Mine has been an interesting life. So I have been told by people who read what I write.
It seemed normal life to me, what did I know about life? A weirdo and a geek and I have written a few columns about myself. Inward when outward isn’t working. Reasonable when most people are not.
Brilliant and surprising and not understood why. Asperger syndrome, a variation of Autism, a precursor. Advanced in mathematics asking grade school teachers about soil stratification. Then obtaining my novice class amateur radio license in grade school. General class a year later
Dad knew I was different and catered to my interests. The rest of my family stayed at arms length when I acted normally by my thoughts. Knowing the joke about Santa Claus as I waited obediently in my room for my father to knock on the front door and great the great Satan in his red suit with warmth to fool us. I knew Santa clause was evil for his behavior and indifferent attitudes towards people with anti social tendencies. I was used to it after all. Truth is truth.
I would have welcomed coal as we burned it in our basement stove with all it’s steam punk gauges and clinking doors.
As I age, my brilliance has faded somewhat but the wariness remains. Conversation and acceptance always seem to go hand in hand. I like genuine smiles and try to do so. I engage people in places that are not usual for most and use ruses of my own to do so. I complement a vehicle that I see and engage the owner with a complement on it. Conversations fascinate me and I always learn something. Mechanical or even better. I have learned to ask names and even origin of different ones. I guess at the country of origin of their name and this begins the game I reveal to them. It softens the spirit of strangers and lets them know they are seen.
“you’re so friendly and easy to be with!” That is what I have been developing over decades and the wish to bridge the chasm between me and the world. As the improbability device on the Pot of Gold in the hitchhiker movie says: “now approaching normality 2 to 1 and falling”
I am at a loss for words often to express myself and that is why I write and edit over and over till it makes sense to readers. I put the blame on the world and then exalt the cure for us all by mentioning Jesus who is healing me of many things. Mental and physical, I love to pray on the spot for anyone that needs and wants it. It’s a gift from God who has gifted me to do so.
After all, the first thing of communication is to seek it. The early days of my amateur radio were obvious to me. In Morse code the first call tapped out to speak with someone you do not know are the letters, CQ. Seek You. Makes sense to someone looking to communicate with the world. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe to K0JMV.
A common word, found in everyone’s vocabulary and is used quite often in many signs and personal conversations. The tricky part is, what and where does this occur?
The most seen places are church bulletin boards or big outdoor signs. My personal preference is to call them by their resemblance to marble cemetery markers. Tombstones. Often lit. Sometimes they have times listed and can be read if you are going slowly. They always say Worship.
I studied worship at a school down in Kansas City and it became clear to me where the words and body postures came from! Hebrew origins from a while ago. A long while ago.
The first one is very familiar, Hallal. It shows up in a lot of singing and is the base word of Hallelujah. It means to be clamorous and be seen as foolish in praising the Lord. I have been surprised at my own responses when a band sings Jesus, Jesus, you make my heart tremble. I toss up my hands and weep at His name. I am reserved because I do not want to smack someone nearby in my enthusiasm for His name.
Sitting up front with no one in front and room to step out works well for me.
I have asked camera operators if it is OK that I am there and they understand and try not to hit me with the back panel of the hand held camera. I tell them I am aware of their fiber optic cable and will not step on it. (stepping on a coil of it when it is on top of itself is a cardinal sin) Fiber means glass. Operators worship too but it is easy to forget when you are working to tell the story.
I am involved with media production of worship and the simultaneous thrill of the clarity of worship can goof up a good camera shot when you are dancing with joy at the same time. It’s good to be close and among the leaders of the room’s worship. You know it’s real.
Shabach means clapping and shouting. That encourages musicians and if it offends you then you are probably in a bad mood or in the wrong place. Pentecostal worship is exciting and easy to engage with. I love it when the singers Shabach. It’s spontaneous in many places.
Zamaris worshiping our Lord on musical instruments. Plucking strings and joyfully singing praise. Zamar at nine and eleven would catch my attention! I especially like Banjo Zamar.
Barakis kneeling down or bowing down. Rhythmically bobbing works for many. I have seen a few people in a sanctuary just disappear as they fold up in front of their seat. It’s easier if the seats are further apart. Don’t worry about the carpet, facilities staff cleans it after every service.
Yadah is the extension of your hands. There is a separate word for halfway up in the air, I will have to look that one up sometime. You have done all of these things! It’s quite OK as the posture of worship is very traditional and as we all know, God never changes so it seems we should pay attention to that fact. Worship is a romance and Love is most of it but astonishment and joy are hooked on. It’s impossible for me to ignore knowing that I am involved in the timeless and overwhelming beauty of meeting with the creator of all things. Crying happens.
“Don’t you get shy on Me, come on and praise the Lord” Joy, it’s pretty good. Norm the Gator
Sitting in my comfy chair and reading in the morning. The snow sneaked in last night and the small step ladder outside the kitchen window shows six inches on the three steps. A sturdy little thing of aluminum that helps the reach to the kitchen roof with the snow rake. Just clean around the two vents and try to control the ice dams.
Musing on writing something and finding solace in a brief Tennyson quote: “Death closes all, but but something near the end, some work of noble note, my yet be done” 1.
It occurs to most of us, that what have we yet to do now that the curtain is getting close to coming down on the play? As most of us, I have worked hard and made a few good choices to be where I am now. The great dream of a beautiful wife, younger than I! Two great sons of intellect and achievements that love us and our 30 acre homestead.
We have all worked hard and with sweat and satisfaction through most of it. The gardens of provision and beauty, our mechanical shop of provision and repair, still usable now for us and friends. Tools that only need an occasional handle because we use them. Heating with wood and always splitting and stacking and calculating supply. I have gotten so fussy in the winter that I have a tape measure out there to make certain certain lengths are put in the wheelbarrow. Long, short and gnarly for day and night fires in the stove. It’s in the middle of the house.
All of the accomplishments great and small some of which are still visible. Some are tenuous and need conversation to reveal them to one another. Pictures on the stairway wall of births of the kids, a summer kitchen and a field all limned by a photo of Julie, very pregnant with our first son, Bjorn. Myself, just our of basic training taken by a pro in town with my cover just so, leaning to my right in my dress blues. I look happy and am looking to my right and smiling.
Another accomplishment that I just heard today from my son Soren’s good friend Zeke. I asked
him before a Saturday breakfast what he would call our home. He only paused for a few seconds and said; “Casa Del Pas” house of peace. A good handful of men come to join us at times. Good strong young men that are bonded with Soren and us. All of them live in the area but many times Julie and I awaken to extra boots in the entry.
Making sure the coffee maker is filled with water and the fire is properly set and banked is my job as I rise earlier. Breakfast on Saturday mornings with pancakes and eggs/bacon and good coffee after an hour or two. One bathroom and the ballet for it and the preparation for breakfast is done as the snow keeps coming. Pastor Zeke blesses the food and our meal is shared. House of peace indeed. “The author appears on the last act, the best of all”2 1 and 2 Lord Tennyson
It was a good friendship. An E4 and an O6. That’s a Petty Officer third class and a Captain. We were also neighbors. Myself and Pastor Russ. Neighbors that met riding bicycles on passable blacktop roads. Russ lived about a mile and a half away from me and once in a while, we would go for a ‘spin’. There was another huge difference between us as Russ was a category 2 racer and I just liked to ride. Cat 2 is pretty professional and impressive. He was a very good rider to be with. I learned a lot.
One remarkable day, Russ was riding alone and met a very pretty and friendly bicycle rider. She was riding nearby and as Russ was married to Debra and a pastor, he was safe to ride with.
Not long afterwards, Russ mentioned to me about this woman. “She runs a lakeside camp nearby, it’s called Whispering Pines. Pretty good cyclist too!” Myself as a lonely bachelor, was intrigued. I knew where the camp was and began thinking about Russ’s new friend. Just by coincidence a real woman cyclist that lived nearby and with a job! Obviously fit and friendly. Russ said she was pretty too. I considered calling the camp. Why not?
Meanwhile, that cyclist, Julie, was out in Washington state at a conference. She was at a local bar near the Canadian border and the bartender, Margaret, was gregarious and asked Julie where she was from. She told her where the she was from and the bartender, casually wiping down the bar said, “where in Trade Lake do you live?” “What! No one knows that dinky little township!” Margaret replied, “My grandparents lived in Trade Lake” They had a few things to talk about then.
Margaret, incredibly enough, was an old friend of mine and gave Julie my phone number. Julie put it in her wallet and when she returned to Wisconsin and the camp, tossed that piece of paper into a drawer in her office. A Junk drawer holding device to eventually have some of it’s contents put into a round holding device standing on the floor nearby.
On a particularly perfect day for cycling, I decided to call the camp and asked for the director. I gave her my name and mentioned my friend Russ. I also told her that Russ and I rode a lot together and asked if Julie would like to ride sometime. “It’s that Guy! The friend of that bartender way out west!” Julie consulted the head cook, Cora who was her trusted friend if it would be OK to go ride with me. “why not? Sounds safe, a pastors friend” she replied
So Julie told me OK, and being mostly clueless but aware that neutral territory was not at her place nor mine, I suggested we ride our bicycles towards one another on county road M and we meet that way. I saw Julie coming towards me, uphill and riding strong. I waited for her, watching her technique. Pretty good climber.
We did a short 50 mile ride and I asked her out to eat afterwards. Little Mexico, a great local restaurant with homemade guacamole and chips, they had good Mexican beer too. Cora said: “why not?” And so we went. This time I drove my car, a Volvo wagon with a bike rack on the roof of course.
That wise cook had some chocolate cake for our dessert when we returned. After many enjoyable rides later, some of them with pastor Russ, it began to be clear that this whole thing was a coincidence of extraordinary circumstances.
Sometime later when my old friend, Margaret, the bartender, got in touch, I told her the delightful bicycle romance story and then she added one more fact. The exact place on County road M where Julie and I met, was right at the driveway where Margaret’s Grandparent’s had lived. As this story has been told many times, I always say; “It was a miracle, God’s handiwork”.
Julie continued managing the camp until another director was chosen for the job. She moved in to my farm and we played house for a time. We also began working at 7 pines lodge nearby in Lewis. Fresh caught brook trout and fried carrots was the main menu. It was also the only thing on the menu.
The manager was a good fly fisherman and had us, the waiters, put on mystery dinners. All the guests became suspects in the mystery murder and myself and Julie played the hosts of the hotel where the murder was. The manager did not take part in the play as he was busy in the kitchen.
Out of the blue at home, Julie and I proposed and it seemed to make a lot of sense to us. ‘Shacking up’ later on when I became baptized, we realized living in sin was also a description. It seemed good and right. I did get the wedding ring made from my Grandmothers ring. Proposing was an equal opportunity proposition. It worked for us. Still does. More perfect timing. We were married at 7 pines lodge and the wedding was a fabulous affair. The square dance band that I played in (Duck for the Oyster} came to help with the music as well as Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson and Mary Dushane from the Powder milk Biscuit Band. Myself and three fiddlers stood in a circle around my beautiful bride and we played a Swedish waltz, Helsa Hem Dar Hemma.
A Real log lodge with a stream house that straddled the trout stream, that was where we spent our wedding night. The running water made bathroom breaks occur often. It was glorious and one of those memories that is permanently set within us. The dance was at the West Denmark church hall and we still have a photograph of Julie’s dad strutting down the middle of the Virginia Reel dance. More food and leftover wedding cake.
My mom drove up in her Buick convertible to attend our wedding. She almost left in the beginning of the ceremony saying that her dog needed her at home. She stayed with some gentle urging from a good friend of ours. It was obvious that something was going on with mom. Dementia. Her dad had the same issue and died not long afterwards of the onset. Mom was still living in her third home in Bryn Mawr Minneapolis.
After a few years went by and our two children were growing and our farmhouse was rebuilt to double it’s original size. (right before Bjorn, their first born arrived) My Mom agreed to help finance the huge mound system that was needed for the ‘upgrade’ to our home. Bedrooms for the kids after all.
My mother was fading and I drove down at least every week to help her out. Managing the bills and looking after things. Not too long afterwards, about a year, we moved Mom up to our area into a nursing home. Julie had an old pastor friend, Barry, agree to come up to talk to my Mom. however, she died that night and he came up anyway and spent hours with me at the kitchen table. “Mere Christianity” was referred to a lot and I brought up other religions, Buddhism, Islam and my early family attendance at a Christian Science church in Minneapolis. “What about you? What do you think about all this, we are talking about you” It was a very important Question. This was serious and I had a lot think about. Barry slid the C.S. Lewis book across the table and it made sense the more I read it. Still do.
Barry’s church, a Congregational one, agreed to do mom’s funeral with a meal and even light a candle every Sunday for a week or two. No charge. Character in a great man of faith. We began attending as we both were becoming closer to being Christians. Julie already was one, I was still wary.
Soon thereafter, I had a life changing experience at Russ’ church (Russ was in the Navy as a chaplain then and there was a new pastor) . A Christmas cantata was offered and I reluctantly said I would go. Of course, Bjorn and Soren, our sons, were in Jammies, and went up on the choirs risers just before the concert! Great embarrassment for us as we were not well known even though the church was only a mile and a half away from our home. Zion Lutheran.
The Holy spirit overcame me as the choir was singing ‘Mary did you know’. A man in the choir began reciting the words of the song. All I saw was his face and those words changed my Life. Forever. “It’s all true! He is creator of all things! Somebody had to do it! Random evolution never made sense to me.
Pastor Barry said Christ loves me! I still believe the Holy Spirit was running the spotlight up in the balcony so the man reciting had the light directly on him and the angle of the light reflected right to me. It was the major point in my life. The church is still there and once in a while we go to a smorgasbord there. That experience was so overwhelming that attending would not work. The memory is too strong. I stopped once and told the new pastor about these things and he showed me the sanctuary where it happened. It seemed to encourage him. He has the same last name as ours, Peterson. Small world indeed.
Our marriage continues to grow as Julie was already a believer in Jesus. It was good news to her as well. Many times that story still brings tears to me. You know the feeling. Words began to fall short and it’s hard to speak them. That song, obviously, is my favorite and I weep and worship when it is sung.
Our whole family began attending Pastor Barry’s church near Amery, but with the two boys, it was hard to go 80 miles round trip every Sunday. There was a ministry too even further away at Lake Elmo, it was an automotive repair ministry (God’s grease monkeys) and I continued to be a volunteer there. Our Volvo was filled with food while I was working. I was a foreign car shop owner at that time and I was pretty useful. It was another blessing that continues on in various ways. Every church gathering we attend has miracles when we look. He is pouring His spirit out on us. You too.
Later, at a sweet corn feed at a local church, we met Pastor Roger Inoway and the relation with Grace Baptist, a church association for us began. It was only ten miles away in Grantsburg, Wisconsin.
Our family began attending that church and eventually we started a successful food ministry there. The monthly event was named Feed My Sheep. It was coupled with an automotive repair ministry, Grace Garage. The food ministry was a bright spot for us as we got to minister and pray for the people waiting in an adjacent room. They were waiting to be called to get in line for the food distribution. People still comment to Julie and I about those prayers and some healing that occurred. The church made me a deacon in the process too.
News came that the camp, Whispering Pines, was in need of a temporary manager while it was up for sale. Julie and I stepped into that position and soon after, two pastors showed up on motorcycles at the camp. They expressed interest in buying it! Perfect. Keep the camp Christian owned and run. A good vision for us for certain. We got baptized at Whispering pines soon afterwards. Pastor Barry had never performed a baptism and so dunked us three times. “Father, Son and Holy Spirit” and I saw him above me in the clear lake water. I asked him what he saw as he looked at me. “A dead man” he perfectly replied.
There was a quick transition to those new motorcycling pastors church with the blessing of the Grantsburg leadership. Back south of Highway 8 again! Our family fit in well and eventually became the worship team there. We were licensed as Pastors but weren’t installed. When the two Pastors they were hoping would buy the camp didn’t buy it we left. The camp was sold to a real estate developer and after a neighborhood fight about loosing the beautiful Methodist camp to a developer, it was developed into high end lake homes (½ mile of lake shore went with the camp) It was time to find a church closer to home and after dreaming together about their next move, both of us got the same named local pastor.
That church seemed appropriate and it was only a few miles away. You have noticed that a lot of what is called ‘Church Hopping’ occurred for us. It wasn’t that at all. It was Church involvement and being led by the Spirit. About five years at each house of worship was average. All of it extraordinary and good.
It’s a hard life at times and our whole family has had many challenges from both of our pasts. We are still together and praising the Lord and his way of loving them. Our Lord does not have a plan. He is plan. Now we listen to Him and we follow His leading. The Lord speaks quietly and we are getting better at listening.
We continued singing and playing songs to Him and about Him, writing a few of those songs as well. It’s better than my bar band, and I am not even obligated to wear a cowboy hat. We did move to another church again to a refurbished bar that I played with the country western band! It was a new life about 30 miles away. I occasionally played Viola and the Mandolin there. South of highway 8 again. As I write this we have again been called to another gathering, Eagle Brook in Minnesota. I am working with Bjorn who is the media director and he asked me to become his AD (assistant director) It’s a long drive but he drives most of the way after I drive to his place about 28 miles south. I am also being trained as a camera operator.
We do wear our faith on our sleeves. Just like in my Navy days in a way. This story catches attention to unbelievers. It still catches our attention around May 23rd as well. our anniversary day.
Who can foretell the leading of the Lord? Jesus guides as he provides and that is challenging and exciting.
There it was, there it still is. A two story mural depicting Jesus with his hands open to all who would come to Him At the intersection called Seven Corners, visible plainly from Washington Avenue. It was the building housing Souls Harbor.
That mural was painted there some time ago, it was there when I was working at the New Riverside Cafe back in the very early 70’s. Several columns in Gator’s Grace Notes have been printed in various newspapers about those times. ‘40 Acres of Musicians’ is one of them.
Seven corners refers to a major intersection that signals the end of Washington Ave and Cedar Ave and an on ramp to the freeway, Highway 35. Perfect spot really. “And there shall be a highway and a Road and it shall be called the Highway of holiness” That quote is found In The Bible, Isiah 35. As an aside to this story, I am going to use that verse as the title of my upcoming book.
I was a hippy at this time and I was happy. Living in an apartment on Cedar Avenue a few blocks away, 605 ½ Cedar. It was a hot spot of the musicians in the city as was the New Riverside Cafe, referred by the in crowd that worked there as simply “ The Cafe” Pronounced as ‘the Kafe’ by these in the know and we who staffed it. Ground zero for me, fresh out of the Navy and growing my beard and hair as fast as possible.
Lots of bean sprouts and other veggies on the menu as the Cafe was vegetarian. Cheaper and better for you and the neighborhood. The favorite menu item was soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. We fed the neighborhood, most of it pretty poor folks. I would give the soup for free to many of those people and and when they asked for the sandwich I would offer bread, good bread and explain to them that this was what we had to do for free food. For quite a time there were no prices for food there and a price for the world class music in the big room, overlooking Riverside Avenue.
The entire neighborhood is now Somali and the business’ there all have NE African names, but the people are pretty friendly. The buildings are still the same but none of them have old hippies staffing them. The free store, Cafe Extempore, Durable goods, Dinsaur Motors, and Bellvile and Hoffman’s guitar shop are all gone. As am I. I miss it sometimes and think about walking around the old place just to get the new flavor. (If I figure out the menu of the west bank restaurants) who can tell? We will trade stories!
We worked a miracle in urban development then. Stopping the development of Heller and Segal’s dream of “A new town in town’ A rent strike and political rally’s and the help of the local Anglican Diocese was the protest plan. A lot of publicity in the Tribune and it worked. At least most of the west bank that was left stayed undeveloped into high rises. Since the West Bank was so close to the Mississippi, it housed a lot of northern European immigrants in the early days before us. It was known as ‘Snus boulevard’. Chewing tobacco and sidewalks as spittoons was the Scandinavian way of nicotine consumption.
The movement of America’s Revival, the Jesus movement was in full swing. Almost everyone who worked at the Cafe’ were not interested in Jesus. Hippies were more into mantras and Eastern versions of wisdom. The impetus for the very low or non existent food prices came from Father Teska, an Episcopal priest that helped fund the whole adventure.
(His diocese was very helpful for me later on.)
We were all clueless to creation and our Creator. I became aware that my only faith was in me and as a result, I was not really satisfied with my life. It took a few decades before I understood what that mural of Christ was telling me.
The diocese helped with the legal issues I was in with the military after discharge. I was still living on the West Bank, but I left the Cafe to work for the Burlington Northern as a track worker. My first job with them was shoveling ballast for a section surfacing a hump yard. It was more physical than the work of a cafe worker. I survived and thrived. Real money then, over 6 dollars and hour! After a summer of that I got pretty jacked and confident in manual labor. It was like military comrades. Joking and sharing hard work.
I shoveled ballast for months and noticed that the guys moving the tracks just hung onto their lining bars while I shoveled constantly. Ballast to be thundered under the ties by a massive surfacing machine. I worked right next to it. I asked one of the men how do the lining bar men get assigned that position? “First one to the work site gets their choice of tools”.
The next day when I stepped off the old school bus that took us to the work face, I yawned and stretched and then burst into running and grabbed a lining bar. Lots of kidding about that for all of us. New guy wises up. I did a good part of a year on surfacing gang and then I listened to my old veteran friend, Bruce, who lived in NW Wisconsin and he bluntly told me to ‘get out of there and buy a house a half mile away from his. I got a GI loan and bought the house. I had no idea what I was getting into, it’s not like buying a truck. (more of Bruce and I in the “motorcycle diary” series.
Living rural, 75 miles away was different than the west bank and it took some getting used to. I then began commuting to a section crew that was in Dinky Town, just across the river from the west bank!
A few visits to an old friend from the cafe, Raplh WhItcoff at the Durable Goods store got me a nice new Josnereds 80 chainsaw that really helped me with the firewood production. I can’t run it now but can still lift it up. My gandy dancer muscles had no problem back in those days. It’s all right, It will break your wrist to start it, when it will start. My son, Soren, recently restored the old 80 and it is an amazing saw for it’s era. Determination to start is still the key. 80 cc’s of engine is enough for a small motorcycle.
Fifty years later, we still heat with firewood in our parlor stove and Soren does most of the acquiring and splitting the wood. I stack and split kindling. I do remember how to swing wood hand mauls and have a good time doing so. Keeping my oar in as the saying goes.
Our property has increased in value after paying off the GI loan. Paradise in it’s own rolling hills valley with a private beaver lake and a prayer cabin overlooking it. 30 acres of peaceful country life. It was twenty six thousand five hundred dollars when I bought it. I now have a beautiful wife, two boys and indeed, blessings that just came. I found Jesus was right beside me my whole life and eventually surrendered my being and soul to Him. It took a while, I can be pretty dull and unobservant sometimes.
As I quote Monty Python at times: “Well, I got better” It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator
Frederic Wisconsin, is a small town with almost a thousand people, and several deer. A small red fox runs across the state highway by the gas station around 4:30 every morning. The town has a restored railway station which is very authentic. There’s a caboose on a siding, a semaphore signal, a metal-wheeled cart with wood barrels and a bright yellow track-section car. A chain-saw carved wooden bear, stands near the roadbed where the metal tracks once ran.
The station anchors Main Street, which is about a block and a half long with diagonal parking. Frederic has a smattering of small shops: a hardware store, two bars, a library, and the usual shops that sell ‘antiques’ and knickknacks to tourists and used furniture to the locals.
Leaving town on the state highway you will find a gas station with well made waist-expanding doughnuts a car dealership and a tidy golf course with another bar. It is a cute town with a nice cafe and a second rate self-service car wash. The people in the town are fairly reserved but will speak with you if you speak first to them. A few of the people will wax nostalgic about the glory days of the railroad and the daily passenger train.
When first told of the twice-a-day train schedule, I knew I had missed something by being born 20 or 30 years too late. Of course, the tracks are gone except the siding with the caboose but the roadbed is now a merged bicycle/snowmobile trail. The bicyclists park by the bakery and the snowmobile folks park at the bar on the corner. Much to the towns confusion, the bakery has been closed for several years from a fire. Now they only sell wholesale and the main street side windows are covered up. There has also been a fire next door above one the bars. A fire no-sale. Two for the price of 4. Soon next year, the two buildings, which were destroyed, will rise from the ashes become one. A patio for patrons of the bar and bakery will finish the project. As I write this there is still windows and doors to install and the insides finished. The town is excited about the project.
There are five churches of the usual preferences, and even a small Amish community on the edge of town. Their carriages and the clip-clop of the horses add charm and fertilizer to the main street. The small town chugged along pretty well and the years brought the expected changes. A late night two dollar store and an old department store now selling secondhand furniture and dishes. There are treasures worth searching for: top line toasters and old hard-bound books. The two dollar store has a red box for last years latest movies. I always wonder why everything anyone buys from those quick two dollar stores smells like laundry detergent.
The early-morning men gather every morning, parking in the same parking spots and sitting at the same table. sipping passable coffee and eating good sourdough toast. The restaurant on the corner was named ‘Beans’ and now is known as ‘The Tin Shed.’ It is an early morning place of connections and warmth on winter days.
On those snowy winter days the village sweeps while its people sleep, the snow and drift removal goes on with the metallic rasp of shovels and the diesel snort of the plows. Some merchants shovel other store-front sidewalks because they have hearts for it. There is camaraderie in the winter, a hunkering and shared misery too: dead car batteries, ice on the roofs and leaking roofs in downtown with all the flat roofs common in row-house shops.
The down-town sometimes appeared like an old man with teeth missing. There were too many empty store-fronts. The draw of the big box stores about 25 miles south takes a toll on local merchants. A small town can only support one antique store or one that has used books, Jackets and couches. Frederic had a burned out bar, a bakery with no public access, an empty appliance store and an excellent hardware store. One old one with everything you need a new pharmacy and clinic. There is a friendly grocery store with a deli and things the big box does not handle. My favorite is Lingonberry jam. There is an exit power door that sticks open slightly and that is a reminder that the wholesale grocery business operates on a rather slim margin. It still works but keeps the entryway nicely cool in the winter.
There is a food truck that shows up in the summer by the old railroad depot with great gyro sandwhiches. A tow behind coffee business is faithful a block up the main street parked at the laundromat lot. Great coffee.
A curious thing in small towns is an almost precognition of most things happening that are interesting and tasty to the tongue. An event gossiped about at the corner cafe would instantly be the new topic at the library’s world- problem solving group of men gathered in a circle of comfortable chairs, or at the local bar next door over cups of morning coffee. The hand cut Jo-joes come later. Worth the wait. Real burgers as well.
Then one of the closed store-fronts was suddenly transformed from an appliance business into a prayer room. No one in town knew what a prayer room was; it sounded beneficial but odd. A few speculations were made, but no one went in when the lights were on and music was heard. It was often quite loud, with drums and piano and even a violin and people singing.
There was beautiful hand-carved lettering visible from the sidewalk claiming prayer for the town’s county and even the county to the west which encompasses the river named Holy Cross. (St. Croix Falls) my family were the musical staff with myself on the fiddle. It was pretty good. The last ‘set’ was beautiful. It started at 7:20 and ended at 7:20 The clock had stopped. It was definitely a good sign.
“It’s some kind of new church!” was a popular speculation. Simply put, the songs also had scripture being sung along in various music styles. We were mostly hidden behind a partial wall. We were in there quite a lot and we were known as friendly and there was prayer now and then in the stores for people in town. One of the bakers down the street was healed of a lifetime of headaches; this was news. “When does your free clinic open?” “What denomination are you?“ A few sidewalk questions came over the years. Once in a while I would put a chair out on the sidewalk while live music and prayer was visible on a computer screen through the window. It was a simulcast of a prayer room in Missouri.
Indeed there was a mystery with this small-town House of Prayer. How did it get there? And after four years, where did it go to? And of course, the town’s biggest question: what was it? No one really had the answer to all these puzzles except for us, a handful of people who built it and staffed it. For after all, there was no pulpit and no preaching. To quote Leonard Ravenhill, “Preaching affects time, Praying affects eternity.” There was a call from eternity and to most people, it didn’t make sense. At best, it seemed to folks like a Salvation Army storefront. They wondered,”why here?”Why not? The presence of the Living God Jesus, was strong and joyful. We miss it and some locals do too.
Small town America, the heartbeat of faith and freedom for everyone. It’s pretty good. Jack GatorScribe
There I was, alone in the house with Julie at work at the sweet shop twenty miles south. Our youngest son was waiting for his flight from Kentucky and the weather was turning windy and cold.
The stove was glowing in the parlor and I was attempting to write a column about a short piece on judgment I had just read by C.S. Lewis. I had no ideas and so decided to put the shoulder rest on my old 18th century viola and play a mazurka in the key of F. A few harmonic notes on the A string to start with and I was lost in creating beauty I had been hearing while I read Jack’s wonderful writing.
Does this resonate with you? Do you read or hear someone talking to you and are at the same time completely lost in another world? It helped that I was alone this time. I was reading Jack’s brilliance on our free will to reject our free salvation. A greedy and self serving man that some people say is capable of enjoying eternal life because we are all saved.
You know this man and would anyone deny him eternal happiness? If he stayed enjoying what he is? Free will after all. We were created that way for love can’t exist without choosing who we love. We do not have to judge that greedy man as he has judged himself.
As I began the fast piece it was working pretty good. B then C up to D and then the harmonic of A. An F# now and then. I found the closer to the bridge I bowed, the louder that old French viola would sing. I raced up to the next string, the D string and started to have fun. Even getting the vibrato on the lowest C string as I went to a low D.
Suddenly, I was playing better than I thought and having a great time with double stops and fast grace notes and I began to realize my self judgment of being pretty poor at playing was a mistake.
Judgment is usually my biggest weakness. Lewis wrote that was reserved for the only judge of our hearts. Knowing without a doubt that I am loved in spite of my weakness’ poured over me as the notes flew off that instrument.
It was fun and it was the joy of my creator dancing with me in the parlor, in front of the warm wood stove. He told me to do these things when my muse seemed to be dry. He said play, and he likes play as only a good Father and Son do. The spirit overcame me and I danced along. It’s pretty good.
I was finishing up a 2 hour prayer meeting in town and was going to drive to an appointment about a mile and a half away. The appointment was with my chiropractor. .
So when I was walking out to my car, I ‘heard a voice’ in my mind. Akin to remembering a forgotten chore. The strong voice of someone in the family. Undeniable and at times, saying something I did not want to do.
“Walk to your appointment” ‘ “It’s a very good day for a walk” ‘“There is a very nice trail to your right! Your bicycle club helped build it!” Three times I tried to ignore that still soft voice. The soft voice then said; “keep your eyes open” I thought of treasure to be found on the trail and I began walking, now somewhat eagerly. Treasure! No gold or folded money was seen except trash and waterlogged cigarette remnants. “Cross the road” was now ‘heard’ I obeyed. Instantly, after crossing, I saw envelopes in the grassy ditch. Many of them and midst them, a small broken wood box. Dozens of envelopes scattered for 20 feet in the grass.
I began gathering the envelopes. They were all addressed to the same person in a town 20 miles away and all were postmarked with a military return location, Korea from 60 years past. I opened one and a soldier was writing home. Touching base with simple questions: “How is the combine working?” Farm things. The few dozen envelopes and the busted box were easy to carry to my appointment and Intrigued and excited now, I walked back to town and drove home with the treasure.
The last name on the envelopes was familiar and Julie and I called after finding the families last name in a phone book. A kinship girl from there had that name. That young woman answered and told us that the letters were all from her Grandfather and his home was recently broken in to.
I instantly knew the thieves had thrown the box and the letters from their car window then, seen worthless to them. That young woman came right away and thanked us for the small but significant treasure returned. It felt very good to all of us and it was obvious who gently insisted I walk the day before. It was our best friend Jesus that the whole family talked, prayed and sang prayers and songs to in that simple but beautiful prayer room for four years. It helped us to be obedient to the voice of the Lord and at many other times we were given great comfort and joy from Him who was always there with us. Sometimes I don’t hear those soft and firm messages from Him. I tell people that story now and then and it is another reminder to me to keep praying and listening. “Be still and know that I am God” He is good, all the time.
That prayer room on main street is now an empty building but that treasure found in the ditch is a reminder of the many treasures we are given. It’s another eternal treasure after all. It’s pretty good, Jack GatorScribe
Photo of our friend Jon Thurlowworshiping in a prayer room
It’s our entire existence, a magnificent story that only you can experience and only you can tell well. First person. Truth heard or read. Autobiographical and, if written well and told with skill, captivating. We enter in and become one, fascinated with the passion that reflects all life.
We are the story, everyone is. Nothing has changed since creation. Danger and romance. Power and loss. Intrigue and betrayal. Movies and books abound for us and most of them are stories. Technical and how-to instructions can be stories of sorts too. I draw the line at the periodic table books. Analysis is wonderful if you want the study to understand but it is not the genre of human interest stories.
A good story teller can capture you and hold your attention. I re-read books like that, I watch revelatory movies over and over. Music tells stories in several engaging dimensions.
Audiophiles have vinyl records with tube amplifiers and incredible turntables. They have ‘sharp ears’ and need to tickle them without anything getting in the way. Of course, reminders are OK but Duke Ellington on a micro speaker in a cell phone is somewhat inadequate to the task.
Live music, especially worship, is a story and a lot of time requires invisible people to make the story come alive. My self, I have recently become involved with media production and the amount of technical complexity is incredible. The people I am working and learning from all wear black clothing. Invisible in many ways to camera apertures, they move through the worship platform. Their job is to tell the story of God and his glory. The musicians in front of them do their very best to help listeners to enter an area of our lives, an area where we can be overcome with the joy of uniting with the presence of God. Joining with the sea of worshipers through eternity that sing Holy, Holy, Holy…forever. That story.
My personal story is pretty exciting and I have chosen Matt Damon or Tom Cruise perhaps to be the actors in the upcoming movies. Story telling. Look deeper into your life and you will see the handiwork of God through the sorrows and joy. Your stories we all ache to hear and understand. I want to listen to those stories. Even though they are not be as thrilling as you think they should be, they are. I love to hear people’s stories as they come out of the wilderness, leaning on their beloved. The best stories, It’s pretty good. Jack Gator, Scribe
Jack gators grace notes 