Life Experienced

B flat and then B sharp and See

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A hectic day with the usual errands and heavy work. A friends mother needed some work on her vehicle and it turned out rather complicated. Shredded wiring, trouble codes and the usual inaccessible places.

One more detail on that, a new dipstick which was only available about 25 miles away. The rest of the family was processing firewood with the usual plethora of chain saws, trailers, wedges, ice water and good gloves.

Dry and dead trees were wedged and fell with that mixture of snapping and rustling turning louder and with a rending tear of the notch, a thumping crash felt and heard. The chain saws began their work slicing and dicing the branches and measuring with the bars, a nice 16 inches long. Dry stuff on the hoof that gave off bowling pins mixing music together. Good for this winters burns in the parlor stove.

I went to town to get some fuel and had time to run after that dipstick down off the big highway that connects our two states. The part was correct and when I turned from my parking spot, I felt a bump and truck began to lean a bit and in 50 feet, the truck was parked with a destroyed front tire. No spare. Well, there was one under the frame that has been there since the late nineties. Flat and rusted in place. That was OK because there wasn’t any Jack or lug wrench. B prepared was turned into a B flat tire. It looked rather the worse for wear. All floppy and the treads were hardly there anyway. Probably ran over a nail or a beer cap I t thought. Sidewall failure.

It would have been a disaster on the road at speed. No accident happened in front of an auto parts store. I tried calling on my cell but the signal was terrible, always is up on the big St.Croix hill. I went outside to my leaning Ford Ranger and logged into the nearby grocery store that has good WiFi. It was about 3 o’clock. Second time the old truck had failed at a very slow speed.

The last time it failed, a tie rod end fell off in our parking lot. That is one of two parts that are connected to the steering mechanism. Providence, and once again, my life was saved by the Lord. “Coincidence” some folks say. A double negative was my response.” Yeah, right” He is always good. Obviously it wasn’t my time to leave the planet.

So I called home to the firewood team and there wasn’t much to be done. Then I called triple A and they said “due to a high level of requests there would be a delay in response time.” Sounded like I had just called the power company after a bad storm. It was OK but I regretted not bringing a book along.

People started stopping and rolling down windows asking if I needed help. One of them was a man I know pretty well that goes to the same Bible study every week. “Just waiting for the tow truck, thanks!” He asked if he could do something and I answered I could use lunch. He smiled and they drove off to the north. The grocery store was about 200 feet the other way. He might have thought I was making light of my situation. I wasn’t

A man in his middle thirties or so walked up to my open window and asked the same question. At that point I got out of the truck, shook his hand and thanked him for his concern. Quickly it seemed, we began really talking. Who are you, where do you live things. The conversation engendered by my curiosity, started towards dealing with disappointments. I noticed no wedding ring and he said he was divorced. I said something commiserating and then asked if he had children.

It began the revelation between two men, strangers that friendship was being offered. Delighted we pressed on with two boys for each of us and his had cowboy names. I asked if it was a well known country singer’s name and he affirmed it and I remarked that the singer was a man of God. He smiled and agreed. We were off way past the pulpit and the pews and started getting deep. He told me of his childhood church history and I replied that I had met many preachers of that denomination that illuminated grace and the love of Christ.

“An Episcopal Priest saved my life when I was freezing outside of his home, I was then living in my truck” I know he loved Jesus and I loved him. Not the usual of ‘not our denomination’ judgment. He lit up and told me he wasn’t much on church attendance. I then spoke truth to him that that does not have much to do with intimacy with the living Spirit of Jesus, really. I read C.S. Lewis and his mentor, George MacDonald a lot. They taught me those things.

We spoke of our lives. He works with machines that package candy bars, 100 a minute. He fixes them when they misbehave. I talked about my half century of owning an automotive repair shop and of being completely foolish in being unprepared completely for a simple flat tire on the old company truck. Things that people speak about when getting to know one another. It went on quickly enough and we began to delight in our ‘chance’ meeting.

I took a leap of faith and stated that our meeting was not chance but the whole reason I was there having a dead Ford Ranger and he was there to extend a hand to a stranger. It was our Lord putting us together to encourage him in his now renewed interest in these things. I almost felt like a pastor again . It was just what I needed as well. I had been feeling rather down that morning and my wife was trying to tell me I was very useful around the farm. After all, I speak like an idiot at times but that does not make me one.

I am often weak and don’t feel adequate enough to for my ego and past sole support of our place. Our strong son is now the strength we need and of course, that is why I bought the used chain saw from a second hand store the day before. It needed sharpening and carburetor adjustment. My son sharpened it well and I set the idle and off I went. I was working my son and all the family were loading and sawing too.

Soren, my son, dropped some huge dead trees. It was sweaty and noisy. It was good. I was reminded of my life and health and the beauty of our family life once again. (Now back to that flat tire.)

I got back in the our truck to wait, maybe write a note for the tow truck and looked up and he had arrived. Good timing, again. He was looking for me. He knew the area but there are hundreds of cars and trucks there.

The tow truck operator told me he would meet me at the grocery store parking lot while I bought lunch and we were off. I got extras in case he needed lunch too. He did not want any hot fried chicken, so I ate it all. A pleasant 30 mile flat bed drive home and it became easy work to push the truck onto the hoist and take off the tire. We obtained a spare and tools. Never had a flat since.

Now it became evident that this conversation with that young man down south was fulfilling work and it was very good. Another inconvenient pause in life to meet someone and have each of us encouraged. Most likely the whole reason for the perfectly safe place to have the flat

The B flat became Be sharp and I began to see. As a musician and punster it seems to fit this story perfectly.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

The Deaths of precious Family Members

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was in the spring when Jemimah, the family Brittany spaniel began to show some odd behavior. She had been with the family for over 10 years and Julie had trained this extraordinary dog with many commands. H, speak,crawl, roll over, and a few others. She was really good at begging for food too. Many a meal around the oval oak table would have family plates the focus. The pooch would be on the floor gazing with a fixed stare at those plates. Jemimah loved chewing on ice cubes and when Norm would clink one or two in his favorite glass, she would rush in to the kitchen. Just in case one cube would fall. Norm made sure that would occur.

Jemimah’s odd behavior was physical and worsened rapidly. The DVM was puzzled but saw on an XRay a strange thing with her heart. There was an antibiotic already being used and it seemed to help but one morning the dog could not get up, could not eat nor drink. She would wag her tail lying down whenever told her favorite words: “good dog, good girl” that was all she do now. She convulsed several times and it was decided to have her “put to sleep” When Julie and Toby came back from that event, the whole family lost it. Crying, sobbing and praying for release of the anguish of loss. Surprising emotional collapse really, Jemimah was loved by many friends as well. She had a way of staring into your eyes and then shutting them halfway when scratched just so: under the collar or in her ears. She was buried that evening up on the hill overlooking the home and a small lake on the other side of the ridge. Impossible. Sweet pain,with her favorite rope toy in the blanket as the small handfuls began gently dropping down into the grave. The next day, Norm took a big load of rocks to build a cairn and put grandfathers rock in the middle with some astounding blue and white wildflowers just picked nearby. More tears as they sat on the hill below the grave.No one really slept well. Most of us know this experience. It comes to us all.

The family wondered why there was such a strong, palpable grief with all of them. It seemed it was the first time that the loss was a loss of total love and surrender. More than all the loss’ earlier of people. Stunning and healing beginning of broken hearts among them all. Realization of what total devotion and love really looks like. Decisions to close off their hearts in the past and then being delighted that they had indeed opened their hearts and it was once again, possible. A parting gift from a devoted companion. Loving and loved.

Why is this memory and grief not felt when a sometimes a family member, a father or a sister not felt the same? There were several deaths in Norm’s family, one fairly recently of his sister. The relationship was broken some time ago with her. She was deeply offended when Norm and Julie last saw her. She felt judged and thought she was less loved. The only memory that Norm has of that decades ago visit was the presenting of the truth to his sister. by Norm and his wife, Julie. They remember that there was a very brief moment of mild flirtation that sis gave to Julie. It was clear that Diana had embraced same sex attractions and relationships. That’s a mild way of expressing it. Politically correct in these times. The rulers of Sodom now our rulers.

Later, when Norm worked hard every week taking care of their mother there was little communication or any support from Diana. The usual winding down of a life; assisted living, nursing homes and funeral. A funeral that resulted in Norm becoming a Christian man. Property given and sold and a splitting of the money. Sis was living far away on the west coast and couldn’t help with these things. There was bitterness conveyed over the phone and eagerness to get ‘her share’ of the sale monies. The loan mom had made to Norm for a needed mound system was not quite paid off and sis dismissed it as “that’s your deal” Payment to a merchant that delivered food to mom was still needed to be paid.” If they didn’t bill you for it, then why pay it?” she also said. Anger came from the phone when sis stated she had been cheated when Julie told her she had been overpayed a few thousand more. Sis demanded Norm “Stay away from my kids!” and she also wanted ½ of Moms’ ashes.

Puzzling, astonishing and anger. Just before these unpleasant rages, Norm had embraced Christianity and it was apparent that sis had rejected it. Years later, unable to locate where his sister had moved to, Norm got a Christmas card from Dianas kids. In one sentence of the card, there was mention of the death of Diana and also of their precious dog as ‘difficulites’ they had gone through recently. It was shocking, and yet, a communication between Norm’s and his nephew’s family. It was a start of truth revealed to Norm’s family. The same way Norm was notified of his father’s death. The postal service bringing news. An extreme feeling of rejection that was apparently a family tradition. Greetings from Diana’s son, to her brother and my uncle. Seasons greetings. You are worth a few words of events of some importance. The death of our precious pet and your sister.

These days there is the decline and immanent death of Julie’s father and all Norm thinks about is the inheritance which would help his family survive their financial decline. The recession and reliance on loving sons and their social security to endure the times. Remembering the truth of life and the giver of all things brings him back from fear of loss and he is realizing the world’s fears of loss and destruction. An unexpected vision which gave him release. The photo of her dad embracing their first son, Bjorn, was the only time that Norm had seen love from her dad. The vision of her dad on death’s door being able to embrace his grandsons and know what was happening would be more precious than gold, more precious than silver. It would be enough for Norm. It would be enough when Julie’s dad passes into eternity.

Something similar happened to Norm in a dream. He was with his father. There was Norm’s dad on a subway. Norm was seated and dad was a strap hanger right in front of him. Norm asked, “have you seen the boys?” With a smile, a big smile that had never seen by Norm, his dad nodded yes and it was beautiful. It made things right.

Norm has been given the ability to forgive along with his family and that is the strong assurance of Christ who lives in them, Julie and their sons. Also in their oldness’s wife. There is now a glow of forgiveness does not come with forgetfulness but it comes with Grace and peace and comes with assurance of an inheritance. The treasure of life eternal with the creator of all things. Norm and Julie are praying and thanking for that Holy embrace from Jesus. That promise has indeed been given to their family. It also was spoken by Norm’s friend Chuck when he died. Thousands of miles away. A treasure to him that endures and that event is told to many who want that testimony. It was indeed, a gift of God. Eternal and beautiful. That assurance is a guidepost that Norm’s family can remember and grounds them on solid ground. Blessed assurance, gifts from God are pure Love.

In the end, it’s pretty good. Norm Peterson, the Gator

Christmas Feast

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

First published 2011 when there was deep snow on the ground

There it was, indeed a table set for family and a few friends as well. The exquisite food, paid for by a relative in advance. A wise and generous relative, gone on a Christmas day past. Loved and missed at the table now.

The family, gathered in our home, every Christmas Eve to eat well and satisfy the gathering with exotic things. Brie, Lingonberry jam, Home baked bread out of the farm’s wheat. Tasty nuggets of chocolate treats and cookies made once a year. Treats, some pulled from the larder that are saved for this time. Some from Julie’s work at Valley Sweets in St.Croix Falls.

There is a Christmas ham in the crock pot that simmered all day and filled the house with it’s savory smells. Appetites were honed and sharpened as the winter of winters was preparing another snow storm. Already the new sidewalk was drifted half over from the bitter sleething of fine snow. The wind had not abated much from the night and the drive home from a delightful worship service was fraught with drifts on the rural highway. Narrow triangles of show, now created by the dry snow the county plows had just cleared that day.

It is perhaps the only time that snow is seen as beautiful and appropriate. The old images of sleighs to visit. Pulled by a team of Percheron horses. The blankets and even a few hot bricks tucked in to be heated up again for the ride home. Wood cook stoves and wood or coal parlor stoves that worked pretty well at heating a home. No worry about the pipes freezing because there were none. We have a painting of a sleigh heading for a church but the horse looks fake somehow in mid stride. Tough to convey motion in a painting. I think maybe a slight brush stroke of snow behind an upraised hoof would have done the job. Art critic.

Candle light services with luminaries out in the snow to entice and welcome. Classic songs to be sung, you know the ones. Everyone has them memorized. The big round wood stove in the corner (should be in the middle of the aisle thinks the same art critic) We all have these memories of times past before we were born. Stories passed down by past generations that had to walk miles uphill in heavy snow. To school as well as church.

Another image that I have is the short peace in the midst trench warfare in France. Soldiers apprehensive and then hearing the opposing army singing Silent Night in German. Slowly rising up from the trenches and walking towards one another, perhaps with a bit of whiskey or brandy to share. Impossible to contemplate with the guns and cannons silent the enemies meeting on no man’s land. Men’s vision to be truthful. The Man full of grace and truth who someday will come for you. This is the reason the fear was pushed aside. We have all been afraid a long long time, but Papa is here and He will take the fear away.

There is impossible joy in the midst of the world’s battle for many things. Power, possessions, and dominance.

We all know the story, even those of us who think the story of Christmas is only about being rewarded because we have not been naughty. We think we are on the ‘better be good’ part of the perceived equation. It’s not any of those things. The reason that Christmas has the impact year after year is because the story is true and the good news is impossible to explain with only words. It is indeed a feast. It is felt and it is known by all men. It is joy and the present of good news that cannot be earned. It is indeed a Christmas present that must be opened by everyone that sees it and know what it is. The only present that still surprises with astonishment. Every time. It’s pretty good. The feast of life with Jesus Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Prairie Life Near the Twin Cities

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was subtle and it was a destroyer of families. Work for the men in tall buildings, not within walking distance.

The new city age of commuting, milk men down the alleys and trolley cars. The fifties, when I was single digits old. It was subtle and the beginning of an ending. The most important thing of all disappeared. Intimacy.

The way things used to be, such a common phrase indicating nostalgia for the ‘good old days’. It is much more than that. my father worked as a fireman and Mom eventually worked downtown as a secretary for the public schools. Gone was grandpa’s little farm and both families living close by to one another. A neighbor near the farm complained that Dad was supposed to live in the city to be a fireman. The move to the city was inevitable and plans were made to buy a nice house in the north side of Minneapolis. The country life was comfortable for me. The creek down the hill offered fishing and adventure. Life was the smell of good earth.

“Hey kids, tomorrow we get out the rock boat and get the rocks out of the main field.” Groans from both me and my sister but with memories of Grandma’s supper with the fresh doughnut holes with chicken dumplings and real mashed potatoes. The ‘boat’ moved slowly and Freddie, my friend nearby, joined the ‘party.’ There was always a bit of humor that came forth too. “Hey, that rock looks just like Mr. Mosher!” Grandpa laughing from the old International also saying that’s not the way to speak of him! Guilty as charged, but still snickering when we looked at each other. Working the land together as Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about in her newspaper columns.

Not long after those halcyon days of laughter and sharing in the good times and difficult or even sad times, it ended. Gone,the best days of my life. The fire department was a good job for Dad. Secure income.

They moved into the city as Dad continued working for the fire department, and to afford the nice city house, Mom had to work and leave us alone at the new home. A lot. The one room school house a mile away was not the way things were done in the city. There weren’t any potato fields or big vegetable gardens either. The biggest loss was the absence of parents when they were needed. Not being available at home when bad things happened. I was lost in the waves of change. Waking up at Bunyan’s Vanity Fair. The cute girl next door was a forbidden friend for Jack. She went to the ‘wrong’ church.

Make your own lunch and wait after school for Mom or Dad. Alone in the house. No more family games and no neighbors or relatives coming by. The big church downtown and bullies at the neighborhood school were incomprehensible. No one seemed to care about children at home or at the next door neighbors. Gone were the sights of a broken piece of equipment on a neighbors field. “I going to go over to Rick’s place and see what we can do” sorts of things. Day cares started up and everything had a price. From workers of the soil to wage earners surviving in toil. Children did not understand this. In a child’s eye it was abandonment and loss.

And so it goes as progress turns into regress for the new price of hearth and home. Our home now had a fireplace in the living room but it was never lit. The big coal furnace in the basement provided the heat but the hearth never provided a family room’s comfort. Now the gathering of family was the flicker of the black and white television set and intimacy was knowing the names of the characters on the screen. Big life became substitute life and families losses were significant. Children became actors in the play of city life. Do well at school and play with the strangers and you make friends if you don’t cry. First grade in the big city.

Gone the instantaneous comfort of a mother’s loving touch, the guiding hand of a Grandfather as the soil turned rich under the plow and disk. Love for neighbors seen and demonstrating love for everyone. Gone was “It’s been a good day, let’s read that book! Who knows where we left off?” Instead, lonely days. Akin to a room of the house suddenly disappearing. But dad and Grandpa were good carpenters and rebuilt some of the loss.

But Dad and Grandpa were not seen during the day and Grandpa and Grandma still lived in Golden Valley. I withdrew into myself and began to embrace short wave radio after a few years in grade school. I got my ham radio license just before going into 7th grade. I then had communications with total strangers around the country that were as lonely as I was. But dad and Grandpa were good carpenters and rebuilt some of the loss with me observing the new wood shop in our basement and Grandpa teaching dad and later, dad teaching me. I still have some of the old tools and a wood tool carrier from them. Now my youngest son has some of those tools on a special shelf in his wood shop here on the farm.

There is another carpenter that will restore all our loss’. He is the best restoration worker in the world. Jesus, He will make all things new. A perfect man with wood in the shop and wood on the cross. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

The Firebricks of Orion

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It was a hard morning to get ready for a 30+ mile drive south. It was early, my coffee was getting cold and I was getting cold as well. It was still dark and I was getting depressed. It was from fear of the world’s ways and loss I was seated in the impossible heavenly beauty and renewed and encouraged once again. The usual triggers that affect us: Checking account down under a C note, bills creating a breeze magnet on the table and prices getting into the ridiculous range at the grocery stores. Six bucks for a somewhat light loaf of bread? It must be organic, Vegan and sort of good for you if you like that sort of thing.

It is not good for anyone in the family to concentrate on those negative things, let alone the destruction of our state and country. Demented teachers running hard after perversion and seduction of children that, impossibly, seem paramount to the education agenda. No one I talk to has the slightest interest of those ideas, incredulous of how such a thing has happened.

Certainly the striped and incorrect depiction of our flag folks will respond to the above short paragraphs. I have strong memories of being underway on my Navy ship, flying the flag night and day. With a strong light upon it. The real flag, Superman’s flag of “ Truth, Justice and the American way” Not indoctrination, brain washing and the Orwellian ways. No one I meet, casual or acquaintances, has any truck with this nonsense. It’s the rural life of family, neighbors and reality.

It was time for the ritual which my young son enjoys. Laying out his coffee equipment before he awakens. Thermos, sugar and long stirring spoon. Turning on the Keurig and holding the storm door open for him (from the outside to clear his load of lunch, motorcycle helmet and warm jacket.) Then standing on the porch that faces the driveway to wave him off. It is a family tradition. If he is driving his car, he keeps the dome light on briefly so I can see him waving back. I watch till he turns north at the end of the ¼ mile driveway. With colder temps and snow, the bike goes into the storage shop and his pickup comes out of the big shop door. Power door. The exhaust from the truck swirls and a bit of heat is lost until his remote commands the door to close. The luxury of a heated garage with a hoist and many tools from the days of running a repair shop.

The parlor wood stove is now working well with new firebricks and angle/strap supports. All installed by their son. welded, ground brick to fit and cleaned and got filthy in the process. It works so much better. Warmth in later fall is welcome and secure feeling.

And so there I sit, in my chair in the dark living room of early morning. Holding my coffee, looking up at our library walk and above it at the big half round window. This morning, it was perfectly aligned just for me and, showing the families favorite constellation, Orion. His belt and his sword clear and the words came loud and clear . “He made me alive, when I was dead and he raised me up and seated me with Christ. And it’s by His grace that I am saved and it’s through faith, the very gift of God.” a.

Once again, I know my creator is smiling at me and the ‘coincidence’ perfectly arranged to show me I am seen and loved. The message is clear. Jesus is with us and sees all the trepidation and troubles of our lifes. “This time too, it will be OK” Just as the way the Lord has used his power and audible voice to literally save my life several times. This time the Lord of Lords is with me. It is not the book of Job, It is the new Testament books of Jesus healing and loving that are reflected in that window. High above and in the darkness. My family is seen and we are not alone.

It’s pretty good, Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

a. Justin Rizzo

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

Mail Call

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Catching attention is that announcement over the 1MC (That is the speaker system throughout a Navy Ship)

Mail call! Overseas, it was a light moment, usually news from home. Packages of cookies and such were obvious and demanded attention from one’s division. Hopefully a large box. After doing a few tours in a war zone, it was a welcome diversion. Mail was found aft, at the Mess deck by the ship’s Gedunk.

Being on watch 24 hours with 12 hours to sleep was a bit uncomfortable. The mail call was a pleasant relief besides Folgers coffee or Mid rats on the mess deck.

We all do it, walking out now to the box at the end of the driveway to see what’s there. On Tuesdays when the trash is also in it’s container there, it’s an easier job to not have to clutch the rolling trash can and the mail at the same time. You can tell what to toss in the empty can. Sometimes, it’s the whole days mail with all the ‘Special offer just for you!’

Every one on a rural route knows the drill with the flag up to signal there is outgoing mail in the box. Country folk nowadays usually skip doing that flag thing. It used to be convenient, but now there are a very small minority who have a calling to inspect boxes late at night with flags up.

There is almost a romance with the mail. It is something our government really got right to establish the Postal Service. Our language has responded with phrases and words particular to our mail. Special Delivery, Tracking, Return to Sender, Postage Due, Return address’, Zip codes and the inevitable, Junk Mail (spam for Gmail)

There was a rumor afoot that messenger and email type communication would completely eliminate mail. At first, paper mail was called ‘snail mail’ but electronic mail is easily lost and addresses are tricky too.

A few years back, I was told to walk a bicycle trail and then cross the highway to find a treasure. One of those gentle commands that cannot be ignored. He told me to keep my eyes open!

Or course, I thought of treasure of some sort. Nothing but trash and discarded cigarette butts. Not even field stripped. (ask a vet about that phrase) Then He told me to cross the highway, leave the trail. A nice ditch next to a golf course came into view.

There was old mail in the ditch. Dozens of envelopes. I opened one and it was from Korea from a local soldier asking about the crops and the tractors and things like that. Keeping in touch and letting the folks know he was thinking of them, their dad, a soldier overseas. There was a broken cedar box in the midst of the scattered white envelopes. The last name on the envelopes address’ was familiar and it was a name of a girl we had in the Kinship program

We called the number of the last name and the local town. It indeed was that girl and when we told her what I had found, she excitedly said; “There was a break in at my grandfathers house not long ago!” It was a flash of understanding that the thieves opened the box in their getaway vehicle and seeing the old letters, tossed the box out the car window. We bundled up the letters and gave them back to the family and it was very good to do so. There was the return of precious memories.

Personal mail, ah, that is the treasure at our mailboxes! It even surpasses envelopes with checks to cash. A real letter that shows a friend that cares enough to gather ink and pen and encourage us immediately when we see the return address. We all get Email and that has no impact as a folded piece of promised love from an old friend. I get those letters often when I need them.

So, what have we always had that is faster and never has any junk mail or spam with it? We have a passel of love letters from a very dear friend which bear re-reading and we have the incredible permission to answer those letters with just..thoughts. Spoken alone or with friends or just found behind our eyes. The only requirement to receive those letters is to understand them and if needed, ask for clarification with our response. To hear and read and feel our hearts move to get closer to the writer and speaker to our very core.

It’s time now to read and understand and respond to the best correspondent that is and always will be. You know his address. Jesus. Among His many names is ‘The Word” He’s waiting for you to read his letters. Pay attention, it is very important that we do so. Think seriously about those spoken and writtern special letters from your best friend and devour them with joy. Send a response with all your heart, mind, soul and spirit. He is delighted to hear from us, especially you.

It’s pretty good. Norm / Jack

Another Day in Small Town America

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A trip to town, only about 7 miles on a good highway. It’s hilly with familiar landmarks seen and spoken of. Around the lake just over the hill from the farm, there is what appears to be a small village out on the ice, fishing for whatever is down below the ice. Dozens of trucks and fishing shacks (wimps, we just sat on upside down white buckets ‘back in the days) No tip ups seen from this distance of over ¼ mile.

Then up the hill and there’s the old brick church with red crosses on the doors and a beautiful brick chimney for the coal furnace. Stoked in the past by Walter Wilson every Sunday morning. Good worker and farmer. A family name that is still around with his generous son, Lloyd.

Onward past the old auto yard of Nelson Motors which was the home of Doctor X, wrestler extraordinaire on TV. It was pro wrestling back in the days of cathode ray tubes and rabbit ears. The Crusher was a big draw too. They were very good actors with perfect athletic skills to fall and crash and bounce around. There were no stunt men nor mixed effects modifications. I liked the bouncing off of the ropes moves.

My dad watched wrestling every Sunday while the rest of our family went off to the ‘Mother Church’ downtown. I would have preferred to stay with Dad but most the cigar would not be shared. It was alone time for Dad, everyone needs it now and then. My dad made a mean pot of Chow Mien then which was waiting for our return. With noodles. No fortune cookies. A memory all from the distant past brought forth from passing a junkyard on the highway. Fred Nelson motors, (pro wrestler is not on the old sign)

Memories flood me as I drive the twisty highway now past the resort where Dad and I rented a boat for our last fishing expedition at the mouth of the local river. The Lake is called Round Lake, how many round lakes there are just in NW Wisconsin? This one is not round either. Pot holes are round. The resort is gone and so is Dad, but the memory is clear even with the color of the boat and the squeak of the oarlocks.

Up the hill now, passing the old schoolhouse which was turned into a pretty nice antique store.

Around the corner where a memorial used to stand by the ditch where a exchange student from Russia was killed in a rollover accident. His hockey stick which leaned on the cross was still there. Jack weeps internally every time to town and back at the loss and the thoughts of that kid’s parents back in the old country. When I tell the story of the many car ditch events right at that curve, I include the name of the owner of the house right there. Rolloff.

Past the milking barn with the huge ventilation fans on it’s front and across the road from where Edwin Anderson lived. I went to the estate auction there. Steamer trunks with old passports inside with the folded linen and other treasures are suddenly images within me.

The thought of how to give country directions to someone from out of town. Just turn left at Tony’s barn which is right across the highway from Edwin Anderson’s old place.

An old Irish story comes to mind: A tourist asked a farmer near a road which way he can get to Dublin. “If I was a goin T there I wouldn’t start from ere” was the reply.

There are many road markers for me. Einer’s mountain (long climb for a bicycle, we did it a lot. You had to keep an eye on your rear view mirror for Edwin driving his Buick. ) A weaving driver with questionable eyesight he was.

Then you pass by the Amish farms and then down a small hill into own. You can make it all the way to the post office if you put it in neutral at the top of the hill. A few errands are done and the snow and ice and drifts are a challenge to get to the library.

Suddenly, a lone maple leaf blows by in the snowy ditch. I picked it up as a sign or signal of some sort. Maybe spring is coming soon? I made a visit with my editor at the newspaper publishing building and he gave me 15 bucks to pick up some strawberry/rhubarb pie mix in the bigger town down the highway. Our smaller grocery store cannot stock those sorts of delicacies . I then met someone new by the library and a conversation ensued about the man’s forefathers coming over in the 1600’s from England.

We met by an older building next to the Pioneer bar that my family had a prayer room in. When our family was there, there was a drum cage, singer mics, my instruments and a keyboard. Our family worshiped Jesus with songs and sung prayers a few times a week. There was even good WiFi from the bar next door, right through the brick walls and with permission and the password. Four years of memories there. Now it’s locked with a Realtor’s coded lock and the scroll work scripture is gone too.

It’s an average short trip to town in many ways and it’s time to head back home. I forgot that man’s name but the conversation was another bright exchange of history and is not forgotten.

It’s slushy and cold and the recent snow fall has made the roads slick here and there. My newer car has automatic stability control and antilock brakes to go with it. A few jiggles on the curves and it’s home to check the mailbox at the end of the 1/8th mile driveway. Oops, the wind turned it 90 degrees (or was it the plow?) No mail today. I can see that it turned before the mail delivery was attempted. Otherwise the mail would be scattered in the snow.

There are many trips to towns nearby 30 miles away but they do not hold quite as much nostalgia. Turn up the worship music on the CD player and sing along sometimes. Today I was trying to sing acapella the Patsy Cline song ‘Crazy’

I love the octave jump back at the first line. Doesn’t everyone have days like this? If you share them, people either think you fit the Patsy Cline song name or they share their roads traveled with you. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe

A life Hidden and Seen

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was several years ago when my whole family went to Washington D.C. we even took a friend with us. It was her first flight and she did the usual casual cool luggage rack and seat location. I had a little disagreement at the boarding ramp. The attendant told me my airline case for my viola was baggage and had to go into the hold. A stewardess for the flight was nearby. I explained to the attendant that the viola was made in France in the late 1700’s and it was not going into the hold. It was a bit of a standoff and the nearby stewardess told me to board the plane and she found a nice place for the case where the crew puts their stuff. I was thankful and very effusive with my praise of that crew member.

When the Delta flight began it’s roll out, the friend that was with us was a little nervous at the turbine noise and the acceleration. Like every first time flier, when the gear came up with it’s thumping and noise, she reached over and grasped my hand tightly. Every new flier does it. Grab the arm of the seat, anything. When we arrived at the airport in Maryland, we rented a van and the best driver of the family took the wheel. If you hesitate for more than ¼ of a second off the white line when the light turns green, you get the horn in back. Every time. Soren, our son, drove well and knows where the horn is on every make and model.

we found our rental apartment in an average city block which all their acquaintances who had been in D.C. Said was a neighborhood to avoid. Their host was very gracious, the stainless steel appliances were first rate and the first time we went to the national mall, a neighbor knew somehow where they were going and told them where to get off to catch the subway/metro. Nice neighbors in spite of the need for bulletproof glass at the local cafe. We had two tables and we sat at one. There were five of us. One of the cooks came out with an extra chair for Jack. Very aware folks in that neighborhood. It was pleasant. Our apartment was downstairs with a separate entrance. We leaned on the short chain link fence and chatted with the sidewalk passers by. One gal from next door kept trying to bum a cigarette. It was tempting to buy a pack across the street at the check cashing store, but our new friend on the bus said we would be out of cigarettes soon. None of us smoke.

That lady was focused. Becoming city mice, our family took an Uber back to the Airbnb. Cheaper than the Metro and without the burned oil smells of the fast train. The acceleration of the Metro was nice for me and Soren. Old drag racer and his son that drives a modified turbo Saab. Strap hangers swaying with the close walls flashing by, we enjoyed it.

All of us were there to protest abortion in a very unusual way. Each state had a tent on the national mall and there was 24 hour worship and prayer for our country and the unborn children. It was hot, it was crowded and it was wonderful. I saw the original stars and stripes at the Smithsonian and there was the actual Apollo 1 capsule among Saturn booster engines and the like. The original Spirit of St Louis was there too. It has hanging from the ceiling.

The whole mall was filled with tents, each one with a sign that said the state the worship team was from. Julie went up to the Washington monument and there was a Tepee there. She went inside and saw the drum circle. An older man looked up at her and firmly said, “You are First Nation” How do you know that? was Julie’s immediate question. “It’s in your eyes” was the immediate response. True. Her great Grandmothers name was White Feather.

After a while at home, We went to visit Grandma and Grandpa about 5 hours drive to the southeast. After a scrumptious meal, I went into the living room and relaxed to the point of a bit of sleeping. A dream/vision swept over me. A young, pretty girl with dark hair ran up to me and grasped me in a strong hug with her head on my shoulder. She was about the same height as Julie. It was a very Vivid vision, The young girl was wearing a thick wool coat, it was tan and her hair was dark. I did not know what to say or think. Visions from the Lord are sometimes like that. I heard His voice: “This is your child Greta who was miscarried. She just wanted to touch you and tell you it was OK. She is with Me now”

Startled awake, I went back into the kitchen and sat down at my place at the table and told the dream. I saw a glint of a tear in Grandpa’s eye. It was tender and reassuring really, this father of Julie did not show emotion, ever. All conversation was covered with a salesman’s chuckle and laughter, as though life was some sort of running comedy. Not this time. Serious stuff, he knew this.

I love to tell this story as it means a lot to me and Julie and it plants the flag of stopping abortion clinics firmly and unmovable in our hearts. People I tell it too are moved and I like to tell them how precious is our Creator and the life He gives. There is life after death, we are ‘overbuilt’ for life as it seems. There must be more than this short life, it’s hard wired into us to wonder about, dream about and even write about. Why do some folks rail against these things? Grace is given and Faith is the gift of God.

I love to quote writing and songs in my columns. I like this one. “There’s something going on and you don’t know what it is. Do you, Mr. Jones” 1. Indeed. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator scribe

1. Bob Dylan

The Chain saw and the Trout stream

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments

It was an average late spring day and I was up in the birch trees in the middle of my land. The fairly new big Jonsered chain saw was running good. I had recently purchased the saw at a friends hardware store in the 40 acre musician neighborhood down in the cities.

I had washed dishes with him and we listened to incredible folk, jazz and bluegrass music with our hands in the sinks.

So, with the new saw, I was cutting light firewood for the new wood stove to go with the old farmhouse. City boy, railroad gandy dancer swinging that big saw around with muscles from the railroad track gangs.

Spotting the mail get delivered about a quarter mile away, I set the saw down and walked the hypotenuse of the field and got the mail. There was an official death notice of my father in California in the mail. I hadn’t heard from Dad since he and his third wife went to her home town in Tanzania.

Dad had sent me a a postcard when he remarried. That postcard had a picture of his “new family”. Most of them were working for Jacques Custou exploring the ocean or were involved with climbing Everest and getting their PHD’s in research of some kind. I felt a little out of it with Dad’s new family. Railroad Track worker on 30 acres seemed of at the other end of the success spectrum. I had no idea what had happened and did not get an invite to the funeral or the reading of the will for that matter. I went back and picked up the chain saw, walked or staggered back to the house and dialed the old black wall phone in the kitchen, I knew only one number in California, Dad’s,and got my uncle on the line!

The will had already been taken care of and my uncle now lived in Dad’s ritzy home in Rancho Bernardo, near San Diego. “He told me I was to be the executor of his will!”I shouted into the old Bakelite wall phone. I was puzzled until I realized my uncle has the exact same name as I do. “What did he leave me?” Was the somewhat broken question.”Nothing but we will send you some pictures he took and his camera too.”

Staggered by the theft, I could only say one thing, “I want his ashes, I know what he wanted me to do with them” Uncle and Cousin sent the ashes of my father and photos/camera and as a bonus, a metal box with fly fishing hand made flies. It was a small box in the mail box at the end of my driveway. Dad wanted his ashes put into a trout stream. They fished together back in the days before the family imploded when I was in high school

At a folk music gig way up the coast of Lake Superior, I noticed a small stream next to the lodge and in the morning, took Dad’s ashes down to the stream and tossed them in a hand full at a time. There was a surprising swirl of man sized ‘smoke’ over the waters each time! I took the identifying metal dog tag and skipped it out in the lake at the mouth of the river. Just like a flat stone would skip. I got a triple splash before the metal tag plunged into the water. It was a tough goodbye without knowing the story of the death and not even knowing he was ill. The tears fell into the small stream at the loss and shock of a ruined family coming home in yet another surprising way. Coming back to be burned down again.

I went back home after telling that pleasant man that owned the lodge the story. It was a nice place to stay and the owner was an acquaintance of my Berkeley house mate, Charley, who played with me the night before at the lodge. Good music to get lost in. Old country blues with a 12 string and my 6 string D28.

About a week later, got a call on the old black wall phone from the lodge owner. “Hey, just wanted to tell you I caught a really nice Rainbow just up stream from the lodge” The owner knew the story. It felt right, It was a trout stream, a good one and I still remember those man size swirls of ash from the ceremony beside that stream. I tossed the box, but not into the stream. It was a perfectly done task for my Father.

So, there was no inheritance from Dad’s money but my cousin did get to send his kids to college with the estate. I asked him when my boys were grown, decades later, if now he could help sponsor their expenses for college. “Nah, I’ll pass” was his response. My other cousin refers to him as ‘Rotten Rodney” Seems to fit.

The memory of that funeral by the river still lingers long afterwards.. It was the perfect and right thing to do. The stream’s name is the Cross River, way up shore of Superior, and later in my life, Jesus became the center of my life. I found the eternal truth about the Cross and the money I lost means nothing now. The honor that the Lord set forth for me is on that steam is the real treasure.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson

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