The Evers Walz at the Governor’s Ball

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A dance tune that has taken the Midwest by storm has the full endorsement of Washington politicians who have been Biden their time for this musical comedy.

Written by a relatively unknown fiddler in Wisconsin, it has up to now been performed in Madison and St.Paul. The melody starts with a very fast arpeggio which quickly settles in for a downward movement from the right side of the fingerboard to the left (high notes to increasingly low ones)

Accompaniment in the score recommends counter melodies to be played on the bass buffoon with introduction of the passage by left hand pizzicato on the 2 ½ bass. Oddly enough, it was first performed in a closed pizza parlor in Northern Minnesota during a medical theater production in 2020. It was so controversial that the government ordered the restaurant closed along with every restaurant in the state.

Immediately, in support of the closings, the neighboring state of Wisconsin also closed public dining. It caused quite a stir among the populace. There were fines enforced by an attorney general who’s religion forbids the consumption of alcoholic drinks. It was in the first act of the medical theater which began in Washington D.C.

The dance continues to this day and the dancers are soon to leave the stage for ignominy with bad reviews.

It seems that these political satraps are also stirring the ire of the populace that are refusing the continuation of the influence of inept back peddling of the accompanying dancers.

Near the end of the comedy (which really wasn’t funny at all) the main dancers attempted to dance backwards to begin the dance again. The audiences at these nationwide productions began booing and even throwing things at the dancers. The debris began to build and not a few of the performers began to trip and go completely off script in attempting to save the performances.

It did not go well for those shows. They complained that the awkwardness’ and disgust generated were just false impressions of this comic opera. Trumped up and not noteworthy.

History has a way of repeating bad productions which are still seen on the world’s stage today. This reviewer advises to be diligent and read the scores of these dances. Variations of the parody (which began as a musical comedy) have been taken seriously by bad dancers who still believe in awkward, dangerous and foolish moves. There can be consequences to keep buying tickets to these operas. Read the sheet music and know the score.

It’s pretty good to do so. Jack Gator

Titus Quinctius Cincinnatus

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A Roman citizen who exemplified rule for the greater good, Civic Modesty, Virtue and Humility. Several times he controlled the Roman Empire and led it to a successful fulfillment of long term vision and intelligent use of resources and strength. He lived around 500 BC. After ruling the empire several times and putting back on track of civilization (Ending the reliance upon the state) he retired and went back to his small farm.

Very much akin to our own George Washington who made certain that our nation stood by the constitution, after this was accomplished he also went back to his farm (voluntarily retirement) in Mount Vernon.

The obvious problem then, and now, is the outlook of time. Quick satisfaction of wish or long term growth and security. We are faced with this decision now in our nation. Is it growth in essential ways? Or do we wish for the things and ways that seem to satisfy our now?

Quick fix and keeping the populace settled (somewhat) and the offering of government supply and direction. Also a lot of ‘fake news’ to stir the pot of longing. We have all seen the anxiety in our neighbors for things that are not long term goals but in perceived wealth and safety (perceived). I will not pontificate of these things. They are simple things and easily seen, if we want honesty and use the intelligence we have been given.

Stimulus cash that is dolled out to make us believe in a benign economy, entertaining conflict on the airwaves or through fibre optic high speed computers. My desktop is pages long every morning of answers to satisfying images. A new electric powered car (with a power grid capable of keeping them charged?) Lowering the price of gasoline by a dime by releasing two days worth of national emergency oil.

How about getting another and another shot of security which is akin to the finger in the dike by a small vision that promises and can’t deliver. Backed up of course by fear mongering. ‘Bring out your dead’ It will probably be you. Keep those shields up Scotty! Isolate and tremble. Your saviors in the capitol will let you know when it is safe. Life is not safe, never was. Again, as C.S. Lewis penned it so brilliantly about our Lord: “Is He safe? Of course not, He’s a lion..but He’s good”

It would seem quite a few people are getting aware that it isn’t safe out there. After all, we rely on lines of paint to keep us from deadly forces of impact. Does that seem safe? If I wear a paper mask that does not allow me to breath or see, I will be safe against people. “Buy this one! It fits perfectly!” (unless it isn’t needed) We are in a hurry to pick up that deal, that stimulus check. Survival food and enough ammunition to fight off ‘those people’

Gold and silver bars and coins to trade for your miserable, isolated and fear filled life. Cincinnatus and George Washington knew a lot of these things and with their virtue and honesty, helped us out of our situation.

We need that attitude today. Modesty and the greater good visions. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Diversify

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The morning ritual, perhaps a few of us look forward to it. It ends with the half cup and half caff and a screen at eye level. Jack often wonders at the medical frame straighteners that are taxed with the continual efforts to adjust us to these times. You know the posture. Head tipped forward, about 25 to 30 degrees, left hand upraised and the digits of the right tapping on the small rectangle of plastic.

“Hi Eddie, what’s going on this morning?” “Ed?” Oh hi Jack, I was just checking my account.

The isolation of the postures of those around us. Walking, sitting on a bench perhaps or strap hanging on the metro. It has become a reservoir of escape and capture even on Jack’s email in the morning ritual. An interesting article on a Sunday lecture series is delayed a little bit by advertising that pops up.

We all know how it works and sometimes there is a short escape with a click down in the lower right of the screen that says; ‘Skip ads’ Or perhaps an X off the the right that deletes the ad. Jack has noticed sometimes the ad pops back up. Golly, Jack just wanted to read that article in the New York Bad Times about the collapse of civilization and an opinion of an expert on technical issues with the pending doom.

Old news articles, pulled off with a simple copy and paste. Here’s the news and it isn’t pretty. The immediate thought about that lecture or sermon diminishes to fear. Images of young thugs staring at your car as it is stopped at the red light. Red means danger close. Images of that property that is not selling as fast as it should because the market is skewed. Fear of an empty shelf at the destination locked into the GPS. Why was it always toilet paper that is the first thing missing, even at the two dollar store? “It’s those truckers! It’s the inflation causing something I don’t understand!

The good reporter/bad reporter sets us up for the ads hooked into the online reading. “Invest! Diversify! There is a way to guarantee the future for you and your family!” Another go-round on the roundabout of collapsing faith. Looking at failure and perhaps death by ingestion of food that does not contribute to nutrition. Fake food. Fake news.

As it was said thousands of years ago, there is nothing new under the sun. Same old game we play when we loose faith in the life given to us by the solid reliable source of all knowledge. Where is our Lord and Master? You know, I am doubting things and I am going to make sure every base is covered!

Diversify. There are other ways to make certain of my survival! ‘This offer is solid gold! It will get you through the hard times you have even been promised by that leader who seems to have disappeared ”Bullion. Shiny and eternally so. Secure as the bank. Diversify and survive. Nothing new under the sun.

Is it pretty good or is it just fear and lack of trust? Jack Gator

A Battle for Individual Worth

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I was experiencing another melt down. An appropriate analogy for the origin of Melt Down. A nuclear power plant of any sort, has to be kept cool. There is more heat available in nuclear fission that can be used.

I volunteered for the nuclear submarine service as an engineer and thus, I am somewhat familiar with these things. The reactor must be kept cool enough to survive, to be useful and not dangerous.

The melt down I was experiencing was internal and dangerous to me I was loosing my cool. The core purpose of my being was under question. I was reacting to my perceptions of life and purpose under those perceptions. I felt I was too old and, well, sort of worthless. Thinking of those mile long lines of old grain cars that are seen in a side track sometimes near the highway. Another thought of being set aside is the farm machinery we see near the fields where a new fresh green painted combine is moving among the crop.

Old machinery, old abandoned houses with weathered gray siding and a grown over driveway. Set aside as a symbol of that old Grateful Dead song, “Old and in the way, that’s what I heard them say. They’ll never care about you when you’re old and in the way” That’s the illusion I and perhaps you believed.

We are old, yes. Our hair matches the old barn boards of gray..sometimes a silver gray. So easy to set ourselves on that shunt of rusty steel. Coupled with an endless line of others. Tattooed with gang paint spray and brake hoses disconnected. Forever. Out in the field, the old fashioned tractor almost hidden with the tires flat and grass growing through the frame. How it must be in the dormitories of the old we envision our end. Visitors these days like Clayton Moore with his mask asking how the food is.

Suddenly, I bolted awake with a memory of incredible worth. My worth to an absolute stranger a few years ago. After following an ‘instinct’ to visit an acquaintance in the big hospital, I had an experience that doubled in size as I thought of it.

When I left my new friends room after praying for him, there was a young man, walking slowly down the long corridor. An unusual appearing youth with large hoop earrings. I asked him if he wouldn’t mind if I walked beside him. “Sure, that would be OK. I’m kind of slow” My doctor said I had to walk around this floor several times a day” I responded that I was OK too and not in any hurry. I did not ask the young man why he was in hospital. At the next corridor junction, we both stopped and I said I was going to the right to try and find my car, and it seemed the young man was going left. I then asked if I could pray for him. It was alright with him and I asked if I could put my hand on his shoulder. I do not remember my prayer but afterward the young man said to me “Are you an angel?” I said no, but God sent me here.

So now worth, eternal worth came flooding into my pity party and that was exactly what was needed. We are not abandoned machinery although existential thought and words say we are worthless no matter how old we are.

I had been reading a bit of Sartre, Joyce and Nietzsche for research. Some of those old ink stained minds. Hopelessness, no meaning to life and other cheery stories can go deep, they strain to dominate one’s spirit but God sent me that memory. A memory stronger than death, as strong as the grave and many waters cannot flood this love. A Rich and priceless memory that filled me with hope and a life well lived through the eternity we all glimpse, as through a darkened glass. We are not in the way unless we put ourselves in our own way. Live for others, pray for them and indeed Peace floods in and we become aware. Awake. Redeemed and set in a perfect place and time for His good purpose.

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Rainbow Over the Garden

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There it is. A rainbow, in it’s original glory. Rain reflecting the colors of the spectrum. A symbol that the Lord said He would give us as a sign that He would never flood us again.

Quite a few people have taken the symbol and the miracle of refracted light and have used it to illuminate fractured light of their own designated symbols and message.

There are many people that also have taken the beauty of the rainbow and used it as a symbol of a product. Quite harmless but still, diminishing the astonishment a child sees. Do you remember the first time? I remember the first time my son saw it. He was fascinated with the arc and even went to England to meet Ken Ham that came up with building a 1:1 copy of Noah’s commanded Arc. Rainbows of covenant between us and the Lord.

Another outfit decided that the rainbow would instead be a symbol of freedom for them. The concept does not make sense in some ways. Freedom? from what? The rainbow’s only freedom is freedom from an earth flood.

The Governor of our state thinks it is appropriate to fly a rainbow flag for a month celebrating endorsing the hijacking of the beautiful rainbow image. For freedom to embrace perversion. How enlightened. It will please 5% of the population that are on board with birth control by having pregnant men.”How many fingers Winston?” (Brave New World)

Remember Judy Garlands song, ‘somewhere, over the rainbow’ ? That symbolized the promise. We of the last century (don’t ask) would never believed that someday our public schools would be teaching the ‘new’ symbol and language. No more does the rainbow offer a promise of protection and commitment. It now offers the symbol of flesh used for pleasure and a prime focus of our awokened sensibilities. Awoken to the real freedom of endorsement of a child being able to be whatever sex they want to be. When our new Supreme Court Justice cannot define what the word ‘woman’ really means, then we are on the way to Ephesus or Pompeii redux.

Maybe the words ‘on the way’ are inappropriate. That train is here, at the station, engine idling. It has already arrived . How about sliding open that boxcar with the really neat rainbow painted on it? Oh look, it’s already open but there’s nothing inside but an unpleasant odor. What’s in the rest of them? Famous authors and ‘experts’ for Newspeak magazine perhaps. Professors and liberal teachers to indoctrinate the children.

That open boxcar in particular had a whole wardrobe for the King! Splendid it is said. A veritable rainbow of color and coordinated accessories. The parade has already started and has startled one young boy…”the King doesn’t have any clothes on!” He is walking around, prideful in his power. Naked and seen as a fool. You and I know the difference between men and Women. Counterfeit money is in the till. Try and spend it. Jack Gator Scribe

Creativity of a Wordsmith

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

“The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, does glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination brings forth the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing, a local habitation and a name.” a

There is a great deal of unread and unnoticed wisdom floating about. Often, those words get clouded over with brash recitation. The meanings almost completely lost for the listener to the erudite speaker. We all do it. As a radio would just become background noise to alleviate the lack of conversation, so does great literature and poetry become in the hands of a tone deaf musician. After all, music is poetry put to sound. Prose and poetry are intoxicating concertos when done well.

Of course, there is a beginning to listening and that is a decision to be made by us all. Do we believe in what is being said as truth, real truth? Or does the effort to inculcate us with excitement in discovered truth not appeal? After all, You and I are most ignorant of great wisdom that lies just about, flat and bound in cardboard or fine leather. Stacks of those at times around my comfy chair that somehow manages to lull me to sleep. Just when my hungry mind starts to come awake, I fall into a slumber. Too much of the fruit of the mind can be intoxicating. Small doses work better for me.

Am I getting tedious and bit vague now? Good, that’s the point. Trained at an early age to embrace ‘speed reading’, I become a bit of a prig without understanding well. The words were read correctly and their meaning understood. There is a word that showed up on the old, yellowed report cards now and then, comprehension. A good illustration would be a story about a young boy that had an extraordinary experience. This boy in the story found a treasure that was revealed later in the book. I instantly thought of booty and coin like. My intellect was not engaged in the story.

The story in mind was a fantasy about real things of spirit and life. The author (a recognized master) had written the story to engage both our excitement and awareness of our selves in the story. After a paragraph or two, stories like this one should be vivid. We paint pictures and set in a sound track. After the story or movie per se’, the author rather insists we go beyond and play the melody of words that add a great deal. Great literature can resemble piano lessons. Suddenly the flatted fifth is beauty..

The next time this happens, I catch himself either dozing, editing to make the story make sense in my mind. ‘This isn’t relevant to me. Why am I listening/reading this? Just as wheat is combined, the sifting begins to yield the golden kernel hidden in a plain looking stalk. The loaves of bread in the promise are not seen by casual glances. Gleaning it is called and we are called to glean wisdom from everyone we meet in person or not. Our choice. Be arrogant and think of ourselves as complete as we are, or open up our hearts and find treasure at hand. Treasures abound if we look for it. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

a. William Shakespeare With much thanks to George MacDonald for his novel, At the Back of the North Wind

Real Chimneys North of Highway 8

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

As do most of us, we get a little bored watching the scenery go by as we keep a sharp lookout for errant deer, errant drivers and those lines we drive between. Isn’t it absurd that the only thing keeping all of us from collisions is paint. Headlights help a lot, but mostly to see the lines of paint. The game gets a bit challenging when there is snow and ice covering the lines. It really does feel like a video game, driving at speed.

Back to the scenery. One cold day, Jack was motoring south and at that time, he was counting chimneys and the wood smoke. Quite a few modern setups with wood boilers in the back yard were seen. It’s a good thing that windows are closed in the winter at the boiler homes. High barometric pressure or temperature inversions can cause some of those homes to almost disappear in a wreath of smoke.

There were quite a few homes that had masonry chimneys visible and some of them were in use as Jack motored by. There were a few of the old masonry chimneys that had shiny pipes coming out of them. An obvious concession to modern fuel of petroleum base. However, when Jack crossed Highway 8, the wood smoke was gone from the homes. Almost every roof top chimney seen had the propane exhaust pipe sticking out of it.

Putting the exhaust pipe from the propane furnace out of the chimney seemed logical to Jack. How else to do it? There are possibilities of wall ‘thimbles’ that can allow the venting but the easiest route is the old chimney. It seemed a bit sad to Jack to see the wood heat (or fireplaces) supplanted by a digitally controlled furnace connected to city gas lines or the ‘big boy‘ propane bombs in the backyard.

Jack was one year old when the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, it was nicknamed the Big Boy. Jack was exactly one year old when that happened. What a birthday candle. But, it brought Jack’s dad home. And a lot of other dad’s too. War is like that. Some dad’s come home, some don’t.

Back to the chimneys. Jack noticed wood heat at quite a few of the homes he drove by on his way down to merge onto another highway that begins at Highway 8. There were quite a few homes and business’ visible from the next highway going south. No wood smoke, no piles of wood and not even any outdoor wood boilers. Every chimney Jack saw had the ridiculous metal pipe sticking out of it. A periscope that was looking at progress coming with a petroleum based civilization. Jack wondered if Dr. Suess would be interested in a book about it. “Why was the chimney there and why was it lifted and taken somewhere?”

There is a saying of sorts that living is more real north of 8 I don’t know if that carries much weight and if living there is really that great (back to the Lorax) But there is a subtle difference the further north of 8 you go. Longer driveways, more barns and cows and horses and more wood smoke and real chimneys that survived the propane efficiency movement. More crumpled seed hats and the pickups are not quite as pristine either. Towns that you can walk through the main street in about five minutes. We do have some modern concessions though. There are sidewalks and some folks even have paved driveways. Now and then milk can be dipped out of the bulk tank too.

Lots of cords of wood stacked (new comers stack between trees) Big logs, split stacks and wood sheds. It’s a mess heating with a stove in the house, but nothing beats standing in front of a well built fire when it’s below zero outside. The cat water bowl froze to the kitchen floor at Jack’s house about forty six years ago. Jack now has insulation and a better wood stove. Life is different north of 8. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Conversation Desire and another Glimpse of Eternity

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was one of those soirees, delightful providence of food and people well all yearn for. It went on for the perfect amount of time. Beautiful children, eager pets and faces and voices familiar. Polite words of promise and the search for lives barely understood. Surrounded by a choir, singing a light opera of intimacy, queries and laughter. The author of the notes and stanzas still in the wings waiting for the stage call.

Bits of the score, heard but not completely understood are jealously embraced, acted in a dream that night. The unrecognized but palatable yearning to be written into the opera at various stanza’s almost heard and ended many times with recognizable laughing voices.

Sometimes, you have the impression that the author has saved your savoring for last powerful measures. The ending of stunning beauty, only felt by a few actors still remaining on the stage. Duets mostly but with engagement of song between several singers. Fulfillment and with the dishes put away and the snap of tables folded for the next production in the background. The final notes played like beautiful, loud trumpets and kettle drums building to your then silent departure.

We have all been there. It was an invitation with promise and the invitation given casually. Turn on the voice in the car and follow her instructions. ‘Turn left’ almost going through the stop sign while looking for the road she was telling you about. Blue tooth on the car radio and it works. Sometimes. Upon arrival, it was anticipated that parking would be somewhat complex. It was a breeze this time. A few decades of months in the winter past, the sleigh and the snow complicated parking. A wonder of landscaping came into view. The stage was set.

The guest of honor spoke after a delightful lunch. myself and Julie, sitting in the front heard him plainly. The intriguing thing was his demeanor. Engaging. You knew he was not used to speaking and it really helped him. Not smooth but truth easily heard and personal as weakness’ and surprises as well.

After he spoke there were the inevitable requests for clarification and he handled that very well. Professional speakers are a dreadful bore in those circumstances. Thanks be he was again, engaging and the time sped by.

Since we were in the front row, it was natural to approach him and reassure him. We talked and talked well. There was no lecturing. Fascination. Worlds presented from far away. The mission to intrigue and cause a slight tip of the head to look beyond sight. The author delighted in us.

A light opera, conducted just for us it seemed. As indeed the accouterments were put away and no one else was seen or heard around us, we realized it was the curtain call. The car was easily seen as the other ones were gone.

Every one of the guests and hosts had politely exited and we felt very honored as we conveyed the mutual pleasure of the evening to one another. Real conversation. After all, the opera of honor was well written and well sung by all. Silence and delight at what had been given.

The author of the play is still with us. He has a habit of doing that. He rode back with us and is, as usual, still about the ranch. He helps me write, he surprises us with snippets of astonishing beauty that we have never seen before. We long for more, always. We hunger for the meal again as we wait with eager anticipation. At times, He shouts his name over us. Jesus, author and finisher of our faith. it’s pretty good.. Jack Gator Scribe

Eternal Gulag

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Always lurking in the controlling mind. A real solution for ‘those people’ that just don’t get it. A safe way to send them back to reality and make a small profit on the deal. As our world gets a fourth of the truth from the sanctioned loud voices, we find ourselves either listening on our secret wireless sets, or reading the rants and being admonished by family members. “Why do you keep reading that stuff if it makes you so upset?” Of course, along with the news sites comes the inevitable ads for cruises in the Archipelago islands and the like.

The collapse comes steadily with the usual shortages and complaints. Why is heating oil unavailable again? I just got back from the bakers and they’re out of flour. Can you get it running? I’d love to fix it but the parts are back ordered. It seems again like all the toilet paper can be found at the Roswell Mall Wart stores.

Then we hear and see cars and trucks that need some work, prowling the roads. Then run down abandoned houses will be occupied with people that don’t mow the grass. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore Toyota.

Our money is getting worthless and fuel is well over fifteen bucks. Large gardens abound in the country and generators and transfer switches are flying off the shelves. Ammunition is a subject of quiet conversations. It’s only a matter of time until the gentle words come forth: “Hello! We’re from Madison and we’re here to help. How many people live here? We need to keep track of supplies, are you doing OK? Your safety relies on us. We are setting up some shelters now that the weather is getting colder. The protesters have taken out the power grid and we know getting heat in this weather is critical. When you come to the shelter area nearby, we will make sure everyone is safe and warm. Basic food will be supplied. The fences and guards are for your security. Able bodied people will be asked to help with camp duties, cutting firewood and such.”

We will be told that it will be like camping out with our families and neighbors. Even common rooms for socializing will be there. (It is assumed that games such as ‘Go Fish’ and ‘ Monopoly’ will be available). It will be a vacation! Forwarded mail will not be an issue as the Post Office will have other duties assigned to them.

These measures are presented as temporary until the government gets things back in order. Moving into the shelters will at first be offered and when the national guard arrives, interstate travel will be regulated. Travel papers will be necessary,everywhere. The Consolidation of area resources will be accomplished and there will be work that needs to be done. Camp gardens, maintenance of equipment, and clothing repairs and distribution of supplies from the area. After all, “Work Sets You Free.” If we all work together we will survive. For a while. The recalcitrant will simply be let out the gates to fend on their own. To salvage and hide. And die alone.

It isn’t too hard to visualize the transition, it has already begun. When the social security checks that come into our bank accounts cannot buy gas and food. When government subsidy payments are only for ‘those’ people. When the internet news is always filtered for sanctioned good news. Cameras everywhere keeping law and order. It will be too late to stop the rock of Sisyphus from rolling over us. End game. State is our ‘savior!’ Our only savior is Jesus! He’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Born on The fourth of July

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The flash and flare in the east and it is time. Move away from the comfort and deep sleep, awaken to dawn.

There are duties and places to be and now, it’s easier to find things because there is light streaming in. A little bit of Brownian movement from the dust and put on the pot. Find the good bread and drop two slices in with the timer set to max. The good bread is heavy. Got to find the cash for that upgrade on my cell phone is important too. Can I afford it? After all, everyone in the family has a new phone. Mine is old and I need to be current.

There is a shuffle and purpose at hand to indeed waken fully and the hot caffeine warms the old ceramic cup. Carefully, set it down besides the fresh toast and open up a book next to the vitamins and various pills.

The accouterments of morning rituals. The book at hand is a collection of short stories that are a bit hard to understand. Sarte, Sallinger and the rabbit eared current selection is Tolstoy’s ‘The death of Ivan Illych’

Nothing to it. Toast and coffee and a little orange juice to sluice down a hearty meal of existential writing and with some of the greatest short stories ever written. It’s still early and Jack’s son is stirring a bit. Jack comes to the part of the story when Ivan knows he is dying and no one will be honest with him about how they feel about it and him. Only a peasant boy that tells the truth.

A quote from la Rochefoucauld is at hand: “One can neither stare long at the sun nor at death” During the war the thought was, it will come quickly perhaps? It did to that shipmate on the horizon. It was close but I am OK. Next stop, Palma De Mallorca. Great liberty!

As the inevitable death to Ivan comes, close behind is the funeral. All attend and all contemplate what this means to us as perhaps connections for work. How will the widow get by? Really, there is nothing we can do financially for her. Our own debt is big and that new payment for the big pickup is going to really strap our finances. Of course, how could I forget that vacation to Venice! I think I have enough saved.

We go on, inwardly feeling we will live forever and poor old Ivan, it must have been his diet or that he just wouldn’t go to gymnasium as we advised him so many times. After all, his whist game was more important to him. There was nothing to be done and here I am, dressed as though I was in a church service. Listening to one after another speak of Ivan. The fact that we are in that silken and narrow box does not cross our conscience.

Even when the preacher tells us we are off the hook by death of sacrifice, we do not comprehend the sacrifice not really understood. Put a few quarters or even a dollar bill in the red kettle. Tithe well and perhaps, just perhaps, we will walk as Enoch did and not have to suffer as Ivan did. That’s it! The second coming and it will all work out! Don’t worry, be happy.

Death was defeated lingers and we are all good to go. Mourning seems to have passed us by. Ask not who the bell tolls for, it’s you. Old Ivan, it was his time to go. Is there lunch after this, should be. It’s pretty good here at the church of endless life. Maybe I should get in line before every one else does. Jack Gator