I had been working at a steel factory a year before I decided again, to give California another try. My old high school class president had an apartment in Hermosa Beach and I was welcomed in. There was unemployment available for me and I began drawing funds and paying my way. The apartments son (who had the same last name!) loaned me his surfboard and the sport stuck well. I began surfing with one of the Beach Boys, as the beach was only ½ a block away. Surf at sunrise, wait till the wind blew out the waves, go back to the apartment and have lunch. Nap a few hours and go back surfing till sunset. Repeat. It was a high point of adolescence to be fit, tan and consumed by sport. Norm’s friend that drove him out to California a year before, had his old Hudson pass away with a head gasket failure in the high country in Arizona and they parked it near the railroad tracks and stole the tires and kicked the trunk jack out. The old Hudson made an appearance a year later!

Now, back to Hermosa Beach and the trip on the classic Santa Fe railroad. The unemployment ran out and there was just enough money to buy a train ticket and to take the Super Chief back home. No money for food on the trip. Just him, a few clothes and a set of bongo drums which fit quite nicely in the overhead rack. A strange looking fit young man, deeply tanned with long white hair and out of place with his obvious poverty. A sojourner without the false clothing or affectations of up and coming hippies. I was the real deal without knowing it. As the train glided back through Seligman, I chanced to look out the window and there was the old Hudson still sagging into the sand next to the railroad tracks. It appeared like a sad dinosaur that had come onto some hard times. It’s probably still there.

So, three days on the Super Chief with no money for food and listening to the menu as the porter announced southern style baked pork chops with biscuits and gravy followed by strawberry shortcake over and over till Kansas City hove into view and a quick ride on the “local” for the rest of the way. I sat next to a kind woman then and she offered me some butter finger candies from a bag she had. I devoured the entire bag while she watched this white haired pre-hippie bongo player rave on with an unbelievable sugar rush. Arrival back home was rather uneventful with the awesome train depot unseen again by me decades later as it lost it’s tracks and was turned into shops and upscale restaurants. Still there. Iron railings and are artdeco decor. Classy place. The old Milwaukee depot.

It was about 5 years later that I began working for the Burlington Northern railroad. No nice relaxing trips without food, just hard work. Steel gangs, tie gangs, surfacing gangs and the more relaxing section crews. It was towards the end of passenger service for railroads and the only passenger train I wound up on with the gangs was an old bunk car and with Picnic tables for lunch. Usually hauled out to a job site to lay ribbon rail or work a derailment. Real comfy. It’s like being at sea with the luxury bunks and accommodations. Those times were not far in the future as I volunteered for Naval duty soon after the Super Chief left me off in Kansas City. The draft was full on and young men had to make a decision or wind up where our country thought best to us to be. Navy on the nukes seemed more benign than Jungle opportunities. I went to sea for a few years. it’s pretty good.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A fascinating and puzzling story has been told many times. No one seems to agree on it however. It is a story with a very pleasant ending, but the pleasantness seems to be up for interpretation and again, there are as many opinions as there seem to be people. Some folks say that we are eternal and when we die, we get to meet up with all our dear friends and relatives and have a big party that goes on..well..forever. Of course, you don’t meet up with ‘those’ relatives, who would want to? The sky palace subway has various fees. Of course, there are varying opinions about that as well. Be a nice person and don’t do too many bad things is a popular thought but that one is actually an invention of the Santa Claus set. You know the contract: Naughty or nice makes you OK but the naughty ones get coal in their hosiery. Fuel for thought.

The religious viewpoints vary quite a bit on eternity. A popular thought is that we get to be ‘one with God as a drop in the ocean of His eternal presence’ Sounds a bit like annihilation. A very interesting viewpoint is a religion that promises eternal worldly pleasures if you kill enough people who don’t believe in such things. So much for the ‘nice person’ clause. There are so many philosophical and theoretical opinions that eternal existence seems up for grabs to the highest bidder, winner take all. The most truthful and authenticated viewpoint is really a breath of fresh air among all the voices.

The stunning viewpoint that tells us in simple language that we are not very nice people, even though at times we think we are. We, of course, get worse as we do what we think is right in our own eyes. Easy enough even for me to understand. I have spent almost a lifetime doing what I wanted and thought was good. The worst was worshiping myself and looking for that platform where everyone knew my name. The talented one, pervading with incredible combinations of music and known by all as a sexy reptile. An easy religion, I knew all the rules and techniques to worship the god that everyone knows well. Myself or yourself are the gods of this age. (small G)

Totally selfish and totally devoted to Baal. Similar to the shelf gods of ancient times. With actual photos and awards of us on literal shelves at home. We all do it, c’mon, admit it! There is even a new name of this worship. Selfies! Who better to show off to the world of the connected than a photo of yourself? “I have changed my portrait!” Again. And incredibly, I think of myself as a nice person’ blinded by my self worship. But the real God saw me there and because He is rich in Mercy and because of His great love, He made me alive when I was dead. The only requirement for us to change all this and become alive is to die. Not a little bit, saving that special slightly off center activity that really harms no one.

All of me. my heart understands what was said to me and now, I am on my way to becoming the man I was made to be. The living God saved my life decades ago with five words.

You have heard that term “born again.” It literally means to be as innocent as a newborn child. Ready with clearing vision to see the world and fellow children the way we were meant to be and to act that way. It is painful as birth but fulfilling as we take our first toddler steps. Steps as we wobble towards our Father who waits for us with open arms and an overwhelming joy as He watches us move to Him. Determination to grow, and grow well under His gaze of Mercy and His gifts. The goal and the prize of an eternity gazing upon our loving father’s beauty. It’s pretty good. (to be continued) Jack

THE FIRST FIRING

It was a full moon night when the whole Gator family walked to the new prayer cabin on the west end of their property. A bit over 1/8^th of a mile uphill and then a steep drop down. The cabin was cold. The old wood stove, looking a lot like the Arc of the Covenant in shape and ornate scenes. The final pipes and thimble (look it up, we had to) and Mrs. Gator lit the paper under the kindling. After communion with bread and wine, it began to heat up a bit and Gator could barely see his breath now.

It is a real beauty of a cabin and the view resembles the boundary waters. A small lake in front, rolling hills on the other side with hardwoods and nothing else in sight. A dream of a retreat and now, we were taking off our jackets and hats and the family dog finally settled down and snuggled Greta on the small love seat with Jack on it too. The boys reminisced about the building of it and everyone was checking the heat from the wood stove. Drowsy now with the warmth and realizing it was late, Jack and the boys walked back to the ranch house. Jack turned for a glimpse and knew immediately his mind would be the camera he needed. The soft white wood smoke floated in the moonlight through the branches of a nearby white pine and it was suddenly hard to leave. A full moon and upon turning around to go back, Jack saw the hoarfrost of sparkling jewels, tens of thousands of them spread before on his path.

Jack knew now the blessing of revealed beauty once again had begun to overwhelm him. He knew Greta would see it too and that the boys who left earlier had seen these things as well. The house drew him down the hill, stumbling a bit on gopher mounds. Electirc candles in all the windows pulled him in and there was nothing more to do except write before his wandering mind would tone it down to a ‘nice time’ It was the stars song and the galaxy swirling to the beat of those stars. Just for Jack, just for all that bother to look. Once in a while Jack will experience timelessness and beauty unbound.

It was one of those time markers that are planted firmly in our minds. The dream that you never forget and you try to remember that beauty you saw. The beauty of events and visions. Jack and the Gators were all together in that little cabin. The first time at night. The last day of a year of incredible challenges.

Deaths and arrangements for both sides of Greta’s parents. Father-in-law and beloved Grandma. The liquidation of two estates, far away and with eager relatives claiming certain ‘items’ before the auctions. Gator’s family got a few precious things as well. Memories and markers. Watching precious Grandma die hundreds of miles away on Christmas day. Moving Grandpa into a home so he would be cared for with his dementia. The veritable boatload of projects at the ranch. A big new building with a wood-shop and storage, a sidewalk dreamed of for decades, Romantic involvements for both the boys. Topped off with a world-wide plague that the Gators dealt with when they fell ill with it. Most of the rest was the usual: Garden and canning, property maintenance and firewood. On premises business’ new equipment and expenses. More room with the old wood-shop moved out to the new building. Cleaning and painting and siding for the main house. A few more things that got done into one years time.

There was emotional growth through it all. Gator himself maturing along with the rest of the Gator family. Closer knit than ever. Actually, perhaps a world-wide growth because of isolation. All in one year. Casting off and loss combined. Spiritual growth unexpected and fulfilling. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

It was right there all along. It’s been right there since the beginning of time. An undeniable feeling that there is nothing to life and that to reveal that extreme angst would be disastrous. What if you are the only person feeling this way? Would you be up for some sort of peer review and judged as a hopeless person. Depressing to be around. Destructive to ‘normal’ social interaction.

Lately there has been an overdose in print of that despair in the NY Times, the ‘leader’ of the news in our country? Gator has been keeping track of the transitive and intransitive verbs and so far has 20 of the most common ones used by their columnists. Gator will list them for you now. Be prepared to the obvious despair generated. Why this ‘news’ is prepared for us is somewhat of a mystery. But then, most of the columnists do not speak of it directly and never mention the only place to look for truth and the freedom involved in finding confidence.

Here’s the list: Chilling, Raging, Surging, Terrifying, Disturbing, Severe, Bizarre, Suffering, Hardship, Worst, Exhausted, Pain, Difficulty, Perilous, Intensely, Most Difficult, Terribly Painful, Staggering, Nervous and Spectacular.

This is the newspaper hawked by newsboys on the streetcars everywhere…Ok, Gator’s memory is a bit out of date but you get the idea of the far ranging effect of this sort of oppressive journalism. Can you envision the rustle and snap of newsprint being read on a bus and all that wonderful encouragement settling in to our frontal minds? Given a chance, Gator finds solace in Opus or Zippy the Pinhead.

Of course, there is the utter distraction of the sports page and Gator actually uses that information to initially bond with others. Gator was fascinated with baseball and the athletic ability of a second baseman to grab a fast grounder, touch second base and get off a snap throw to first for a forced out and then dance back and forth to get the runner who was on first tagged out. Training and physical achievement hidden in a man with a glove, resting his hands on his thighs. Waiting for what would need to be done instantly. Of course, now Gator cannot afford to attend a game but would like to in Kansas City as an excuse to visit some good friends down there in Grandview. Besides, the BBQ in KC is by itself a standout. So, sports can be used to entice conversation into deeper waters.

First the trust has to be engendered. Bait and switch to the clear cool waters, miles deep within. It works often. The verbal newsletters of old London in the pubs or coffee shops comes to mind. There were no newspapers then and small societies formed of writers and poets to share and, of course, critique each other’s drivel. The topics then were a bit deeper than the Kansas City Royals. Raison d’ etre (look it up) was a favorite. Why are we here? Who are you and who am I to see you? What is my destination and why do I feel despair? What is my soul? Things like that. Things we all think about

unless we are so dull that only sensations and pleasure float in front of our vision. Look farther, look inside and ask someone else what is going on. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator