Trauma and Trust

The Lost Ring and the Saved Soul

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was a restless night for me. I discovered the morning before that I had lost my wedding ring. I’ve worn it since 1992 and it means a lot to us. It has an inscription inside with the wedding date. There is another one too in italics: “Through headwinds and tailwinds” Julie and I met on bicycles under very strange and beautiful circumstances. Unbelievable ones. That is a story for certain. It involves a Lutheran Pastor, a bartender in Washington state, A camp cook and the bartender’s grandparents. It’s been written and published already, ‘A bicycle built for two’

So, back to the ring. The whole family clan began looking for the ring. Could be it was stripped off my finger when I removed gloves outside? (It’s happened several times) Search the garden, the wood shed, the garden tool shed, the glove box in the house and car. You get the idea. It was perhaps thrown off my hand in the night when I shook off a carpal tunnel numbness! The only way to search the room’s carpet was to move the bed. An awful lot of dust and the usual vacuum cleaner task. Incredible mess. After the bed was moved 90 degrees and the cleaning began in earnest, a dusty journal was discovered. In it were Details of my week long ministering to my old navy best friend Chuck, that was in hospice in Maryland. Cancer. That journal Hadn’t been seen for sixteen years. No ring was found. They left the bed turned ninety degrees and cleaned a lot. Their thorough cleaning was very thorough and they had been thinking about vacuuming there anyway.

Reading the found journal revealed memories that came came like a flood once again. Tears from that long ago relationship came. The trouble and the trauma that had been shared with my best friend. We were together at sea during the war between Israel and Egypt and Syria. Chuck introduced me to what he called a pep pill to keep them awake on long 24 hour watches. Communication duties in the top secret radio room. Wartime status. Those pills worked pretty well, we bought them in port from the pharmacy down the street from our apartment. They were pure meth and Chuck got addicted. I used them as needed. Chuck needed them and used them.

It wasn’t too long until the CID came knocking at our apartment in Naples, asking about drug usage. I was open and honest and told them about the legality from the pharmacy. They asked about marijuana too and I offered that a cook aboard had some that helped with the shakes from the pep pills. Suddenly we were in handcuffs and taken aboard to point out the cook as he sat in a corridor, also in cuffs.

We all got locked into a Marine brig on shore and the cook came after me in the night with a purloined knife. Chuck ‘set him aside’ the cook survived and was still in general population and we decided to escape. We climbed down from the third floor using a handy drain pipe and ran for our lives. I felt threatened and Chuck just wanted to get high. Maybe he made up the knife fight. Perhaps.

We were captured, tried and sentenced to hard labor in Spain for a half year and stripped of pay and rank. An honorable discharge ensued after a review years later by a friends uncle, a Kennedy. But my Navy career was over. Thanks Chuck for the disappointment and loss. It was not a good time for me to think about not making in to the brown shoe navy ( chief ) And I was doing so well. My division chief cried when he saw me being led away. I was his protege and successor. That was the end of the sixties.

Driving alone to an early prayer meeting, I began haranguing the Lord about the ring. The usual rant we all when things are difficult and not making sense. “Where is my ring! You know where it is Lord!” His answer was, of course, immediate and kind. I was reminded that gold ring would not follow me into eternity. Neither would my 18th century viola nor the 100 year old Gibson Mandolin. However, the story of me gently responding to Chuck’s dying request to visit will go with me to heaven. I answered Chuck’s question “So what’s the good news?” Indeed, there is very good news about forgiveness, redemption and the romance of Heaven. However, I still blamed chuck for the disaster and I held resentment within.

A lot of you know exactly what It is about. I asked Chuck to meet me when it was my time to cross the bar. Chuck cried when their parting embrace ended. They both knew that living at the hospice is not usually a long term situation. When I arrived Chuck did not want to talk about Jesus, just reminisce and watch movies. We talked about Jesus anyway. The tears shared were powerful and knowledge of what was said was understood by both. To meet me meant he had to be there.

A month after the visit, Chucks wife called and said he wanted to talk with me. Right away he said “what are the words?” I answered that there were no words. Lets talk. We talked for an hour and a half. “Let’s just talk to Jesus right now!” So we did. I forgave him for all the trouble he got me into with the drugs and such. We talked more about all the things that matter on the party line to Jesus. After that hour and a half I asked him how he felt about revealing ourselves to one another and with the creator of all things listening in. “I feel pretty good actually” was his answer. ” Is that it?” Pretty much I replied.

A very short time afterwards, Mary Lou called and told me that Chuck was going to be baptized.

A few weeks after Chuck’s, baptism, I saw him entering paradise while I was praying in a local church.! A clear reality, my eyes wide open. He was walking away from me and he turned and pointed his hand over his shoulder and said five words that I will never forget: “It’s better than you said!”

He vanished and there as a bit of excitement on my part. Mary Lou left a phone message at home. She said Chuck had died that morning. I called back and told her; “Thanks Mary Lou! I know he died this morning because I saw him go. I gave her the five words he said. It was and the best good news she could hear! Chuck had ‘crossed the bar’ and was home. I am interested in what I said to him! It will be fun finding out.

All that trauma, the war, the pills and the court marshal led up to salvation for Chuck. Many decades before this happened, I was addicted to heroin and also heard five words as I was going for more heroin in front of me. “Life or death, choose now” Five words, decades apart that were less than one day in the courts of the Lord. Paths to death turned mourning into dancing for joy. Another dying that led to life eternal ,for both of us.

So I surrendered my angst about my wedding ring of gold and realized that the journal with the details of five words were only found when we looked for the ring. It was till missing after five days. Gone for good, impossible to search through leaves and grass around the farm. Sad, but reluctantly surrendering the ring because I now knew I would not take it with to cross the bar.

I went for my usual lap swim at a high school pool about 20 miles away. Early morning, around six am. I began swimming in the lane next to the wall and on the third lap, looked over into the deepest part of the pool and saw a round object that was dark. It looked like an O ring that was black. Could it be! That is where I was doing the backstroke five days earlier.

I asked a young gal that was swimming in the next lane if she dives. She said “sure” and I asked her to please dive down 10 feet and bring up that round object. She did and popped up with my wedding ring! Not so shinny after five days in chlorine and bromine, but it was the ring. The inscription said so.

A wonderful release of the sad loss, I held on tight to the ring and did a short swim and texted a picture home of the ring. It was Impossible that it was still there in plain sight. pool Not vacuumed, not in the drain close by. How deep Lord? How deep do you want to go?

I still swim there and I still work it out to swim in that same wall lane. I always look down when I get to the end at the deep part. I saw a necklace a few days ago and told the lifeguard and maintenance man about it. It had beads on it and it looked like leather. Lost and found indeed. I never have seen that young girl that dove for my ring again.

My surrender after the discovery of that Chuck hospice journal was a lesson never forgotten. Surrender. Die to the world and embrace life. He gives and takes away indeed. Grieve and rejoice. The good news, It’s pretty good, Jack Gator / Norm Peterson

with thanks to Henri Nouwen for inspiration

Rebirth

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We have all done these things. New curtains and carpets, out with the old and in with the new as the saying goes. It was with more than trepidation that a task came to the forefront of our lives. The ‘tearing down and rebuilding task. Two forty yard roll off dumpsters sort of thing. Nails and ancient dimension lumber. Insulation above that appeared to be cotton candy coated with mice having their own free wheeling toilet and dining areas.

All of it, the windows, sill plates and trusses. 30 by 40 or so. Fifty years ago it was old when I bought this farm. I drove up with the rental van and walked in the rain to the barn that faced the house. April fools day, 1976. All I could think of was to play my fiddle on some old bales of hay and look at the house through the open barn doors. First house, my best friend about ½ mile away and a mortgage through the GI loan. A life style remodel, boot camp haircuts sorts of things.

Two years later, I was on the bathroom throne and collapsed on the floor getting up. I could not rise. Excruciating pain. A slipped disk pressing nerves to my legs. I was able to crawl. I occupied my mind by reading old newspapers off the floor. Zippy the pinhead comics were distracting and pleasurable read. That worked for a few days and I began to go into a bit of a decline.

I survived by crawling into the kitchen and drinking the cat water. The black wall phone was unreachable. It was die or get help. I emptied my dresser and made a ramp and rolled onto the bed, There was a princess phone on the wall side of the bed. (not pink)

An ambulance ride and extensive traction gave me mobility. Spike mauls and shovels were a not an option and I ran out of ‘injury’ pay and had to sue the railroad for money to live. The settlement was very low and it would pay the VA loan for a year.

It seemed a good idea to open a repair shop for foreign vehicles! I had experienced many years of repairing engines and with my electronics background, it was plausible. Hand lapping a failed rod bearing in Omaha while under my truck was my diploma for repairing engines. Emery cloth looped around the journal. 100 strokes, turn the engine 90 degrees, repeat, 180, 270 and back to the top. 2 or 3 hours or so, Mic the journal. When it got close, I switched to fine and polished it up pretty good. Perfect oil pressure and never gave me trouble again. It took about 3 days. (The people that helped me were the ones I met on Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1). Amazing people. Their friends had a repair shop and they loaned me everything I needed. Even got me a ten thousands under set of rod shells!

Foreign cars was my niche. After all, there were at least a dozen foreign cars in the county. A kind and clever snap on dealer had me rebuild his 280Z engine for the tools it would take to do it. Micrometer, cylinder gauge, ridge reamer, cylinder hones, ring compressor, torque wrenches. It ran quite well and I was off and running and walking and bending quite well. That tool dealer spread the word and slowly, my business was created. An LLC was obtained and I named it Fine Tuning Auto.

Sliding wood doors and no heat with a somewhat usable floor and foundation. 30 x 40 feet. I was 30 and could do anything, just like my son to come. The barn and chicken coop and old silo foundation were gone soon, along with the summer kitchen later. Oak 2×4 boards that held nails strong enough for mild tornadic winds. A time lapse film would appear interesting. A friend built a chimney in the shop and wood heat helped in the winter.

There was a remnant of a barn on the adjoining property to the north and it had some nice old ‘barn wood’ left (most likely a remnant of the original owner of my land owned that 10 acres) I took that wood and paneled my kitchen with it. (The owner of that property said take what you want.) He came over frequently and was a farmer with a good sense of humor. Claire Melin.

50 years later, our house was completely remodeled but that barn wood is still on the wall. Akin to an old Ford 8N parked by the driveway we have all seen here and there. Fond memories that trigger us to the past.

As I have referred to some of these events in missives, they remain in that section of my mind located 3 ½ inches between my ears. Influential, pleasant in formation and now known as the path and road to redemption.

“Why did this happen? Why would a loving God make me go through this agony? We ALL ask these questions. Puzzled, we attempt to understand and perhaps even control the events of our lives that we cannot anticipate nor control, Since my conception (or perhaps even before) I was made for purposes that make sense, to me.

Here I am, with beauty and fulfillment surrounding my life. I think I have arrived here because of my Resistance and spectrum gift. Gifts indeed. I have to finish as an Asberger child must. I have finished well. It is all due to Him who made me, just to be here with His face turned towards me and giving me joy.

I know now that God does not have a plan, He is plan. As one of my favorite quotes goes:

“Time itself wanted to die with You” Mark Batterson

It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator


			

	


			
				


	

							
Unexpected Grief and Joy
						

			 / Norman Eric Peterson						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		

One of those jobs to clean up the closing of a lifetime. It was a gardening day and the weather was pretty good except for the mosquitoes and expected tick removals. A bit of weed removal with the swell DeWalt battery powered weed whacker with four .40 ‘strings’ on the business end. Culvert, dandelions in the garden. Usual mess of doing things the lawnmowers cannot do. Tipped the business end just so to utterly destroy the pokey plants and the dandelions. I took the weed whip and put it in the pick up. It was nowthe time to do that delayed chore on the township road up ¼ mile from the mailbox.





It was time to remove the old sign for the shop. The really nice one put in when the boys were young and the sign bright and visible. A sign donated from the local parts supplier and put up with a sticker from the county on the back that made it official, it was just far enough from the private field and close enough to be seen with an arrow pointing down Lakewood drive to our sign at the beginning of our driveway. Fine Tuning Automotive Repair also on a big black metal pole. The road sign was a beauty decades ago. Now the wind and weather had taken their toll. Part of it was torn and the words and arrow sort of visible. The sign at the driveway is still there. We had an Eggs for sale on it for a while.





The shop had been closed less than a year after my best worker, really a son, had so little good work, that financially it closed. Excuses flowed from me and about technology difficulties in the automotive field. Financial updates, recession in the country. Reasonable excuses. That loved and faithful worker lost interest and the cash flow was less than a good job as working as a machinist in a local business. A good decision for good work that a talented metal manipulator and machine tool worker could do.





Decades before that time, I ran the shop by myself since the late 70’s and it was enough for our small family to survive on. Our new man who lived with us, ran it for a few more years after I had a period of seizures and was aging into my 70’s.





Big jobs, as before, were the meat and potatoes of income. Engine rebuilding, brakes and suspension problems. The reputation of my shop was electronic diagnosis and repair. When I began the business as a ham radio guy, I was not afraid of wires and electronics. The business grew and after a while, I doubled the building size. The old wood stove was replaced with modern waste oil furnaces and the sliding wood doors upgraded to real ones with electtic openers. Things like that. The electronic tools increased and technology did too. Check engine lights came on and hardly anyone knew what to do to put that light out with the accompanying loss of performance.





The reputation of my shop was solid and drew customers by word of mouth without much of an advertising budget. Customers from other counties and restorations now and then for thousands of dollars.





It was closed now and our friend who lived with us for years was getting ready to move away to a different life with his new life and newly wed wife. They left and took everything that was his contribution to the repair tools. Even an Led light bulb in a ceiling fixture his distant dad gave him. Understandable nostalgia. They moved to his Dad’s place, 35 miles away. There was no reason to stay and his Dad needed him there. It made sense but still was hard to see them go. They don’t see each other anymore. The memories of their times together are vivid. Worshiping with him on piano, my son on drums, Julie and I also singing and myself on viola and violin. oddly, there was no communication from him and his wife and it was hard. The big Bumper to Bumper lighted sign on the front was still there but the fluorescent lights had long been out. The parking lot started emptying out and the land line was canceled after a brief message of the shop going out of business.





The shop was still  warm and my tools were still there. My youngest son, Soren, and I worked on the family machinery and there are no more tow trucks arriving at night with ’emergency repairs. Often vehicles that had not been running for a year or so. The emergency was that vehicle was now needed by the owners





So I  unbolted the road sign after gardening and put the battered pieces in the truck bed. I then drove up to the local big dairy tourist shop for a bottle of Merlot wine. I could not get out of the truck. The Minnesota license plates kept rolling in and rolling out with ice cream cones and fresh cheese curds in hand.





I could not get out of the truck. I felt like I was driving a hearse and there was a body in the truck bed. More than the phone goodbye message, more than the big empty parking lot, more than the absence of our close friend and his wife. The loss and the finality fell inside me and the death of Fine Tuning was final. I took the sign to the metal scrap yard the next week and the burial was done. Some tears inside the old Ford Ranger as the tourists came and went. After a time of mourning it was time to move on and get things done at the dairy. A few pleasant words with the wine tasting gal and a sip of good wine from her and a bottle of Merlot, it was time to head home. The spring tourists had snapped up the fresh cheese curds. 





The body in the bed was now quiet and the familiar farms and homes on the country and township roads were seen as stable and unchanged. A few new names can be seen on some of the mailboxes. I still see the one with the front door blocked by missing stairs. Home again for the Friday Shabbatt and the sign, dead in the truck bed, acknowledged by Julie and she understood my sudden grief. The morels, asparagus with the good Merlot were delicious.





Years later our son who began supporting us, started the complete remodel of the shop. Removing the customer counter and many of the bolted on tools and workbenches and pulling down the ceiling in the old back shop. It all went into a 20 foot long roll off and a borrowed bobcat hauled a lot of blown in insulation and panels out to that roll off. New trusses and panels, rewiring all the ancient stuff that was there from 50+ years ago when I moved to the farm. A new roof and siding. A propane furnace that is now required by our insurance company and all the things that need updating on a massive project. I helped, at 81 now, slower but able to haul branches and tree parts that had somehow appeared at the back of the shop. We had removed the huge totes parked there that held the waste oil and sold them and the furnace. Now was the time to get the debris removed. The roll off delivery driver bought the lighted sign for his man cave! He even helped to remove it. Four foot square sign up about 12 feet on the front of the shop. The wasps had made a weather proof home there and had to be evicted. 










I was pleased with the transformation and all the new space for our machinery, boat and the still useful tool boxes and attendant bigger tools. 30 ton press, 3 freezers that were now easy to get to. Usual things that garages are full of, usual farm things. Even room for the Kubota tractor and snow blower. Warmer and handy without all the necessities for a commercial operation. I did not have grief this time, but relief and astonishment at my son’s vision and speedy work. He is very talented and fit for the work. I am over 80 and can still run a few things. Mostly the wheelbarrow and the small John Deere LT with a trailer. I never did run the old wheat combine. Too many chains and gears and the cab makes you feel as though your are in a carnival ride, hovering in space.





The grief has been replaced by acceptance and the pleasure of change. It was gradual but did not take a long time to see the logic and rightness of my son’s vision of his inheritance. Very pleasant to see that and even help to do it. Not many older people experience this part of life. A lot of farmers do. They get off the big tractors and combines and hang out with their sons and daughters who inherit the vision of family farms. 





Life itself is the inheritance and values around the pancakes and home grown food. I am blessed by our lord with these gifts and I know that Daddy is pleased to give them. “Come to me and all these things will given to you.””I pray this for your joy.





“Your Daddy’s so proud of you., your Daddy’s so proud of you. You are faithful with much, faithful with little. Faithful with words for others. Well done, well done. Daddy’s so proud of you” A,





 I live for this vision and the joy of His gifts and presence.





It’s pretty Good. Norm/Jack





A. A song I learned at River Valley Christian Church.






			

	


			
				


	

							
Synopsis of a Fool on the road to Redemption
						

			 / Norman Eric Peterson						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		

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.





a. C.S. Lewis

			

	


			
				


	

							
The origin of Jack Gator
						

			 / Norman Eric Peterson						 / 1 Comment
								

			


		

		






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.





Gator picture by Jessie Selin





It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

			

	


			
				


	

							
Wood Cutting at a Friends Log Home
						

			 / Norman Eric Peterson						 / Leave a comment
								

			


		

		

It was a perfect Saturday morning, cool after an inch or so of rain and a job that Soren, my son, had agreed to do. Cutting down trees. I love working with my family and so volunteered to assist him and do what I do. 










We drove up about 15 miles straight north to a remote home. Two 4wd pickups, one older than the other..a lot older. The bed is starting to rust pretty bad and after cutting into the bed to replace the fuel pump, we found out how rusty. Missing hold downs and such. It’s a fairly good pickup and had a problem with fuel delivery when first started. A real problem. A neighbor that we borrow and service a nice compact JD tractor from and have known for many years, sold it to us. One dollar.





We took several chain saws, clippers, hard hats, chain oil and fuel. Soren even tossed in my old 80 cubic inch Jonsered saw., It will break your wrist to start if you don’t pull with total surrender and strength. It started but still needs a fuel pump. It was my first chain saw when I moved up here in 1976. I was working for Burlington Northern as a track worker and lifting and using it was easy. Fifty years later it got heavier and fussier. Good saw, Just set it with it’s big teeth on a huge round and it walks right through it with a delicious moan and power.





We got three trees down an I began using my Joe Biden electric saw to limb it and cut rounds. 60 amp battery pacs ready to take charge. Light weight and quiet. Soren used the new ‘Farm Boss’ Stihl and we filled the old Ranger’s bed after getting the brush cut and piled.





Dinner was ready and our delightful hose, Jane, had spicy chicken soup, coffee, bread and butter, ice cream and strawberries and rhubarb muffins for us. It was great. Conversations about the great authors of faith were the table talk.





A topic which was very personal and direct is how we expect Jesus to ‘fix’ our problems if we ask nice and are respectful. We plead and wheedle Christ when He is asleep in our boat to calm the raging storms around us. Waking Him up to do His thing. Again.





I drove the loaded pickup, sagging down the 1 ¼ mile driveway, trying to remember what we talked about, taking it to heart. The furious storm at sea, decades ago came to mind. That time my rescuer was the captain of the ship and I had no fear (mostly, just awe) Was this a small way that I trusted someone with my life at sea? After all, it was loud and wet and the ship was tossed to an fro as in a child’s bath as the waves worked their worst. The rigging howled and the bow was covered with water as we plowed through breaking 60 foot waves. Trust.





How would I have felt if our captain was asleep in his cabin and only I was at the helm? What would I have trusted in? I knew little or nothing about trusting the Lord in all ways and at all times. I would have banged on his hatch to waken him just as the disciples did.





Jesus knows there are now storms all around us and it is scary and a lot of us are praying for Him to intervene. He knows everything that was and will be and has answered all these prayers in His own way and we do not have to awaken him with our petitions. Be calm and know that He is with us, not against us and His will be done as it is in Heaven.





It is a new prayer that I offer to Him. I do not understand these times Lord, calm my spirit, once again, turn your face towards me and give me peace. Hallelujah!





In articulo mortis caelitus mihi vires, At the moment of death, my strength is from Heaven.





It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

			

	


			
				


	

							
Prayer in the Big City hospital
						

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The intrigue of the new name, written on a white stone. The only name for you, one of a kind and a blossom in the garden of the Lord. From the beginning of time made to blossom.





As the pattern and majesty of the mighty oak is placed within the acorn, so is our life given as each one of us is created unique, a perfect fit for us and seen on this side of eternity.





 The Brief glimpses of Jesus’ heart which can overwhelm and bring us to our knees. Sometimes to the floor. There is a gift given which is the most precious stone indeed. Only revealed on that day we see the beams of light coming from Him as he smiles and blesses us. As the light flows from His beauty, it penetrates our heart, our spirit. The revelation of Christ indeed.





There is a hospital, that a fellow writer I had recently met at the local library was recovering. In hospital as the odd phrase goes. Much akin to a sailor that says “what ship did you serve in?” Conveying a mutual experience. As most of us, being in hospital after a dangerous or a ‘procedure’ we become very aware of our frail body and also are anxious to be seen alive and belonging. my new friend, Eddie,  was pleased to see me show up.





Ed had just come under the knife to save his life. A removal of a growing thing that did not belong inside of him. As he laid in the bed, I was allowed to come in and see him with deeper sight. Eddie also saw with new eyes. A caring visit from afar just for him. The visit that was as others that have been given to me  too, Irresistible and also fulfilling in ways not yet known. Prayer for a powerful healing was given and well received by him. 





 (I see him now and then, sitting under a tree where he lives. I try not to stop and interrupt him. He is deep in thought and communion and I love to see him there. He is well.) 





After the smiles and reassurances, it was time to leave the hospital with the promise of return firmly known. When I left that room, I noticed a tall young man walking slowly by in the hallway. One of those endless hallways with perspective ahead. Walls extending a long way. I was surprised at the instant inner voice to walk and pray with him. This young man had large hoop earrings. It was merely an affectation I thought. It have been a symbol or recognition. Didn’t matter to me at all.





Right away, I asked that man if it was OK to walk with him. Surprised and visibly pleased that a stranger would walk slowly beside him, the man nodded yes and they walked ahead. ” I walk pretty slowly”  I replied to him that there was no hurry for me at all. They began to converse.





This man said that his doctor told him to walk in a large path every day around the floor that his room was on. Stairways were not on the menu. I slowed down and walked. I am getting used to doing these types of things, not denying that small voice within me. Too many times, I have balked at doing such a simple task asked by my best friend Jesus.





I asked a few polite questions and we began chatting about what was around them and then why they were there. Truth exchanged between two strangers by an arrangement of the Lord. Fear revealed and spoken of. It took a while to get to the turning of the corridor. I said I must go to the right and had to “find the place my car was parked.”  (A small joke among  people of the city that deal with five story tall cement parking ramps).





I then asked permission to put my hand on his shoulder and pray for him. A prayer of immediacy and details I have forgotten were given to this wounded young man. “Well, I must go”  I blessed him and thanked Jesus with the last words of prayer.





Astonished, the man said: “Are you an Angel?”…. I smiled and said “No but I was told to pray for you” 





I eventually found my car, and the joy of fulfilling two men’s need for prayer overcame me. A gift given to listen and then pray what I hear. Silence and then listening without thinking what to say.





 It is a recent lesson I learned from reading in a brilliant book, “It is a restful heart that will attract those who are groping to find their way through life”  a.





It was an enjoyable day of prayer. Just show up and listen. As the old Story of the desert fathers is written; “The Messiah lied to me, he said He was coming today and He has not shown up. Ah! replied Father Anthony. “He didn’t say He was coming, He said listen”





It’s pretty good,   Norm Peterson / aka  Jack Gator





a. The way of the heart Henri Nouwen 1981

			

	


			
				


	

							
Motorcycle  Pilgrimage 5
						

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 My back was not so good from my Berkeley projectionist job as I had to also pick up the popcorn boxes under the seats and sweep up too. The earlier three thousand plus miles on the Enfield bike put wear on my lower back facets. A lot of bending working the theater, and my back ‘went out’ A doctor I visited told me to have a lot of bed rest, cold packs and of course, I lost the theater job. I did not know about workman’s comp and the owners were not telling me either. 





After I began to heal, I was invited to go on plane rides with a pilot that had a room down the hall in the mansion. We flew into various places and it was a thrill to fly alongside an expert pilot. He flew with the German Luftwaffe in WWII. We flew sideways through Yellowstone once.





He was curious about my extensive radio background and asked me to build a portable radio that is used for ground to air communication and also ground to ground. I was paid good money just to do that in the desert for his smuggling operation. Perfectly safe and harmless marijuana from Mexico. It was almost legal in California and everyone smoked it. Why not?





I got to meet the ground crew on a practice run and they were  older and liked to carry around wheel guns. They parked a miles away from the end of an inland landing strip with limited tower presence, and I went up to my designated hill.





A perfect contact to the plane and the ground crew. They didn’t know a thing about communications and just got frustrated and drove back to a rendezvous area. The plane landed spent a short time, did a 180 and roared away. I had an odd feeling about this, and so went out to where the plane made a U turn. The sand was packed and hard and when I puttered up I saw a lot of ‘sea bags’ in the moonlight. 





Somehow I buried all of them but two and took those to the rendezvous area. Knocking on the camper door, I got a gun in my face. I proclaimed what I had done and I unloaded the two sea bags. Something illegal for certain. VW beetles are rather scarce in roominess. They do have good traction and that made traction in that sand easier. I made two more trips and the drill was over. “Well done” the pilot said back at the mansion. I wondered what the bags really had inside and was told it was smuggled pot from Mexico! The money man was a famous rock star, Sly Stone who lived right across the bay in San Francisco.





Not too much later, I was really getting used to the money with the pilot and his girlfriend, and whole business. Rent was not an issue and I was wanted as a team member. Just like being useful back on board ship. There was a lot of my  back pain and the team got me comfy with a powdery pain reliever. Heroin.





The pilot that paid the rent was very kind to me and the heroin was very pleasant and I liked it, a lot. One day, in my room alone, I was eager for another snort of the powder and heard a clear voice behind me say: “Life or death—choose now” I quickly turned around and there was no one there. The door to the room was still closed. I stared at the pain reliever and remembered how good I felt using it. The pain of all the rejections in my life as well as my current back issue. I no longer lingered on my recent Minneapolis fiance that I met just after discharge that ran off with an actor from the Guthrie and my hard childhood trauma. It was more than pleasant to not be consumed with any pain.





After a short while, it was obvious what the voice meant and I said “life?” My addiction was gone instantly and there was no withdrawal either. Of course it was the Lord saving me for His plan. I bundled up the remaining heroin and took it down the hall to the pilot’s room. “I don’t need this” and the pilot was surprised with an odd expression on his face. Another friend introducing me to drugs. I never searched out those things, they found me. No income and shunned by the pilot and co-pilot (RAF vet)





Obviously, I saw homelessness coming and I bought an old International pickup truck and built a camper in the bed. It was finished and cozy with French doors on the tailgate area and those two rugs I thought I bought from the earlier resident in what was now my room. I slept on the narrow one. Wool Oriental. Class again. There was even a skylight of Plexiglas and windows on the French doors in the back. The couple that I replaced in the mansion lived down in the flats and helped me build the camper. A chop saw, jig saw, some hand tools and a Swiss army knife did the job in short order. Time to get mobile. 





After being told to leave the mansion, a new job came into view. Playing guitar in front of the Safeway grocery store in Oakland for  while and garnering enough change to buy a can of Dinty Moore beef stew, drive over the bay bridge and park at McClure’s beach. Enough money for Bridge tools and gas too. 





Open those French doors, get out the little one burner stove and enjoy an ocean like one I so recently used to be on. I still have a can of it now and then a half century later. Looks and tastes the same. Julie is amazed I would eat the stuff but it IS nutritious and the potatoes stay firm in the sauce. 





The chow was OK. Plain but it satisfied. Out of the mansion and into homelessness. Not by choice, but it worked. Sometimes people would put groceries in the open guitar case. A banana or two, things like that. 





The smugglers acquaintances found out where my new venue was. They offered me sympathy for the loss of my ‘job’ and said they had a place for me to stay and clean up a in ‘the city’. The tenant was gone for a few weeks and I enjoyed the luxury of a real house. A few days later, there was a knock on the door and I opened it up to a well dressed man with a pistol in my face and a badge to back it up. Just like the movies with cars parked diagonally and other guys in suits next to them. 





The official from Federal immigration told me “Hold it right there. He called me by the pilot’s name from the mansion job. After a ‘pleasant’ conversation in the living room, I convinced the government men with the badges that the pilot had left the country with my girl. I was a very controlled angry man and it was a good improvised act and they left. One of the other agents was fiddling with the telephone in the living room. The fellow that that was obviously in charge told him to ‘knock it off’. One of the agents came dashing in the door stating: “It never was red!” I realized they were confused searching for a red truck. My truck was green. I had painted it with a brush under the eucalyptus trees up in Tilden park. It started out primer black. Pretty good job painting an old pickup with a brush. The painting was thorough but thick here and there. Brush was a toss.





The pilot’s truck was in Mexico by then. Later, after all the afternoon excitement, I was  interested’ in leaving and looking for a broom to clean up for my unknown host,  I found some book sized plastic bags stacked in the closet about waist high. I then knew what was in the sea bags! I grabbed my meager belongings and my guitar and decided to hit the road with my homemade camper. Quickly. 





It seemed that I had been set up to make sure  disappeared for a while. The shower had hot water and the pressure was good too. But It seemed prudent to leave. The broom went quickly back into the closet and it was time to head back across the bay bridge. Safeway was waiting for my Martin D-28 rosewood guitar. It still has a good tone.





I lived in the camper for a while, and played at the food market. A bully from Oakland approached me as I was playing an old country blues song. He said; “whatcho gonna do if I take dat guitar?” Big guy. With conviction and eye contact, I told that man: “I’ll just fight you for it till one of us dies” After a stare down, the man turned away and said “That’s cool” Oh well, work place harassment. That Martin was the only thing that allowed me to make it for the can of stew, gas, and bridge tolls. Death and taxes. One or the other, nothing new. Bluffing worked in Kansas and I am good at it. Poker face. Actually, I meant it and he saw that in my calm demeanor. 





An old friend of Bruce’s found me at the Oakland Safeway sidewalk and he had a big sack of rice with him. Change of menu. He said: “Want to get out of here and go with me to a commune in Oregon?” Sure! We put the bag of rice in the back of the camper and headed off to Eugene. 





Another adventure ensued and that was the end of that part of the motorcycle pilgrimage. Off to live with the hippies up north in Eugene. A typical commune of the sixties story. 30 people in one house and with one bathroom.  Shortly back to Minneapolis via Omaha.  Next stop, West bank. Check out ’40 acres of musicians’     It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

			

	


			
				


	

							
Motorcycle Pilgrimage chapter 2
						

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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

			

	


			
				


	

				

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Motorcycle Pilgrimage   The beginning chapter 1
						

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The trip was instantly planned with my new friend Bruce, just back from ‘Nam’ and anxious for safer adventures. I was fairly fresh from overseas as well, with Comservron 6 and several tours in the Mediterranean and the six day war with Russia and Egypt. We were on the Israeli side. It was dicey over there too. Lot’s of military muscle being deployed. Older Navy people know the nomenclature. It seemed our nation was muddled up in several wars. Fubar was the term. Bruce and I knew the score, or we thought we did. I was better off at sea. Bruce had just recovered from the Jungle and I had just recovered from a shipmate trying to kill me. We were both suffering from PTSD and it felt so good to just go on our own. It was the summer of love and we needed some of that whatever it was, it sounded good to us.





Older motorcycles and  younger riders seemed just the solution of affordable transportation.





We had an easy itinerary: Route 66 to California. Just head south and take a right. Back in the days of paper maps and freedom to improvise and walk the line between a long trip and danger. I sold my Austin Healey Sprite and Bruce had his Chevy Bel-Aire to trade for the bikes. I was offered a Matchless 500 single cylinder. I chose an Indian-Enfield 500 twin instead. Bruce got a BMW 500. The  offer to me was a Matchless single cylinder. I declined that one for a long trip. It was like riding a vibrating pogo stick.












Off they went, both bikes with ‘sissy bars’ and their guitars strapped on behind us upright and some luggage and a camping tent. Money and a hunger for vistas unseen.





Good weather and full tanks and some spare parts, we left to head south first and catch 66 down by the Oklahoma panhandle. Camping was first choice and other than that, we didn’t have a clue about what was ahead. Just in our early twenties and now free to make our own travel choices.

Bruce had made some friends when he got back from China Beach. Those friends of his lived in ‘the city’ out west and that was good enough a destination as any. Money was tight. First adventure was in Omaha. Somehow we met a group of hippies, and were embraced as sojourners to the headquarters of the love movement; San Francisco.





The hippies took us to their home, right across the street from the big race track, Aksarben, (that odd name is Nebraska backwards). Beds available and very starry eyed girls seemed a pretty good place to stop over. Schedule? There wasn’t any and that allowed leeway. Waking up the next morning, both of us were greeted with a breakfast treat of a small pill. Guaranteed to be an interesting experience. The only thing I remember was being taken to Arby’s and trying to order food. The colorful mushrooms growing out of the counter mans chef’s hat got in the way of comprehending things. ‘Have you ever been experienced?’ went the song of the times.
A quick goodbye and we were back on the road for adventures that seemed to be working out pretty good, so far.





On down the road to Kansas and an uneventful ride until we stopped in Liberal. Foolishly, but with great enjoyment, we gave rides to more starry eyed and bored young girls on our bikes; exotic transportation. the young men on the sidewalk gave squinty eyed stares, the Clint Eastwood trouble for you look. We thought as veterans of two different wars, we deserved good attentions from everyone. We were not wearing our old uniforms.





It was great fun until the town’s police chief approached us and asked if we would like to stay overnight in the town jail! At first thought we wondered what we did wrong that would incur incarceration. The chief stated: “ It would be safer in my jail for you both.”






The doors to the cells only open one way and we declined the offer. that single officer in town told them: “Them boys is a comin’ for you tonight at your camp site”. “Oh. Well, we’ll take our chances chief , thanks for the offer.” was our reply.





The local young toughs came after them later that night.. (to be continued in Motorcycle pilgrimage series)