column with a fresh revelation about it’s subject and do a little bit of rewriting. Just a little. This one reflects a thought I had on December 7th as I was playing my viola with my family worship team in a city named after an Indian Chief, an hour south of the our ranch. Osceola. It seemed appropriate to share, after all the first motorcycle I owned was an Indian Chief. It’s pretty good.

FALLING IN LOVE Rewritten on December 8th, 2020, Edited on October 14th 2025

There is an emptiness in everyone that longs to be filled. That longing is in all of us, all. You can choose to ignore it at a fairly young age or put it aside for a season of decades. But, it’s still there and must be satisfied. It isn’t wishful thinking or a romance of sorts. It’s closest description is holding your breath for as long as you live. That emptiness is just as painful and destructive as not breathing. It’s akin to a hole inside of you that never is filled by you.

When in the womb, we have the answer for that longing. The connection with that emptiness is fulfilled by the presence of the lover surrounding you. That is, until you leave that warm swimming pool inside. An immediate cry comes forth. You cried, we all do as soon as we take that first breath. Disconnect, absence of the surrounding oneness, the lover of your soul and the supplier of all you need. Food, air and communication. It was offered with tenderness and awe of your life.

That longing now again needs to be filled. The food and comfort are given now in our vulnerable existence and that works. It’s not as intimate as it was, but now we can cry out if we are lonely or hungry or hurt. The child knows much more than we realize and there is one time in history that two unborn children knew they were near one another and moved as best they could in the womb towards each other. I’ll tell you in a bit if you don’t know who they were.

So a child grows into adulthood, and finds the world their mollusk that is never quite good enough to fill that eternal longing for that security and romance. The one we all long for. There is only one thing that can satisfy. Not money or power. Not sex or children. None of those things can. There is love from people or pets that seems to satisfy but they have an unpleasant habit at times of dying or betraying us. Realizing that the emptiness wasn’t really filled after all, the search begins anew. Spoiler alert: There is one thing that fills without a doubt and it lasts forever. It is the Lord Himself! Yes, I know. Another preacher. But this preacher knows the truth from experience.

We were created for this romance from the beginning of time. “In the beginning..” That’s when time started and throughout mankind’s existence the longing for the Lord has never ceased. When Mary and Elizabeth (her cousin) met in their pregnancy, Jesus in Mary and John in Elizabeth leaped for joy within the womb. John knew it was his Lord and Jesus knew it was His beloved.

As is our basic training for eternity here, we sort of know what love is and you don’t read a book about your future spouse to know them. You talk to them, look upon them and know them throughout the hunger for that longing. It’s almost enough but the real romance requires reading the love letters and talking a lot with the lover of your innermost being. We were created in His image. What does that mean? Making a decision to love someone is the image. We must choose to love anyone, and He chose to love us. We are identical in that way. We must choose. No one, not even God can make us love. He will not cross the threshold of our heart unless we ask Him. Ask Him about everything. He will fill that longing and love you as you decide to love Him. He always loves us, we must choose to love him. Let the romance begin. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson /aka Jack Gator

Thanksgiving

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments

A gift given to us, a surprise gift, is usually a surprise that awakens a feeling of thankfulness. We don’t call the store where it was bought to thank them for the gift, we thank the giver who thought enough of us to give.

A quote from a very well known evangelist is apropos as this time in this brief column. It is a quote from a well known evangelist from the 19th century. Her name was Hannah Smith.

Hannah Smith was known as the “angel of the churches” both for her eloquence and for her appearance in her evangelistic addresses to huge gatherings throughout Britain. In 1875 she published The Christian’s Secret of a Happy Life, a guide to sanctification and total surrender to divine will that was translated into several languages and sold some two million copies around the world.      

A quote from Hannah’s book:

“Thanksgiving or complaining – these words express two contrasting attitudes of the souls of God’s children about His dealings with them; and they are more powerful than we are inclined to believe in furthering or frustrating His purposes of comfort and peace toward us. The soul that gives thanks can find comfort in everything; the soul that complains can find comfort in nothing.”                 

  Gator certainly has been a whiner and complainer for a great amount of his life. His excuses were many, most of them based on his choices that he thought were someone else’s to blame. Then Gator wondered why he had so few friends and felt ‘off ‘ most of the time. The good things were just referred to as ‘good luck’. The coal in his stocking was someone’s mistake or merely ‘bad luck’ Gator was/is pretty dense and finally the repeated rescue of his life by the ‘good luck’ became clear there was someone looking out for him that was mysterious and unexplained. It took years for Gator to discover who that was. It was akin to finding he had suddenly died and the doctor that saved his life was standing at his bedside. Smiling and pleased the foolish Gator finally had opened up and realized what was reality.

Car accidents, angry people with guns and missiles, heroin addiction and many others. These are the ones Gator knows about. Thankfulness was bubbling up from a long forgotten and ignored artesian well within. The creator of everything that is and was and will be was that smiling doctor. The healer of Gator’s stone cold heart (which still continues as there is a vein of very hard rock deep down) The doctor, the first and last, Wellspring of our souls, Beautiful one. Many names is He known by and the names continue to be put forth in Gator’s speech and song. You know who it is.

There has never been a man more alive than Jesus and He deserves thanksgiving from us. It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator