small town America

Soiree

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was a perfect day for a garden party. Carrie had everyone there and she and Emily were out in the garden. Some tips were welcomed about potato bugs from Emily. She showed how they moved and where they came from. “Under the ground?” Yup. But you can control a small amount of them by just squishing them as they emerge. Or there is a benign way by using diatomaceous earth powder! Any bug with an exoskeleton can be controlled. It was a new word and very good advice from an expert on those things. Bugs.

The round patio table was set with delicious looking pastries and snack sorts of things. Crackers and French Brie. Croissants and small glass dishes filled with pesto.

There were fine china cups that seemed to expect coffee and linen at the places where lawn chairs were set. A high English tea picture set for the honored guests. Gary began digging into the brie and, as another writer, was delighted with all his fellow writers, and good friends, coming over to the table to join him

There was lively conversation approaching as Dave and Sally were on either side of Nigel excitedly filling him in on Scripture verses that explain how this glorious party resembles another to come. Bob was dancing before them, sometimes walking backwards and giving encouragement to the three of them. How exciting it must be to hear these grand stories. Battles and victories with noble people. Suffering with unbelievable impact. Many things almost hidden from casual reading that book.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, just off the porch, I and Peter were whipping up a brew of excellent coffee. Fresh ground and just flown in with Carrie and Peter’s last visit to St. Helena Island. Best coffee beans on the planet for only twenty dollars an ounce. What a smell when the grinder did its work. Oh my, I never thought I would even smell coffee like this! Ecstatic with historical ledge kicking in. The very island that Napoleon was exiled to! Wondering if it was worth his exile to have that coffee every day.

Eddie came in with a really nice linen towel around his arm and he was dressed to ‘the nines’ with an excellent servants black outfit. He delighted everyone when he walked out with a tray loaded with the best espresso ever. Sugar and cream in matching china as well.

It was a gathering of fellow writers that came to enjoy one another’s company and hear stories from experienced raconteurs. The soiree lasted until the evening dew began and the grass was sparkly with the moonlight.

Have you ever thought what heaven would be like? What the King’s table that Moses and seventy some people got to dine at with the creator of everything that is and will be? This was a dim preamble of sorts.

Writers can be persnickety and filled with themselves, but not today. Not in the garden of delights. What a gift for these poetic people to try and capture it in words that just didn’t seem adequate to describe it all.

It’s pretty good, Jack Gator / Norm Peterson

Parking Diagonally In Small Town America

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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

Emily Dickinson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

r

Eleven Dollars Short

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I drove About 20 miles out of my way, but it was an undeniable mission. I wrote a column, Scrap yard or junkyard, and it was the scrap yard I was going to.

A few weeks before to this mission, the man that owns the yard worked on a part I needed.He extracted a seat belt assembly out of a 25 year old Ford truck. It was for our old Ford Ranger that needed one. This time it was the right one. First part did not fit at my first acquisition and the reel was locked up. Oh, got to go back and get one that fits and works!

The owner and I had a laugh the last time we were together, teasing a city man who was startled by a snake in the trunk of a vehicle he was ‘inspecting’ near where we were working. He even took a photo of it. A huge rat snake, a scary looking thing when you first meet one. Harmless to us, the smaller mammals don’t like them.

When we encountered the snake man back at the office, I made up a Latin name for the snake and the last word of my invented sentence was ‘Morte’ “It’s a two stepper..better stay clear and don’t throw anything at it again!” The owner, Harold, winked his right eye at me and we had a little smile together. Military bonding time. I paid 25 dollars for the first assembly.

I returned a few days later and told him the door sticker on the truck said 1999 built in November. The truck was actually a 2000 according to knowledgeable gear heads and I missed that small detail. Plus the reel on the first part I got from him did not work. The reel is at the bottom end of the seat belt assembly and that’s the part that allows the belt to be pulled up. If there is a crash, the reel locks up and keeps the belt tight.

Off he went to find an assembly that worked and he found one out in the yard. I heard him with the battery operated whiz wheel grinding away at the sheet metal on the door of the scrap truck. Tough extraction just from the auditory cues as I sat in his shop chair waiting for him. An old chair with stains and worn out. Obviously his chair. He returned and the reel worked. He handed it to me and declared: “twenty five bucks. I worked pretty hard”

I was hoping for a ‘warranty’ so all I had in my wallet was fourteen dollars. He looked at me and my well used truck with four ones and a ten on the seat. He accepted the money and put out his hand for a shake on the deal.

The owner of the scrap yard is older than I and he wears his age well. A Short man with runnels of wrinkles on his face and a focused gaze. He was just coming out of the side door of his home when I drove up today. A man driving a Jeep wrangler was leaning on the door jamb, chatting.

I tried to dismiss the notion it was important to return whenever I had the cash to give him what he deserved. It was one of those gentle and persistent communiques from God. It’s impossible to ignore God when He does tells these things to me. I pray you have these experiences too. I walked up and stood next to the leaning man and held out a ten and a one for the scrap yard owner.

He remembered me, he remembers everything. An astonishment and a smile was given. Another hand shake of our eyes. I told him “ you deserve it for your work” I knew this was right and true.

My drive back home was relaxing. The new pavement on County B was smooth and the detour ahead signs were still up waiting for the paint caravan to finish up.

It was pretty good Norm / Jack

Islands of Reality

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I began to feel the undercurrent of life on Malta. It now reminds me of stories from ‘Jack’ about towns that are dreary but in vivid memory, stand out to once again astonish me. Real life.

Places that have no ‘eye appeal’ as hungry land realty people describe places and homes of no value to them. Only our limited impressions that puzzle us and them. Why would anyone live there with joy and smiles of satisfaction? Folks willing to help and extend hands of welcome when it seems poverty overwhelming is seen.

When Julie and I were bicycle touring the shores of the Great Lakes, we took a boat ride to an island in lake Huron, Mackinac (pronounced Mackinaw). Recently wedded we booked a fabulous hotel on that island that allows no motorized traffic. Perfect and quiet. Expensive. All of the hotels around the perimeter are almost castles. Nothing is heard through the open windows expect some wind and the clip clop of delivery wagons of milk and supplies.

Only a surprising motor sound of the turbines of the ferry twice a day. Delightful, being back on our farm with only the sounds of fishing boats on the lake over our hill. Waking up to breakfast prepared with linen and silverware arranged correctly downstairs. An expensive luxury we heard about and were enjoying.

Another hotel next to ours just as stunning akin to a multilayered wedding cake, perfect white siding and horse liveries waiting for riders around the perimeter. We decided to ride our Santana tandem bike around the nice road. Half a way around there was a road heading inland like slicing a pie in tow pieces. Irresistible and quiet with our bike we pedaled into a small village in the middle. Unassuming and welcome to strangers on a bicycle gazing at their town.

We were on a honeymoon of sorts and different. We were shown to a small tavern that had a one lane bowling alley. Set your own pins. It was fun and we talked truth. The people that lived there were the workers of the hotels and referred to themselves as islanders and we were cottagers. No linen settings and luxury king beds were there. Just honest and friendly working people as we were. More memories embossed. Commoners that sold clay pipes on Malta and worked for visitors as people do on islands throughout the worlds waters.

Those unforgettable memories are the best gifts given to us by the giver of all things. Guided by the gentle voice of the Son of God to hear and see life. Pause and listen to Him as the gentle whisper once again shows us that path to redemption of our souls. Beauty and love on that road that leads us to the middle of creation itself. It’s pretty good, Norm / Jack

Scrap Yard or a Junk Yard

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

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

See Eleven Dollars Short for the conclusion

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

Local Lingo and Accents

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It’s something that comes naturally, growing up locally or even relocating and adapting here.

You’ve used these phrases and everyone around you has such as: “how’d she go dis weekend? Ya get out and get anything?” or “ s’hat new boat easy to launch?” Didge yah go up nort to the lake wit da fam to da cabin or just chill and cook out?” “ Hews she goin? Ya look a little foofed.

It’s perfectly normal and not even noticed unless you are just up from Chicago. Relatives that own a new cabin just around our neighborhood up here. Wisconsin actually has more than ten thousand lakes and the traffic is astounding around weekends. Especially the three day ones on holidays that fall conveniently on Friday or Monday.

I count the out of state license plates just for conversation at interstate bridge highways and on this last three dayer there were a hundred vehicles in rows bumper to bumper separated by quarter mile gaps. Usual comments from us about drivers getting ahead on the double yellow by a few cars. I call it ping ponging. Rushing and getting a few seconds ahead game that we play with anxiety and some skill depending if you are quick enough and like to take chances

On the times I am passed by anxious drivers I hold my breath to avoid the inevitable unburned hydrocarbon emissions from catalytic converter overloads, especially from older Buick’s and pickups that do not display led taillights as new stuff. Oh well, we used to make a lot of money replacing those things and erasing the inevitable check engine lights from the mixture fails of over loaded oxygen sensors.

As I have quoted a few times from C.S. Lewis: “Rushing is not of the devil, it IS the devil” some writers capitalize devil, I don’t, he isn’t worth it, it’s not a ‘proper’ name.

Nowadays I pray after laughing when someone passes me and a quarter mile ahead turns off. Sometimes I count the seconds saved and that really generates humor and puzzlement.

Relax, soon we get to relax with the man who is more alive than any man has ever been. We can watch the universe unfold and drift away and still be alive with him.

“Eternity’s eternal song, is calling to me, calling me home.” Misty Edwards

It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

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Motorcycle Pilgrimage chapter 2

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Sitting at their campsite, Bruce and I talked the day over. “we agreed no weapons with” We wondered what we would do if the local boys came as told they would. “We’ve got the tent poles that we aren’t using tonight!” I believed this was Bruce’s solution. “We can carry those poles under our right arms so that only the metal Farrell’s show! They will think we have shotguns” We wondered if this was possible. “Is that the best idea you’ve got?” It was settled and the we settled in our sleeping bags under the stars on this moonlit night.

Sure enough, around midnight, the sound of slamming pickup doors was heard from the parking lot of the campground. “Well, here we go” We started walking towards the young toughs side by side on the pathway. Our tent poles pointed at the ground and the moonlight reflecting off of metal exposed. The metal that was just meant to join one pole to another. “ Don’t shoot till we’re a little closer” Bruce said in a very loud whisper. Those small town punks took one look at us and those pickup doors slammed shut again. There was a roar of a small block engine, and the townies were gone.

Not long afterward, the town cop showed up with his squad and somewhat surprised asked: “You boys OK?” Sure, quiet night officer we answered. Puzzled and baffled that weren’t a couple of bodies lying about, the town cop nodded his head and drove off. Tipped off by the townies, just checking for the carnage. we decided to break camp early and slipped away at midnight. Headed for the Oklahoma panhandle and close to the famous route 66. Seemed a safe and promising thing to do.

The next town was indeed in Oklahoma and it was a bright Sunday morning when Bruce pulled over to the side of the road with his engine racing up and down. “What’s going on Bruce?” It seemed the BMW did not want to connect the engine with the desired ahead motion. Sitting next to one another on the ground of the well groomed grass, we began to disassemble the drive train of the bike. We were getting pretty good at those sorts of things. A short time later Bruce announced: “It’s the woodruff key on the driveshaft, it’s sheared off!”

Looking at the Sunday afternoon one horse town was not encouraging. There seemed to be tumble weeds blowing down the short main street angled off the highway, no one was in sight and there was no traffic heard nor in sight. Great. Suddenly, A tall young man was in back of them asking “What’s the matter boys?” They looked at the young man and said rather sadly, “sheared a woodruff key on the driveshaft.” That man didn’t even blink about a motorcycle having a driveshaft and in a calm voice said: “My father owns the hardware store and I’ve got the keys, lets go see what we can do”

Astonished, they followed him and his keys as he walked down an alley to a door and opened it. Turning to them, he said: “go to that Graymills cabinet over there and pull open that top drawer. There, back in the third compartment, 8 millimeter.?.take a few” They took about three of them. Back to the bikes Bruce put the key in the driveshaft and fit with a perfect ‘snick’ We turned to eagerly thank the tall young man and he was nowhere in sight. It came out as: “Hey Bruce…were did he go?” It wasn’t until decades later I laughed and finally got the line “My father owns the hardware store and I’ve got the keys” Of course, the Lord, our Father owns everything!

(To be continued) Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

An account of 2020’s Covid19 World Attack

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was getting dicey and worrisome for everyone. The quarantine was working somewhat, but the death toll was still climbing everywhere. The news-room personalities were beginning to visibly sweat, and it wasn’t the stage lighting. Cameras were fixed and it was obvious there was only one camera and no director for various shots and video inserts. Just one camera, and no one behind it. The ‘personality’ with a rumpled suit was reading off paper in front of him (no prompter) and the weather didn’t have any green-screen and the prognostication was very vague.

Grocery stores had empty shelves, but that was all right because the parking lots were empty too. Gasoline was down to 75 cents but no one was buying except medical and military. Pleasant driving if you wanted to risk it. Roadblocks and interstate driving enforced with the national guard. No one moved unless you have paperwork displayed on the plates, fore and aft. The bridges were secured.

The phones still worked and the power was pretty good. Amazingly, there were still areas where the fiber carried the internet but the load on that pipeline was enormous. Many reliable and local updates on where latest food and scavengers were moving and advice on security measures. Very little panic. Neighborhoods and townships were unifying and assistance grew within them.

Medical triage and field medic people were in big demand and local connections worked pretty well. After the alerts where the looters were predicted, these honorable people were available to friend and foe alike. The locals began to see something they had not seen before. Compassion and a love for their fellow man, almost impossible to understand. When asked about this, the the medics and doctors would smile and reply with an understandable Gospel. Before it all, the immediate response to a faith message was “great, they’re going to tell me how I can be just like them if only I follow the rules” Now there was serious response to the joy found in listening to the Lord.

There was dialogue and questions. Then we began to reveal how much we thought and felt about this similar ‘bad’ behavior in ourselves. Certainly we were not saints but somehow happy and …well, free. No rules given, just paying attention to the hunger for human contact everyone was experiencing.

The somewhat simple explanation from these medical volunteers was easily understood. Many times there was a demand to have them visit again if possible. It was was new. There were no suits and ties, endorsement of connections. No tracts or phony glad handing. Real missionaries. The calmness and strength of these volunteers was what everyone needed. The usual isolation and fear of each other was being replaced with community and trust. After a short while, safe housing was set up for the desperate roaming families and civilization started to come back to stay. There was no doubt that Jesus had done a miracle and there was great hope and strength spreading throughout the land.

Norm Peterson and Jack Gator

Trolley Cars in Minneapolis

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 3 Comments

The latest news popped up after I was just looking at the weather forecast on my computer.

More rain and the videos of flooding on the Mississippi with a few garages with water up to the entrances where a car should be. Laughing owners in the shot, what else can they broadcast? A man retiring from a shoe repair shop after spending his whole life there. A good man and a well equipped shop. A necessary business but no one interested in taking it over. I had my favorite shoe shop in St. Croix Falls and they sold their building and moved down to Dresser, about 5 miles south. I can’t imagine the town without it. Walking five miles from town when you need new shoe laces. It’s a loss for main street for us. The new location has more room and it is next door to a huge factory making soda pop.

Minneapolis is more inclined now to repurposed older buildings on main streets that sell tobacco, payday loans and lottery tickets. The old stuff has to go. Much akin to decades ago when the city decided to tear out the trolley cars and leave transportation to buses or personal transportation. Even bicycle lanes for some but certainly not most people. Rail transport is European and practical.

When I grew up in the North-side, I used my bicycle to deliver news papers and was not even considering riding it to south Minneapolis to the dentist! Alone. Of course, bikes then were heavier with one speed. There was no need to even consider bicycling around the city, there were trolley cars everywhere that even would carry me to the dentist in the South-side of town.

The local was easy to catch. A number 16 that went from Thomas Avenue all the way downtown. I would get a transfer ticket and walk down Washington avenue to catch the trolley car to the dentist. It was easy and safe and at that time, no muggers, kidnappers and youth with pistols eager to shoot someone. The ride on the trolley was noisy. I liked noise like that. The clicking of the change machine next to the driver. The switching of the electric power mast to the overhead wires and, of course, the clank of the track switch being changed at the same time. They had a really nice bell to warn cars an pedestrians.

The news today is about new trolley cars being put in and whole neighborhoods were outraged that the city would do that. We liked them fifty years ago! They were Convenient and cheap and practical. Now the store owners and residents are outraged at these things. I think it’s a great idea. The new city criminals do too. Mayhem and robbery and just beating people up for fun. Times have indeed changed. The city is scary and filled with angry imbeciles. That’s a Dostoyevsky quote.

It’s not very good, but it would be very good with more of the population having faith in Jesus. Another advantage that rides along with Christians. “Love your neighbors and love your enemies. Many times the same person” a . It’s pretty good Jack Gator

a. G.K. Chesterton

A Door Gunner and the Old Fiddler

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was a beautiful drive, one I take often to a small church about 8 miles north. On Fridays that old Lutheran church gives away bread from a bakery 80 miles south. Every Friday for years they have done so. I pick up as many bags as they will give me as I give away most of to a local secondhand store about 7 miles to the East. Caring Hearts. I like to drive those rural roads.

Today, I drove past a place of good memories, on a lake called Wood and glanced at the places on the road before the lake that I like to look at. Old abandoned houses that used to be pretty swell and houses that have acres of metal junk around them. Wind-rowers, hay loaders, antique bulldozers. Tons of steel, waiting for nothing, akin to tossing old scrap lumber out to be burned out in the field thing. How that stuff got out there and what the price of steel is going for occurs to me. Reminds me of an old forest that is past it’s prime and the mess that is too. Wood lying about is a lot easier to look at.

I drove past wood Lake (we have a lot of nice ones nearby) and remembered an old friend that was a veteran like me. He had it rougher and served on Helicopters shooting people out of the door with a belt fed machine gun. A .50 or .30 caliber. Don’t remember him mentioning that. A war in Vietnam that no one wanted, a war I was drafted into as I was in basic training for the Navy! I just missed that meat grinder. A returning veteran was hated by many Jane Fonda fans. Danny Carlson was this veteran’s name. He was friendly to me and our stories were good to share with one another.

Danny knew I was a country western fiddler on the local bar circuit and he wanted to have some fun and put on a fiddle contest at his lake shore home. OK, I got hold of another fiddler, Bill Hinkley, and we set it up with a stage overlooking the lake and advertising it at the local watering holes. We even took out an add in the newspaper. This was a big deal for towns under 2000.

We got a half dozen fiddlers to show up for the chance for the 1st place prize and the beer kegs would set the stage for some good fun. Bill and I started out demonstrating what fiddling was with Bill’s wife Judy on guitar. Then we started the contest. Bill, I and Judy (official judges) got to sit right up front on the beautiful manicured grass which sloped gently down to the lake. Quite a few people showed up.

Good acoustics too from the water. Near the end, an older fiddle player showed up. He was at least as old as I am now and needed a bow. We got him one and he started sawing away. His tone was off and the speed wasn’t there, but the Bill and I and Judy looked at one another with a nod. This was the stuff of legends. We knew what this man had been and in our ears, still was. Bad bow, arthritic hands, bent over and knowing it was the best he could do. We gave him the 1st place without a doubt. Bill and I were thinking that we can even play at this man’s age we would be blessed to fiddle as well as he was. Uncle Zeke was his name and where he was from and were he went is still a mystery.

“The struggles and events of his life are just the cover and chapter page of the book of his life. The book no one on earth can read is the real story and every chapter is better than the last” 1.

Dan a short time afterwards, died across the road from his lake home in his trucking outfits office from carbon monoxide gas. In his sleep. My wife, Julie almost died from the same danger from a bad propane furnace way out west when she was camp counselor before I met her.

So Every time I drive past Danny’s old lake home I think of these things and ask Jesus, why? Why take Dan and spare my wife with only a bad headache and some temporary cognitive loss’? We will never know until I read that book of real stories that I can’t read now.

Somehow, in some way I find that answer adequate. I still ask why these things happen and am getting better and waiting for the answer I already know. Ask me sometime and I will let you in on what He says to me. Usually stop, look and listen. I am so glad Julie survived that carbon Monoxide and we have this incredible life together. Thank you Lord!

Somehow I know there will be that book about Danny I can read and I will read it with him. I will share those books with my old Navy buddy that will hand me his book as he reads mine. It’s pretty good. I like reading really good books.

Norm Peterson. (aka Jack Gator)

1. G.K. Chesterton “the apostle of common sense”