family

A Sister at Laguna Beach

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The Laguna greeter.

There was a time in my life that I was a dedicated surfer. I moved in with the president of my old high school class (King?) and far from being the outcast weirdo in high school, now I was one to be admired. With borrowed a surfboard from a slightly older young man who lived downstairs from the apartment in Hermosa Beach. There was a bond instantly between them as they both had the same last name and were both slightly autistic and emotionally intense in various ways. Different and knowing they both were.

So, I went to the beach every day and learned how to surf. Readers of this column will remember that time in the article, ‘Super Chief’ I just loved surfing and was totally committed to it. I slept on the floor of my room with the board next to me so I would rise early without disturbing the other young men and walk a half a block down to the beach. Except for the jellyfish, it was a time in my life that means a lot to me 50 years later.

At one of the parties in the apartment, a young woman (girl) took a fancy to me and slipped into my room during the party and I offered her the other side of the surfboard to lie on. No seduction. Genuine friendship and it astonished her and there was a bond, a different young man that treated her with respect and friendship. Carrie is her name

She never forgot that and after a year or so, I was in San Diego, Navy training base. After basic, I went to A school at the same base. and was then training young Naval men radio operations. I had a background in radio from my amateur radio days and still held a general class license.

I wondered if Carrie, was still at her Uncles place in Laguna Beach. I called her and she was pleased. She asked me to visit on a weekend. Since I was now on staff, I had every weekend off. I even had civilian clothes to wear. Little did I know I was in a pretty good situation right out of boot camp.

Because I washed out of the nuclear submarine service (bad color vision.) I was no longer striking for nuclear technician,so they told me I would be a radio operator. They knew my skills at being one. I trained young men in Morse code in A school and basic electronics. It was the best duty assignment I had with the Navy. Myself, I learned how to touch type listening to code. Nice thing to know when the code comes at 30 wpm

The San Diego bus to Los Angeles went right through Laguna Beach and I went to see Carrie. She picked me up at the bus stop and drove me to her Uncles place in the hills. She drove 1957 Corvette convertible, bright red and powerful with the first stock fuel injection in a sports car. Her Uncle was on an extensive art tour in Europe at that time and the car was there for her to use. A wealthy art dealer in Europe and he had a pretty good ‘duty station’ too! I never met him nor know his name.

So, I would come up every weekend and lounge around the pool that overlooked the ocean and do a little painting (with Uncles paint equipment. The brushes, canvas, tripod and acrylic paints.) Occasionally my new ‘sister’ would bring a young man home and introduce that man to me as her brother was a way of overcoming the puzzled look I got from the men. I liked that immensely. My ‘organic’ sister never liked me.

They were one-night stands and that was understood by all. A new sister that liked him, I liked that. One weekend, I called my old high school president that was living in the Hollywood hills and asked ‘sis’ if he can borrow the Corvette.

The occasional boyfriends never even got a nod with that question. She knew when they started saying “Hey Carrie can I….NO” I drove up to LA and visited my old buddies who were living large in the Frank Lloyd Wright Circular apartments. Class. The red Corvette fit right in at the curb and I got a smile nod from everyone I saw. Poseur.

That corvette was fast on the freeway!

Back at the beginning of the city of Laguna, the Greeter there gave me a wave. (The greeter was a man that stood for years at the north end of the city and waved at cars)

All in all it only lasted a season of my life and made a big difference in both of us. She shared her heart in a way nether of them thought they would do or even contemplate and it was a good start on real relationships for them both. They had no idea they were both being trained in their hearts near the ocean and some of it stuck. Carrie treasured my paintings too, she said they would be worth a lot of money when I became famous. Still waiting for that, I’ll send her my book if she is still there.

It’s pretty good.  Norm Peterson RM4 Comservron 6 Naples, Italy

Autobiography of Norm Chapter 3

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

My second commercial airplane ride took me to San Diego for the second time in my life.

The first time was as a 17 year old representative of Fashion Curtain Company in Traverse City Michigan. This time I was bused to recruit depot at Camp Nimitz and met with a big Marine Gunny that became my new focus in life. The usual hair buzz cut and a lot of shouting and insults. Pukes, trainees, moms boys, etc. A lot of it was true and we shaped up fast. Fire watches, endless screaming and shouting and a little manhandling. Men that know basic training

can recall those things. Mostly with laughter and even fondness for finally some direction in our lives that actually changed us. With a laugh the gunny told me I got my draft notice in the mail

We trained on board the USS Recruit with many things a ship has to offer. Ladders, hatches, fire drills. Rope, line and small stuff for knot tying and spring lines and lanyards. Lots of knots. This was important stuff for us later on in life as well. How to tie your laundry on lines with small stuff, how to slide down a ‘ladder’ (stairs) on the rails. It was neat except for all the physical training and endless marching. Left, right, left right..pick it up! Those drill sergeants ran up walls and do more push ups than there were possible. And leap and clap their hands after coming up. We were wimps.

Suddenly, there was a call for musicians and singers! The Navy Choir need some guys that could sing and march and take orders well. I stepped forward (NEVER step forward to volunteer!) the choir director was from the Mormon Tabernacle and knew his stuff. “Sing these notes” In or out and sometimes got praise. There were 10 of us in the Blue Jackets Choir. I remember their faces I remember them and where some of them went afterwards. ‘Father Flanagan in the back row went on to Pensacola to be a Navel Aviator, things like that. I am in the front row 2nd from right. We sang ‘For those in Peril on the Sea’ the Navy anthem and the National anthem along with several classical church songs on Sunday at the officers services. Marching in parades and more boot camp stuff to go with it. We had our dress blues already and there were quite a few puzzled men in our class that could not understand why an E6 was in training with them (1st class petty officer with three red stripes and a ‘crow’ on my sleeve) would just answer that I was recruit education officer which was true in a way.

I skated through boot and was assigned to A school on base for training to be a radioman. Not to New London for Submarine training! I wanted to be a nuclear technician as a career choice but my color vision was inadequate and I wore glasses. Recruiter lied to me. A common procedure, after all, the draft was full bore and I did not want to go to Viet Nam under the national draft. As I mentioned, I was drafted in boot camp and just missed the chance to be discharged early and come home with a flag over me.

The Lord of my life was unfolding His plan and I had no idea that was happening. The hymns we sang in the choir were beautiful and that planted small seeds of wonder. Much later in my life I heard His voice save me from death and to say it was extraordinary is not enough. It was a miracle.

So after basic training I went to A school right there at the camp and I was turned into a teacher at radio school. My ham radio license paid off and I was given liberty every weekend and I realized soon that this was the best duty station I would have from then on. I was free to visit my ‘sister’ during the weekends and you can read about it in “A sister from Laguna Beach” here at Gatorsgracenotes.com.

To be continued In Autobiography Chapter 4

Autobiography of Norm Chapter 2

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Grade School at Loring Elementary in North Minneapolis. Four blocks away from the Russell Avenue home and an easy walk. Twice. There was no lunchroom at the school and the walk home was a welcome relief for most of the students unless one of the class bullies was lurking about.

There isn’t much recall about Kindergarten ( German word derivative of ‘children’s garden’ )

I do remember 3rd grade when I boldly asked Miss Peterzaine when we would study soil cosmology or depth structure. She laughed and said that would come later.

Indicative of a precocious Asperger child. That term or diagnosis was not known at that time. It would seem I fit the profile. I was intellectually in another world and still am according to friends and family. Obsessive stimulation by silken edges on blankets, sniffing of hands and counting everything. Still do it. I got by. Glasses by 3rd grade too as there was difficulty in reading the blackboard.

I do remember the transformation of my mind when I first saw leaves instead of green blobs! It helped with the squeaky chalk writing. Dry erase still squeaks now and then but there aren’t any erasers to clap together outside. Chalk is still used in sidewalk games and art.

Thinking of softer stone and a stylus, it seems to be progress to keyboards and printers. Unless an older typewriter with the key jamming as you typed a little fast.

All of the odd things about grade school still lurk in my mind. Remember the ‘duck and cover’ when the spinning air horns would rattle the windows? Cold war or tornadoes. I embraced the image of becoming one with my desk with a nuclear attack. I liked my desk and it was comfy down there.

Home for lunch and a meeting with a war damaged Croatian boy and that was about it. Pleasant, predictable and perfect for me. I love routine. Still do. More on that later.

High school in 1956 and my sister was a junior and is this place, there was a cafeteria for lunch. I did OK and took every math and science class available. I was very interested in electricity and went after amateur radio in eighth grade. Being a recluse, it was easy and my dad helped me with equipment and setting up a ‘long wire’ from the house to a boulevard tree. It was up as high as a city fireman ladder can climb and it worked well. I was using Morse code to talk to other ‘Hams’ Not long after I wanted to move from Novice to General class licensing and studied electronic circuitry and perfected my code. A trip downtown to city hall came and I passed the technical exam and the 13 words a minute Morse code test. “youngest person ever to pass the test” they said. K0JMV is my call sign. Still have it.

I made friends with some other fans of radio in another high school and since I was now a general class operator, I can give them the test to become novices. We formed a little club and I have lost touch with them. They still have their call signs and I found them in a ham publication. I wrote a few of them and they never responded. I have many fond memories of them and am sad that I can’t reconnect. Isn’t that the way we are? We remember our home location and phone numbers after many decades.

I was very proud of Dad and even got to slide down the fire pole when he gave me a tour. He was a pretty stern guy at times and there were some scary moments between him and Mom.

Their bedroom was on the second floor and mine was right where the stairway began.

There was a bad argument when dad found out about mom cheating on him with a fellow fireman that lived nearby. Mom cried for help and I came out of my room and peaked into the kitchen. She was on the floor and Dad was standing over her with an angry demeanor.

One day, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and saw Dad coming down stairs with a suitcase. He turned to the right and went through my room to the small porch and out to his car in the garage and that was the last I saw him until twenty years later. I hunched over the sink when he left and sobbed because I knew this was the end of our family. My mother and my sister stood outside the bathroom door and giggled and laughed. Odd to be separated between people you love that way. Things changed in me and those changes took decades to be brought into the light. I never forgot those moments but now they do not define who I am. It’s only light in the darkness of those things that changes them to stories rather than character.

I began to into a bit of a decline at this point. (that’s a quote from Marvin the paranoid android) It was a true condition. When my mother remarried after a short time from Dad’s departure it did not bode well for my sister and I. My stepfather moved right in after the wedding. Upstairs of course. He wound up sitting on my bed one night, completely nude, and started to touch me. I bolted up and ran out the door to the porch yelling. Not too much later, my sister told me he had braced her up against the wall asking for sex. Things were not going well. Escape seemed like a good idea for both of us. Sis got pregnant with a dentist and I left after high school for adventure in San Diego. By the way, the dentists name was Doctor Wunder and he was from Painsville, Minnesota. Seemed appropriate. They quickly married and escaped. Decades later I had him fix some bad dry sockets from wisdom teeth surgery. He was really gentle and good. He indeed, was a wonder.

Almost immediately after my high school graduation, I went with a classmate to San Diego on a whim and we got an apartment and begin to sell Encyclopedias with a reference book called a Syntopicon. We wore our graduation suits and forerunners of men in suits that also went door to door talking about their faith. We never sold one and I am always friendly to men in suits that come to my door with briefcases.

We had no money for food and so I used my briefcase to prowl the neighborhood for fruit trees and we ate a lot of oranges and grapefruit. I still love grapefruit juice. It’s hard to find in the marketplace these days and I get by with orange juice. Food memories of rescues by fruit. A classmate that was a great boxing champ years later, came out and rescued us. We tucked our suits back in the suitcases and drove home to Minneapolis in an old white Packard that burned oil. The trunk and rear bumper where not white anymore after that trip.

By that time, Mom and her fireman husband had moved north further towards the city limits and I moved into a spare bedroom with them. Quickly obtaining a job in a wood processing plant I worked hard and bought the car of my dreams. A 1961 MGA convertible. (that job is in a column on this web page titled ‘Freedoms bouquet with Tea’)

At this time, there was a war overseas in Viet Nam and the national draft was working strong. I was very 1A which means top of the list. I signed up with a Navy Recruiter to be assigned to the Nuclear Submarine force as a Nuclear Technician. They still call them Boats. I had the intellect and Electronics experience with straight A’s in math so it was a shoe in. The recruiter did not reveal two things to me: I had glasses and my color vision had some issues. This story continues in several columns: ‘Santa Fe Super Chief’ and ‘A sister in Laguna Beach’ Enjoy the stories, they are all true

Auto Biography of Norm Chapter 1

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Sometime ago, in the last century, 1944, I was born in Minneapolis at Swedish Hospital. It was exactly two months after D Day in WWII. My parents were doing OK as they both worked and I was put in the care of my Grandparents. Out in a western suburb called Golden Valley. At that time, my father was working for the Minneapolis fire department, Station 16 in the near north side. My mother worked downtown for the Minneapolis school administration. Secure city jobs.

It worked for the family and besides, I had a sister that was four when I was born. She helped me grow up for five years. She always referred to me as her baby brother. It makes sense, it didn’t when I was in High school. Sis went to school for four years in a one room school, right on Golden Valley Road, a few miles away. No school buses then, they hadn’t been invented yet. There is no memory of how she got there. She cut across the Golden valley golf course. There were the usual stories of trudging through deep snow and cold to get to school and back. They were true.

Life out there in the valley was pretty bucolic, a big truck garden to joyfully weed by we kids. Dad and Grandpa smoked pipes and it wasn’t high quality Latakia tobacco either. Seemed an odd habit for firemen. Their nicknames at that time was smoke eaters. Scott air Pacs were not yet invented, Many times the phone would ring from the hospital telling us that Dad was in for smoke inhalation.

I had a neighbor friend, Freddy, and he lived right across the fence line at the southwest corner. I exploited Freddie’s friendship, I can remember him still with the super electric train set in his basement. it was an American Flyer with two rails instead of those Lionel trains with three. Hours we would spend down there. I also remember the electric smells of the small transformer that powered that train. Now and then there would be little sparks as the engine crossed a switch. I yearned for a model train for most of my childhood. As an old man, I wonder what or where he wound up. Freddie Hill. Do we all do this?

I never got Freddie to help weed the big garden but he did join us on the ‘rock boat’ But I never really knew him. Maybe that happens more often than we realize. It worked as he was just as bored as I was. No climbing trees, no forts, It wasn’t rural, it was very early suburban. Golden valley road and Winnetka Avenue. I think briefly of driving past that intersection. Nostalgia that is better left as is. Too many times all of us go back around to those places.

We did go fishing in Bassets creek though. It was right across the road from the big fancy Golden Valley golf course. The creek was fairly narrow but to us, it was a mysterious river. Adventure unknown. Bogart gets an early start in river life. Wind in the Willows with Rat and Toad. I had the impression for quite my life that I was Toad. Adventuresome, arrogant and oblivious to other people’s needs. I was always intrigued by motorcycles and vehicles that make noise. Just like Toad.

When I was barely a teenager, I had enough paper route money to buy a motorcycle! We put it in Grandpas garage he permitted me to ride it around his property. When they were on vacation, I crawled in that garage and took that Indian Chief out for a spin down highway 100. It was bright red and I sure wish I had it now! Toad gets a noisy machine!

I had to sell it of course, everyone in the neighborhood saw me riding it. I was allowed to buy a Cushman Eagle scooter soon after. A downgrade with two speeds and a large lawnmower engine. It would slip the clutch to make it sound like it had gears instead of V belts. I was so focused on self image and wanted to be just like those glossy ads in the magazines for Harley Davidson. The Harley flathead came later during my senior high school days.

In the creek down the hill, I got a hold of a fish that was so big, I couldn’t raise it from the water. No one else believed the story but I still remember it. Maybe it was a big Sturgeon! A nasty catfish or bullhead?

Looking back at it, I suddenly realize that it’s not the catching that is important. Its being a part of the fish and the water having business together. a. We just get to go along with for a brief time as they do business with us too. Lasting and poetic things they are. Catch the spirit and never release it for life.

That fish got away… Almost catch and release of a yet to come tradition. The Holy Spirit now resides in me decades later. I asked Him in and that’s pretty good. Once you are caught, there is no release. Just Joy and understanding are always with you.

The golf course was a good place to slip into (before the six foot chain link fencing) and golf balls abounded in the creek. Pretty good, easy money for myself and Sis. It was a water hazard and the golfers were very grateful for them. These days they would most be detained and arrested. Different times, in the last half of the twentieth century. Now a days children are forbidden to set foot there. Too much fear but then it results in isolation from fascinated children. A tall chain link fence goes all the way around, even in Basset’s creek! Golf ball concussions not available creek side.

.

When I got old enough to go to the one room school with my sister, we had to move! It was because a neighbor took offense at them and turned my Dad in for being a city employee that did not live in the city.

Grandpa, a fire chief, had more seniority and was close to retirement, so he got to stay there. He was a cabinetmaker and also made stuff in his basement for the Shriner’s. I remember the huge scimitar with lights all around the perimeter that he made. They still use it for the Shrine Circus. They hang it from the top of the stage curtain. “That was made by my Grandfather!” It gave me bragging points when I would go to that circus in downtown Minneapolis.

Grandma was a tough old Norwegian that made the best deep fried doughnut holes on the planet. She loved her grandson and I loved her too. She was an orphan from the Superior orphan train, but I never did hear how she and Grandpa met. He was lonely and picked her up at the depot on the spot. A variation of Anne of Green Gables. A lot of family history is just gone. It was down in the Baldwin Wisconsin area that the two of them lived on the Punde farm.

So there in our new home, a stucco and brick house in North Minneapolis at 4208 Russell Avenue and it was time for me to go to kindergarten. It was only five blocks away so I walked. It was OK. Now I have bragging rights of walking through the snow to school.! We would always walk on top of the mounds of snow between the sidewalk and the curb. I enjoyed the time alone and got to eat my lunch at home alone with the TV on the linoleum counter. It was tuned to ‘Lunch with Casey’ A guy with a railroad engineer outfit and a sidekick named Roundhouse Rodney, our family was rich. We had two TV’s with rabbit ears too! A glass of milk, an Apple with a PBJ sandwich and a hostess twinkie for dessert looking up at the TV. A functioning Asperger child in his preferred element. I still like eating alone at times.

Often I would sneak into my sisters room and play Beethoven on the upright piano. She did not like me going in there alone. She really didn’t like me at all. After all, she had to raise me up and do all the baby stuff while mom was working when we lived in Golden Valley. (to be continued)

It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

a. George McDonald

Pontiac Woody and the Minerva Chain

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I and my dad came up north (way north of 8) to build a cabin in the middle of the last century. Dad had a really neat station wagon that had a tail light that swiveled when you opened the tailgate. It always pointed straight back. It was a mechanical marvel to me. A usual car to start driving lessons on when you are around 10 or so. Three on the tree and the high/low switch was pushed with the toe of your left foot. Dad had wise advice when to dim the headlights: “Just when the oncoming car’s lights can be seen as two lights, then switch em’ to low”

The cabin was east of Danbury on Gull Lake. I handed tools up to dad as the roof rafters formed up. The end of the ridge pole was cut off and the chunk fell right on my head. I yelled up “I’m OK” and the work continued. It was a pretty small piece and surprising too when it arrived. It was exciting to be right there when the dream cabin was actually forming up. Dad was a city fireman and used to ladders. He built cabinets on his off times in our basement. Grandpa was a fireman too but he was too old and cranky to come up and help. Besides, Gramp’s didn’t like to fish like his son and grandson did.

There was one other family on the lake and they owned a small resort next door. Since it was my first time ‘up north’, this seemed a good place to be. At that time, a small flat bottom boat was at the dock and it was mine to use morning and night. I was not allowed to row out beyond sight of the resort where the lily pads were waiting for me. A fly rod with floating line and a small popper was my choice of tools to entrance the fish just under the pads.

It was easy pickings and the sound of the swirl and the tug are still vivid in my memory. A dozen bluegills and paper mouths in the bottom of the boat and it was time to row back in to the dock. Sometimes I put them on a stringer but those pesky and poky fins were a challenge when the fish were several pounds and my hands not quite big enough to pull the fins back.

Dad would scale and gut and lunch was served with the resort owners sharing in the bounty. Every decent day, morning and night was my job to row out and harvest those white fleshed and fried in butter morsels. There was a camper that myself and my sister stayed in while the two men went into town at night and they stayed pretty late. Sis told me much later in life that she seduced me when we were alone. I am pretty foggy about that but it would explain my sisters reticence for friendship when we were both older and with our own children.

We were still in bed when the time to row out and fish so we waited until someone awoke. I was a good swimmer, but the rule was, don’t go out where I can’t see you. Dad’s eyes were closed for a while on those mornings. The fishing was still very good in spite of the late start. After all, the two families were the only residents on Gull lake then. The lake shore is filled with cabins now. The fish population was diminished in an equal ratio.

It was grand and now and then, just me and Dad would get the motor running and troll for bass on the link between Gull and Minerva. We thought they tasted pretty good too but it seemed a lot of effort to get them.

They had to get the ‘big’ V hull boat loaded up and then start the motor. Dad always used artificial jigs and spoons, so no bait was needed. It was always exciting to motor up the channel between Gull and Minerva. That old Evinrude just putting along . There was no one around there. No other cabins, no other boats seen. After trolling for a while(with dad at the helm) the motor was shut off and the waves it made were heard on the banks. Ten years later, it was big Navy fleet ships that made splashing noises too. Waves slapping the hull from the battle fleet but the sounds were similar. I would be back in that small channel just like that. Sounds do that for me. They are music and that’s pretty OK. Music will moves me as a masterpiece of any art can.

I liked the sound of the small motor at the transom too and especially the smell of mix gas. There were dad’s smiles to remember when things got tough later on. In those early years, I thought a lot about those things, wondered where the fish came from and why it was so good to catch and eat them. I wondered why Dad smiled when they were together. Dad didn’t smile much back in the cities. Over five decades later I got some answers to my questions from Jesus, my friend who created all things. We do not think about the thoughts of young children and their questions of what and why. We are very complex and our thoughts on life itself are formed and dreamed about early in our lives.

It became clear why Dad wanted his ashes put in a trout stream, way up north. It was fishing that bonded me and my Father, and it was thoughts of fishing at the very end. After all, Jesus had a lot to say to his close friends about fishing. He still does. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Silo

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

On my way down the local 2 lane, I started counting barns and old farms. A way to stay alert besides scanning for deer with my fog lights on for extra vision on the shoulder. I had already noticed most barns had all equipment of a dairy operation, but no lights on for early morning milking, no bulk trucks and a silo cuddled up to the barn. The blue Harvestore silos looked fresh and functional. Most of the rest of them had no caps often the barns were at their service life end.

I remember the past time when I visited a neighbors dairy farm and was asked to shovel silage to the cows. It was either that or start hooking up the Delaval milkers. Some of the farmers showed me how to hand milk. “Just hold her up higher with your closed hand and squeeze gently from the top down.” Splash splash into the stainless bucket. Wow.

Mostly, when I shoveled the silage from the convenient opening in the barn, I liked the smell of it. Almost tasty like a good granola smelled. Rich and nutritious and sweet. I asked a few questions about the ease of loading the wheel barrow in the barn and how silage was made and how did it come out of the opening in the wall. Silos, snugged up to the barn and filled with crops grown during the summers. I didn’t taste the silage.

I saw the cycle of dairy farming that made sense. Some of them even made cheese. The milk house vat was scooped for breakfast coffee or baking. It was good and special to me. Daylight was breaking and after we finished and let the cows out to pasture, it was time for that coffee and pancakes. I felt like I was experiencing farming and did not stick around for the planting, tilling, praying for rain and the harvesting.

Hard work, many hours of it and a connection to the land that was comforting and astonishing for a city transplant. I respected my neighbor and understood his life.

I was a railroad track worker and knew hard work but I was working for someone else for wages and there were only wooden ties, spikes, fish plates and ballast to go around for 8 or 10 hours. A city job with commuting in my old 41 Ford. I miss it in some ways, mostly the wing windows when it was summer. I am sure air conditioning was in the works for cars but expensive as a choice. I was used to sweat and my old farm house had good screen windows too.

Now, fifty years later, I look at that old dairy farm as I drive by and the silo is empty, there are no cows getting muddy at the pond and the house chimney has a little pipe sticking out of it for the propane furnace. There are no lights visible in the small barn windows either.

A gigantic green tractor with all the implements scattered around is warming up and getting ready for work. Field work. There are gravity corn boxes and big corn cribs but no bulk trucks backed up to the barn.

Hundreds of acres of corn and soybean fields surround the old farm and all that vegetation gets trucked to a buyer nearby, usually called a dairy. No cows there either, just huge corn cribs and drive through scales for the trucks filled with glowing kernels of corn.

I feel the world has changed and it isn’t neighbors farming. They are cropping for money and not getting much pay for their labor after buying more land and very expensive equipment. A lot of older people I chat with notice this change in rural life too.

Everyone in the township works hard and some of them move south after they feel their work is done. Good beer and restaurant food and relaxation comes with the cost of leisure. Cruise boats are not Glastron fishing boats at the local lake. Fast food and leisure engenders visits to the clothing big box stores. The patio parties and ocean views do not have neighborhood charm. The good old days are replaced by the sirens call from the Odyssey of Homer.

It’s pretty good, Norman Peterson / Jack Gator