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
“The world is a work-in-progress, and we are partners with God in it’s ongoing creation”
Meister Eckhart 13th Century Mystic
When I meet a person, fairly alone at an ‘event’ of artwork, I like to ask questions of them. Way too many times I begin by talking about myself. That’s boring and being a boor to think right out of the box that it’s all about me. Why do I do that? Life is art and I like the praise of a nice arpeggio or a quick cartoon in pencil.
Both of them with a smudge stick to make it look real and with the shadows I put in there. Now, I like to discover with delight and astonishment of a Mondrian in the works, painting a tag on a building or Another Emily Dickinson wordsmith in the rough, ready to take a nine iron pencil and land the whole thing in the cup. It’s spirit excitement and good food to give them an auditory nod of my head. Hand grasping not clapping.
I write things like this one and I never know what I am doing, or how it comes about. Just get in there and paddle and the rapids will come and you will know then what to do.
Many things can be taught but poetry, prose, music and dance are beyond training. There are all sorts of helps but listening to the Spirit telling us what is around the corner of the canvas is the best.
I learned how to touch type when I was listening to Morse code, so typing is my springboard to launch. It helps to have word correction of spelling or weasel words. Fun in a weird way to type a half sentence and discover my fingers are not on home plate! Yjsy vsm nr gim mpe smf yjrm after I really nail it in my mind and then look up at the screen.
If you get a tingle and a smile from your muse, go for it! Look at everything with wonder and grasp the light fantastic which appears right in front of you. Julie and I saw a dancer at a Christmas event at a big church years ago. All the live animals and central casting and stylists were on board that night. It was posh, it was pretty OK and way up in front, a girl unfolded in a dance. Julie and I gasped at the revelation and union of spirit and flesh. It was worth the whole trip and is still a vivid memory.
The entire universe shows itself in a Monarch cocoon, ringed with royal gold and filled with beauty and rebirth. We look for those things and they usually find us instead. We join the Balinese in saying “We have no art. Everything we do is art”
It’s pretty good. Norm / Jack Many thanks to Frederic and Mary Ann Brusat for inspiration.
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.
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.
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
Getting up early for the routine of morning. Ablutions in the salle de bain a. (pardon my French) and then the usual half awake gathering of juice, coffee and pills. I sit in my very lazy boy and gaze out the south windows to the garden and also view the parking lot, west of the garden.
The old Saab that our Son lovingly made into a fast sports car. Whistling as the 15 pound turbocharger bent around a tight corner on a local narrow road, channeled through granite boulders, but it now has a bad second gear and an extension cord at the hood. The other collection of vehicles, all facing me bringing memories of transportation. Horse power in the corral that nicker and ask to be useful.
Musing on the dog eared books near me, smelling the warm coffee nearby and distracted by the memories brought forth, suddenly pleasing. Watching for the hummingbird sipping at the feeder with it’s long proboscis looks like the cord coming out of the Saab.
I fondly remember the dishes I washed last night when I operated the coffee maker, another successful stack in the drying rack. Morning sun as I relax and read Thomas Moore’s quotes about these types of thoughts. Everyday life that is not ordinary. A butterfly with a damaged wing affects a galaxy a thousand light years away.
We are Created in the womb by the thoughts of our creator and brought into the universe for His joy and pleasure.
Julie arises and I make our bed and feel the quilt that Grandma Jeannie made, and I center it. There is wind visible now, it’s hot and 90 degrees is forecast. Outside work will be brief, but still fulfilling. An expectation of today’s holiday and the smell of the grill wafting over the parking lot for guests coming this afternoon..
Time now to lay out clothes, toss the laundry into the washer and go see what is coming up in the beauty of the garden.
Ordinary day? Just miracles one after another, another extraordinary day. Love it.
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.
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?
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.
Jack gators grace notes 