Life Experienced

The Sight of a Smell

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was early in the morning when I saw the delightful smell drifting in from the kitchen. A haze,It was Soren my son cooking bacon for the family breakfast. Delightful, visible and delicious.A combination of several senses at once.

Another combination is lightning. The stroke, which grasps our sight as suddenly it appears and continues for a very brief time afterwards as dark lines as we blink it away. Then comes the sound. Calculating the speed of sound @ 1125 ft/s we come up with a mile every 4.7 seconds.

It’s fun to see how close the strike is by the timing of the thunder. So, we have sound and sight in combination. If the lightning is close, there is a smell of the ozone as well. The fertility of the earth is enhanced by the generation of Nitrogen. A natural fertilizer and the ozone protects us from the harmful radiation from sunlight! Quite a few senses involved. Sight, smell, hearing and the engagement of our mind in calculation and awe.

Along with the lightning, comes the wind and the rain. So now we combine sight, smell and sound in a different way with seeing the rain, hearing it spatter on our head or the rap on a roof. Then comes the smell of freshness. Does anyone have few words for the smell of the rain? It’s the smell that aromatic companies try to duplicate for those car ‘fresheners’ or scented soaps and dryer sheets. That isle in the big box store that gives us the challenge of holding our breath until we wheel past with the wobble-wheel cart, looking for toilet paper (Same breath holding reaction to the kitty litter aisle)

There is the smell of an old bound hard-cover book while reading it. We could talk about the delight of those two, but that’s another sense we have. Awe. It’s a natural emotional response to the senses combined. It’s a sense of presence of the Numinous Creator God. You may call Him a different name in your awe, I call Him Yahweh or Lord or God, the best one for him is Jesus.

Another sense often occurs with that Awe, shivering or a tingling of suddenly being aware of the supernatural that is always with you but now, sometimes visible (It HAS happened to me, but it is very rare.) After all, no one is supposed to see the face of God lest he die. In the words of Pogo..”Death, I can live without it”. It’s not the of God I have seen, it’s the result of His presence I have seen. I know He has permitted me to see things and hear things, along with that presence that is unbelievable when I talk about them. That’s OK if someone scoffs at these things, I was there.

As I have said before, I am not claiming any thing else. Just a gift we get if we know it is so. I look forward to this gift from Him with a smile of expectancy. None of us knows when it will occur, but it does and gives all of us more than we can try to describe in the description of senses. You have had this happen to you, but have thought of it as incredible luck or coincidence unexplained. It’s Joy, that’s for certain. Its pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

An Old Fashioned Cell Phone That needs no Contact Numbers

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was over a half century ago that I began contacting strangers and having meaningful conversations with them. It was safe as I was doing it with my ‘Ham’ radio with both Morse code and vocal techniques. It began in early Junior high when electronics took a hold of me and as a very shy and reclusive child I was attracted to actually talking to someone that was interesting and listened to me.

The spectrum behavior that drove a lot of those desires still lingers. Asperger syndrome. I have offended some people with my desire to communicate with them. Complaints result very seldom as the public domain is wary to some and my efforts could be seen as intrusive to them. I recently have been made aware of these things and it first seemed puzzling. I was crossing boundaries and they were not on a 20 meter radio seeking communication!

Memories of elementary teachers surprised at me and fellow students showing me their boundaries by various unpleasant behaviors. Nearsighted, I could not read a face either. Excuses really. Just the old saying “he didn’t have a clue”. Monty Python’s In search of the Holy Grail famous line: “She turned me into a Newt!…Well, I got better” I recently am getting better.

I managed to randomly speak with foreign people from half way around the planet at rare times and all over our country if I planned the time, position of the frequencies that would ‘bounce’ off of the upper atmosphere. Usually from 20 to 10 meter wavelengths. Sun spots were an annoyance and disrupted the ‘skip’ from the heavy side layer. Radio signals would skip in a wave form all around the place when the situations were right. I remember the night when a radio operator in Russia answered my query for a ‘chat’ The signal was a repeated two letters “CQ” Seek you. Asking for someone far away you added the suffix DX which means distance in radio lingo. Lots of those acronyms still linger. 73’s means good bye and 88’s means love and kisses. Careful with that one! QSO means conversation. Cops still use some of these Q acronyms.

I became a fulfilled recluse in my bedroom and became bolder at speaking to total strangers.

Now, things with radio seem very old fashioned. The visions of families glued to their RCA console radios, listening intently to sports activities from Olympic competitions across the world. This has recently been illustrated in the movie ‘Boys in the Boat’

It was exciting and there were no distractions of costuming, personality announcers on the video streams and of course, advertising ‘breaks’ Television has reduced excitement of real time news with entertainment and advertising splash. Not to mention some of the obscene links on the web stream news links. Very distracting and not in real time either. Breaking news of scandal real or invented. Who knows? Who cares? Click bait is the term for those things.

You can find those old wood console radios in second hand stores. Sometimes the filaments will glow from the tubes on the chassis in the back filled with primitive electronics when you plug them in. Big capacitors and transformers. Older than the stuff on Apollo 1. If you can rig up a decent ‘long wire’ antenna, you will actually get reception. Those radios were the center piece in living rooms across the country and now, as antiques, they still are. Especially if they still work. The speaker(s) were pretty big (JBL 15”) and the sound is pretty decent too. Usually only AM radio is available. FM (frequency modulation) and SSB (single side band) came later. Ask me to explain those terms if you want. Electronic geeks like hams, love to talk about just anything about their hobby. Most of it indecipherable by everyone else.

This training in talking to absolute strangers and has stayed with me and makes it natural for me to talk with check out clerks, people at shoe stores or just someone that smiles from the easy stroll we both are taking down the small town street

The spectrum behavior that drove a lot of those desires still lingers. Asperger syndrome. However I have offended some people with my desire to communicate with them. Complaints result very seldom but as the public domain is wary to some and my efforts could be seen as intrusive. I recently have been made aware of these things and it first seemed puzzling. I was crossing boundaries. Of course they were not on a 20 meter radio seeking communication.

There are memories of elementary teachers surprised at me and fellow students showing me their boundaries by various unpleasant behaviors. Nearsighted, I could not read a face either. Excuses really. Just the old saying “he didn’t have a clue”. Monty Python’s In search of the Holy Grail famous line: “She turned me into a Newt!…Well, I got better” I recently am getting better.

At church, I might ask someone if I can pray for them is usually pleasantly received . I am right where I have been led to be since I was 12 years old. What a coincidence or was it plan all along? Who designs those plans is a good question too. Ask me sometime and we will have a good QSO.

It’s been pretty good. Norm Peterson /K0JMV /Jack Gator

picture of ham radio shack courtesy of KB1SF

The Streetcar The Dentist and a Violin

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was in the middle of the last century that as a preteen I was given the task of taking streetcars to the family dentist. I know, it’s sounds like a long time ago. It was. Streetcars were the way to get around town. Everyone knew where they went. As the buses that replaced them, there were placards in front telling destination and the routes were memorized by all. There were transfer tickets, if you asked for one, that enabled the ride to go further in a different direction.

I was five or six years old when I went by myself downtown and further. There, of course, were young kids that would roll a big snowball onto the tracks. Harmless fun as the trolly would plow through them easily. The bigger kids would do those sorts of things. I never did it but saw it done by boys quite older than I. Older by a year or two! Usual seniority of life in public school.

We all would throw a penny off the top of the Foshay tower downtown. It was the tallest building in town and is still there. Now it’s the smallest tall building in town. Word was if the penny hit someone it would go right through them! Terminal velocity of a coin that weighs the same as a hummingbird.

The elevator was free but you had to use a coin to use the telescopes. It was a Nickle which could buy candy as well. A conundrum to a young anti-social Asperger genius. Three Musketeers or a Butterfinger. Tough choice. I thought the splitting of the Musketeer bar was a nice image of comradery. Too messy, no one ever did it.

So, onto the trolley (which had to switch the electric pickup mast when a change of tracks had to be done) the conductors had neat uniforms and a coin box with a little chrome handle that he would constantly twirl to sort out the coins dropped in. I Still remember the sound. Right hand, kachinka, clatter, kaching, etc. I would Get off on Hennepin avenue and walk down about six blocks to Washington avenue. There was a news stand on the corner and they always had the latest science fiction magazines. Later they hawked Mad magazines along with newspapers from all over the country. The next trolley would take me to the family dentist. Great, fun trip.

The streetcars are long gone, along with their tangle of electric power wires overhead. The tracks are gone and recently, tracks got put back in for fast and quiet streetcars. Metro transit. Every one misses the ding ding bell and the rattle of the glass and chrome change hopper. At least people my age do.

It was much later in the end of the century that I was shopping for my first fiddle and a friend in the string instrument world steered me to that family dentist! It seemed the delicate skill sets were just the thing for fine wood work. Oliver G. Olafson was the dentist/violin maker. He made 26 of them in the 1950’s The auction houses of today know of him and list his violin work as ‘inconsistent’ mine must be a consistent one.

I bought one and my friend bought one too! We called them by special names and they aged well. Since the dentists name was Olafson, mine became Olie.

My dentist was known in Mineapolis’ instrument players circles and the choice was good and neither of us needed dental care at that time. There was no Novocain for us either. The bow cost was even higher. It’s good advice from fiddle pros to spend more on your bow than on the fiddle itself. A local shop had a one star N.R. Pfretzschner bow for a few hundred dollars. The bow is now worth 3 to 6 thousand. It’s a nice bow. Musical instruments get better when they get older. Just like us.

That fiddle of mine is so loud that a microphone is usually not needed in small rooms. It’s a beauty. I am not aware of what it is worth. With age comes wisdom. Sometimes. So far I have not been listed as an antique writer but who knows. I can imagine the antique road show now. “We’ve got an 80 year old Swedish model that is a little careworn. Still has hair of sorts and speaks pretty good.” A lot of miles left on this one!”

Actually I have already been bought and the price was impossible to imagine. You know the buyer, at least I pray that you do. He was a master carpenter and worked with wood . He is known throughout the world. Ask me if you are curious and I can introduce you to Him. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Training Ground

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

TRAINING GROUND

It wasn’t too bad, looking back. The success’ outweigh the tough parts. That’s the way it looks now anyway. Like boot camp for everyone on the planet, you’re drafted and you have to do it. Just show up and survive. Some don’t survive, some don’t even show up. The draft notice doesn’t come in the mail, it’s not on your email or Facebook. It just comes and it’s pretty obvious what it is.

Report to recruit depot and get prepared for the toughest, most interesting time of your life. Anyone’s life. When it’s over, you can stand tall and be someone that did the right thing. “Fall out! get your uniforms and find your barracks.”

What am I writing about now! It sounds like going to basic training…yes for all of mankind and there is nothing harder nor more rewarding. I have been taking a University Class on Philosophy and it approaches me in strange ways. The last lecture was on Emmanuel Kant. He stated that the greatest example of Moral law was someone sacrificing for another person. Not a cause. Learning how to embrace that concept and make it our operational motive is very hard and can be the only thing we have to decide in this world.

A moral decision. Akin somewhat to the decision to lie to a Nazi guard looking for the Jewish man hiding in your home. Do you lie or do you tell the truth which is a basis for moral decision? Of course, telling the Gestapo the reasoning behind their miscreant behavior would not go well, even though that itself would be telling truth.

These are basic things for maturity, to wrestle with our reasoning. To seek out a ‘basic training’ that will tell us a way to think and act that fulfills, founded in a moral law. A law of civilization. Some folks will say it is tied to survival to assure survival of community and family. Sounds reasonable. Define survival, that’s all that’s required. Evolution aficionados like to use the old tooth and claw to describe survival of the fittest.

That sort of evolution works for watching trees fall when dead and then see what happens to the surrounding forest. Seems rather random to most of us. What if it isn’t? The old silly question: “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, is there a sound?” What a ridiculous question! As though sound were a philosophic decision. Can you discern the timpani of that statement?

There are decisions that echo throughout our lives. Often seemingly small decisions. A friend of mine a very good fellow writer put it in 20 words:

What can I do? What should I do? What is God telling me to do? What am I willing to do?” Pretty astute. How indeed do we know what God is telling us to do? It’s a thing that we are taught in basic. Simple in some ways. Keep our mouths shut and pay attention. Don’t call the sergeant sir and don’t embellish the tasks you have been given. That’s boot camp.

Now, we are out of boot and aware that survival depends on paying attention to everything around us. That is key, not fear of the unknown. It’s awareness of who you are, where you are and what can and what should you do. At this time the communication is critical.

I was communications man/radio operator. Handy skill to help me listen. Some of the important messages had such weak signal strength it was only listening intently that made it clear. Shut out the static, the thrum of the ventilator fan and the hatch noise. Stop listening to the ‘world’ and be still. Headphones worked then and now I need self control over static.

As is taught in scripture, it’s not the thunder, the wind and the earthquake that our Lord uses to speak to us. It’s a still small voice and as though you are remembering a conversation you had 15 seconds ago. “Turn left up here” “keep your eyes open” “go visit him, you have the time” “walk slowly and stay alert” These are a few that I remember. Falls in the category of what is God telling me to do.

It usually begins by believing those faint messages are there for you. You alone. Keep listening. He will tell you he loves you right here, right now. Often He will tell me to do something that either seems impossible or simply, I not want to believe what I just heard. It’s OK. The Lord is patient and kind. We can hear Him if we want to. He isn’t going to tell us to go to Africa (usually) and it’s things that we can do to make things right.

It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson/ Jack Gator

Prayer in the Big City hospital

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The intrigue of the new name, written on a white stone. The only name for you, one of a kind and a blossom in the garden of the Lord. From the beginning of time made to blossom.

As the pattern and majesty of the mighty oak is placed within the acorn, so is our life given as each one of us is created unique, a perfect fit for us and seen on this side of eternity.

The Brief glimpses of Jesus’ heart which can overwhelm and bring us to our knees. Sometimes to the floor. There is a gift given which is the most precious stone indeed. Only revealed on that day we see the beams of light coming from Him as he smiles and blesses us. As the light flows from His beauty, it penetrates our heart, our spirit. The revelation of Christ indeed.

There is a hospital, that a fellow writer I had recently met at the local library was recovering. In hospital as the odd phrase goes. Much akin to a sailor that says “what ship did you serve in?” Conveying a mutual experience. As most of us, being in hospital after ‘procedure’ we become very aware of our frail body and also are anxious to be seen alive and belonging. My friend, Wally, was pleased to see me show up.

He had just come under the knife to save his life. A removal of a growing thing that did not belong inside of him. As he laid in the bed, I was allowed to come in and see him with deeper sight. He also saw me with new eyes. A caring visit from afar just for him. The visit that was as others that have been given to me, Irresistible and also fulfilling in ways of love for another. Also I gave him prayer for a powerful healing and it was well received by him.

(I see him now and then, sitting under a tree where he lives. I try not to stop and interrupt him. He is deep in thought and communion and I love to see him there. He is well.) He rolls his own smokes and I pray he would also be cured of tobacco addiction. I do not chastise or try and guide him away from the addiction. I used to smoke as well and the last thing I needed then was an evangelist telling me the truth. What would I have thought about advice from someone that doesn’t smoke?

After and reassurances, it was time to leave the hospital with the promise of return firmly known. When I left that room, I noticed a tall young man walking slowly by in the hallway. One of those endless hallways with perspective ahead. Walls extending a long ways. I was surprised at the instant inner voice to walk and pray for him. This young man had large hoop earrings. It was merely an affectation I thought. It have been a symbol or recognition trigger. Didn’t matter to me at all.

Right away, I asked that man if it was OK to walk with him. Surprised and pleased that a stranger would walk slowly beside him, the man nodded yes and they walked ahead. ” I walk pretty slowly” I replied to him that there was no hurry for me at all. I am a slow walker too. They began to converse.

This man said that his doctor told him to walk in a every day around the floor that his room was on. Stairways were not on the menu. I slowed down and walked. I am getting used to doing these types of things, not denying that small voice within me. Too many times, I have balked at doing such a simple task asked by my best friend Jesus.

I asked a few polite questions and we began chatting about what was around them and then why they were there. Truth exchanged between two strangers by an arrangement of the Lord. Fear revealed and spoken of. It took a while to get to the turning of the corridor. I said I must go to the right and had to “find the place my car was parked.” (A small joke among people of the city that deal with five story tall cement parking ramps).

I then asked permission to put my hand on his shoulder and pray for him. A prayer of immediacy and details I have forgotten were given to this wounded young man. “Well, I must go” I blessed him and thanked Jesus with the last words of prayer.

Astonished, the man said: “Are you an Angel?”…. I smiled and said “No but I was sent and told to pray for you”

I eventually found my car, and the joy of fulfilling two men’s need for prayer overcame me. A gift given to listen and then pray what I hear. Silence and then listening without thinking what to say.

It is a recent lesson I learned from reading in a brilliant book, “It is a restful heart that will attract those who are groping to find their way through life” a.

As the old Story of the desert fathers is written; “The Messiah lied to me, he said He was coming today and He has not shown up. Ah! replied Father Anthony. “He didn’t say He was coming, He said listen”

It was good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

a. The way of the heart Henri Nouwen 1981

If You come to a Fork in the road, Take it.

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There you have it, an old saying just modified a little bit. There is truth behind this. There is no longer any option to travel. One way or the other, left or right. Up or down, etc. Having a good map really helps when this happens. That’s why we have Alexei in our GPS apps to tell us which exit on the roundabout to take. Of course, it gets confusing a lot with those choices and names. At least you can go around for another shot at it.

So it goes with travel. An old Scotsman farmer remarked to a lost tourist. “Well, if I was going there I wouldn’t start from here” So where do we start with other forms of travel such as serious choices? Which way to turn? Travel is a multipurpose word. It can also mean our lives as well traveled or not so much. Of course, if one is of a mind to be blasé’ about life in general, turns and forks just mean another adventure. I lived like that for a great amount of my life. The buzzwords were: Karma, or life path. No choice involved, just what was lined up for you. Studying chapter and verse on such worldviews was a path to meaninglessness. The standby word for unexpected paths was “whatever.”

C.S. Lewis’ writing on these things is succinct:”The road to hell is a gentle slope, soft underfoot. No warning signs, no signs or turning.” There is the thought of my master in writing. That there is no fork in the road once you decide to pursue it.

When I was on our ‘walkabout’ on my Royal Enfield, I knew the destination but took a few forks in the road on the way. laissez faire sort of travel, led to all sorts of adventure. There was a map on board but the dominant thought for me and my best friend, Bruce, was the unknown path. (Bruce was riding an old BMW R59)

Mistakes were made, ones that were ‘challenging’. Both of us had recently been discharged and it was nifty to choose your own path. Bruce’s bike had an arrangement of the front suspention on his bike, it was called an ‘Earles Fork’ Getting tired of the homographs? A few more to go.

There were also plenty of forks in the road in the early days, not even seen as decisions that had to be made. Just ‘chance’ or ‘luck’ or ‘destiny’. There weren’t any warning signs either. A simple ‘rough road’ or ‘falling rocks ahead’ would have been enlightening. I am not certain that forked decisions are destiny or foolishness. After all, if you can even hear the screams or explosions, it would seem prudent to go some other way or just do a U turn. So, random fork choosing can be fun, dangerous, thrilling or destructive. How can you tell which road or path is correct?

There is perfect advice available and it isn’t Map Quest. Consult the map maker himself, He will advise and tell you of the choices. You decide. That’s called freedom. One fork will lead to a fulfillment destination and the other one will lead to eternal captivity of an unpleasant type. The Map Maker will even tell you which fork in the road is good and correct. If you choose to listen to Him. Take the wrong turn anyway and you will not be saved from falling into Judgement, the eternal type.

That’s right. He will save you from His Father. 1. That’s what salvation means. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

1. Gregory Koukl The Story of Reality

Soldiers Of Fortune

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There was something about this new guy at the party, this laughing mulatto veteran that reminded me of my old Navy friend. Bruce Berglund was his name. Like Chuck from my ship, Bruce was similar sounding and unflappable and generous with the bounty he had.

He was just back from ‘Nam’ and looking for a place to crash. I had an extra room in an apartment above a Sherman Williams paint store several blocks on the wrong side of the tracks. Bruce moved in and we listened to ‘Yellow Submarine’ on his stereo he brought back from the war and they took apart the speakers and found something called ‘Park Lanes’. Cigarettes obtained in Saigon and were on the whole, very pleasant to smoke. Quite a few soldiers brought home trinkets and other things from the wars. No one minded.

Bruce knew some people, had connections as it is said, and soon both of us were working for yellow cab. It was an interesting job. Both of us being extroverted helped a lot with tips or ‘scale’ as it is referred to in the cab business. Chatting up customers was not only a good way to get a good tip but it also was a bit of an education on the world.

Those cabs had 4 cylinder Continental engines and were heavy and crash resistant. Slow. That left a lot of time to converse with your fare as the mileage and time clicked by on the dash meter.

A new friend that Bruce introduced to me was one of those connections. David Johnson. He used to be a city alderman in Minneapolis. He had a nickname, Oily. He was rather slippery and loquacious and ran an after hours joint in our happening neighborhood. The West Bank of Minneapolis. The beer was cheap and imported from Wisconsin. Leinenkugel’s. Tastier than Hamm’s or Grain Belt. Life was easy and since we played guitars and sang, we were the entertainment. Free beer for us as payment. What a gig.

We had attitudes and were known as vets with experience. David liked us being there just in case. it was a shoe-in to hang out late at night, drive cab (any hour) and as a bonus, David drove cab and showed us tricks of the trade. The cab queue line at the airport was the social event of the day and ‘connections’ were made there as well. Not Vietnamese Park Lanes but similar smoking herbs were on sale.

We were Vets and Up and comers associated with Oily. Many interesting things changed hands at the cab stand. No one minded.

Several weeks after Bruce moved in I asked him why his skin was getting lighter. ” I’m a black Norwegian with curly black hair!” was his answer. China beach in Nam has a lot of sunshine. He spent six months there after his 6×6 was blown up, recuperating from injuries incurred. He was assigned to Psy Ops (psychological operations) and had a big loudspeaker on his trucks roof and would blast through the area playing ‘sunshine of your love’ by Eric Clapton and Cream. Then he would stop at one of the ‘vills’ and show movies from the trucks projector and loud sound system. Hollywood had a lot of fans over there in spite of the war. Evidently there was a music critic in one of the villages.

Soon their friendship began looking for more adventure which led them to riding old motorcycles to California.

Another story. Lives lived with the Grace of God saving us all for His purposes It’s pretty good. ‘Motorcycle pilgrimage‘ is the title of the series about that.

( Five chapters at Gator’s Grace Notes. Com)

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Boundaries and Kindness’

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was 50 years ago, give or take. I was a brand new owner of a small acreage farm. Stranger in a strange land, city boy. Far away from the hustle of neighborhood living on the West Bank of Minneapolis. A.

I needed to be here, leaving behind an early drug gang, bars filled with people just like me. Full of myself and willing to share stories of adventure from 2 years overseas.

I would tell of an adventure in Lebanon trying set a friends soul a whirl. That was a place he always wished he’d been. But It didn’t seem to move him much when I mentioned to him then. He was probably thinking about something else and not a listenin. B.

It got tiresome, a pitcher of beer reappearing after work. My best friend told me: “Get the hell out of there and come up here and live near me!” Good advice and I did so. I met some new friends in a bar about 10 miles away. They liked my stories and I was pleased with these country boys. I was new and as a plus, I didn’t graduate from their high school.

They helped me a lot with country living. Gardening, hiring local small farmers to cut and bail my hay field and great help in general because I was a vet and my best friend lived half a mile away. Bruce, was working for his wife’s father selling fire extinguishers and Scott air pacs. He said I could work for him servicing those Scott air supply systems for local fire stations. I took the training but the job never materialized. That was ok, I still had the railroad track work down in the cities.

Hunting, ice fishing with tip ups and what roads to drive home when leaving the bar at night. They put a 30-06 in my hands in the fall and showed me how to go out and hide behind a tree during deer hunting season. Never saw one but got heard ice groaning and popping while I was out there and that scared me. It was very loud and sounded like two huge whales talking. For a moment I thought it was an alien just over the ridge, down by Trade Lake. I walked back to my house at a rather brisk pace and unloaded. No one else had heard what I did but later that week the locals took me ice fishing and I heard some moans and cracks zipping by. Fish at your own risk. Walk to the shack, leave the pickup at the landing.

I tried again, this time at day and walked back to my southern border with that trusty Winchester and came over a hill and there was another hunter in red flannel. He yelled at me; “What the Hell you doing back here!” I told him we were standing on my land and he turned walked to the property fence and hopped over. I walked right behind him and stuck out my hand across the wire. “Let’s start over again. My names Norm” We shook hands. It was pretty good. We got to be neighbors in process.

It reminded me of walking through a hatch at sea, I was a brand new radioman 3 and walked into Officers country. No big deal to a Lieutenant walking towards me and he helped me understand those boundaries. That’s the way it’s done. He didn’t write me up or complain to his division chief. I blundered in and learned about those things. He asked me who I was, smiled a small smile and said “Welcome aboard” Even shook my hand.

He didn’t complain to the division chief. Boundaries. We all have them, when someone crosses Your boundary do you tell them politely that has happened or do you call the sheriff and have them arrested and fined? Could be language you don’t want to hear or a face that looks at you with a leer. Do you have the where-with-all to say something on the spot or do you go to someone in authority and complain?

Always your choice to fix things right away, the right way, or make someone else screw it up and make everyone feel bad and even punished for a mistake. Civilization 101, courage to own up and courage to encourage. Do you really want someone else to do what’s right for you or can you handle it yourself. Every one wins when communication and contentedness is accomplished. The confrontational solution through another person can result in embracing shame and guilt. Self image problems.

We live in an unconnected and isolated time. Addicted to speed. If someone offends you in someway, do not be a grumbler but shake hands and talk. I try to take it to the Lord and He tells me how to lament hard things too, not to complain and as C.S. Lewis put it, to grumble until you become a grumble.

Taking my own advice, It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A. Forty Acres of Musicians, { Gators Grace Notes.com }

B. Bob Frank ‘I saw old Jones today ‘

Soaring

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

It’s an incredible photo from a walk close to our homestead. It prompts another deep region, even a place unnamed, and familiar. A perfect photo by my son of an Eagle, flying overhead and a gasp of purpose and life as viewed when Soren showed me the photo. The eagle had a glint in his eye and his claws were tucked in back, out of the air-stream. ‘Rotation, gear up’ A slight flash of light on his incredible beak and I shivered contemplating this aviator with talons and sharp, piercing beak. Danger close. it was flying into the wind, looking down. The intense stare at the camera and us, it told a story. A tale of life lived as a predator from the sky, silent and flying with irresistible death from above. No escape. No way to reason with the eagle. Can you envision a small animal, frozen in fear, unsure how to move.

I thought back to the fighter we saw launch from an aircraft carrier about 300 feet away. On the port side of our ship, a huge fleet Oiler, was Steaming at flank speed. Barely able to stay with the carrier. The oiler’s huge screws, making the aft mess deck thunder and shake. As it must do, the carrier had to maintain wind over the flight deck to help those fighters get airborne. The flight deck blast door up, engine at full, burning gallons of JP4 per second and suddenly, the fighter leaped down the deck, dropped a little off the bow and already had gear up and climbing. Awe inspiring at night ops. Rings of sonic disturbance coming off the engines fiery blast.

Steam swirling around the channel from the catapult, and the power heard of the fighter still climbing to watch over the battle group. Combat Air Patrol, CAP. Just like the eagle, deadly talons and loaded and armed. Looking for anything within range, anything moving where the fighter was, something that an enemies weapons radar would detect and cause terror for them. They are Now a target. A Hornet F16 fighter, armed with a tactical nuke under the wing, just in case it got ugly. A little vaporization reaches everybody.

Later that night, the enemy came near off the starboard and lit up our ship with their carbon arc searchlight and quickly dropped It’s missiles midships, right at me. I was on deck, headed aft for mid-rats. It didn’t look promising. We had 8 million gallons of various fuel in it’s huge belly, a tanker with puny three inch gun turrets on the bow and stern. The strong image of a flaming, roaring death with the sea covered with burning bunker oil. Basic training coming to mind on how to impossibly swim beneath the flames. All hands, battle stations. The 1MC in every compartment giving everyone the news, this NOT a drill.

It wasn’t a movie. Everyone saw the 02 or 03 level on the enemy ship, it’s radar turning around and around and the spotlight from it still steady on our bridge, blinding our helmsman and the combat information bridge, just above. Those missiles dropped from vertical incredibly fast with the sound of a double gauge pump shotgun.

Suddenly, the missiles went back vertical and the cruiser sharply veered off and disappeared into the dark sea at full speed. The F16 was there with the battle group, flying overhead, painting the enemy cruiser with it’s radar. Dropping out of the sky at Mach 1 and It had prepared it’s talons. The sound and sonic boom was heard clearly by everyone. Including the sailors on the Russian Frigate.

I was still alone on the long deck, still poised to go get midnight rations. I lost my appetite for anything available, good or bad. A narrow victory for our big fat slow tanker with friends in high places. The fear felt is still sharply felt after five decades. It was Just a bit more scary than a man with ill intent, coming it at you. Terrifying is the word. Saved by the glint in the eye of our Navy pilot. Ready for command from the carrier, a bit over the horizon, also with eyes on the Russian ship.

There is a bit of prose that Julie remembers while I wrote this memoir: “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint” Old truth, timeless and steady.

It’s very good news to everyone that understands the book of promise and freedom. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator

Sliding down the Brass Firepole

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

There was a swelling of pride in my dad. myself, in the firehouse, sliding down the brass pole he had come down so many times before. Seeing all the turn out gear below him, I made a few adjustments to my drop and came down right by Dad. It was an old brick firehouse in the cities. Located just south of ‘The projects’ and ancient by today’s standard.

A ticker tape in the office transmitted where the fire was and there was a very loud bell that rang to awaken the men upstairs and also signal how many alarms the fire was. Two or three rings meant a big one. Dad was a ‘smoke eater’. Apt nickname as this was way before Scott Air packs. The men just had some sort of filter box and a hose to a mask. Sort of like having a T Shirt on your face at a campfire. Not too effective. Many were the calls late at night to our home telling them Dad was in hospital again with smoke inhalation.

Like most city men who put their lives on the line, the firemen were hard drinkers. Sometimes they even drank with their brothers in arms, the cops. Rivalry and military barracks demeanor. There was already trouble brewing in the somewhat fashionable stucco home we lived in. I adored my dad, even though I would get ‘whipped’ now and then with a dowel rod from Dad’s basement workshop. Much later in life, I realized Dad loved him too. There were just too many half empty bottles in the joists above the basement shop that helped ease the pain of Dad’s life. One night there was a scream that woke everyone up. Dad had made a mistake with the gate on his table saw and cut off a couple of fingers. Another trip to the hospital for a firefighter. One of Dad’s good friends was a neurosurgeon and Dad got the fingers back. Working.

I got into Ham radio rather young, fifth grade. Dad, the old ladder climber, put up a “long wire” from the roof to a tree out on the boulevard. I contacted Russia one night and had my room’s south wall covered with QSL cards. Neighbors were a little prickly about the standing waves coming off of the antenna. Their Jackie Gleason program got scrambled. A few semi-polite knocks on the kitchen door from across the street. We could not change the antenna length or frequency so I stayed off the air for Gleason’s show.

We went up north to Wisconsin now and then. They built a cabin on Gull Lake and except for the resort next door, it was the only cabin on the lake. Fishing was pretty good and I would row out to the edge of the Lilly pads and using a popper on a fly rod, limit out on big sunfish and paper mouth’s. Twice a day. Lunch and supper. Papa was really good at cleaning fish. The owner of the Gull Lake Resort grilled them very well and I still love the sound of a swirl at the edge of a lilly pad.

My father taught me how to survive a fight and at fourteen I succeeded in knocking him out for a minute or two. Special move when grabbed from behind. All in all, we had a good time there in the woods. One time he sawed off an end of the ridgepole and it dropped down on my head. “Are you OK?” I was OK. It was a small end of a 2x 4. Norwegian head vs wood at 9.8 m/s ^ 2

A few years later, my mother had an affair with a city fireman that lived nearby. Different firehouse. There was a bit of a battle one night and soon after, dad came down from upstairs with his suitcase swinging. I ran into the bathroom and sobbed. My mother and sister were laughing with joy right outside the door. They didn’t know how much I loved him, they didn’t know this imperfect man like I did. The other fireman soon moved in and he wasn’t much fun. He smelled odd, he was fat and sexual towards sis and I. He didn’t belong in my life. Never did.

I found my father out in California after the Navy. My girlfriend and I were rescuing an old school bus for the West Bank Diocese in Minneapolis. They flew us out to San Francisco and I found the bus right where it died. Blown Piston. With a lot of help from my old Berkeley friend, Bil Wong. Master mechanic (where the bus was parked) we put a new piston in it.

Bil had the best laugh I have ever heard and we worked together up in that bus engine bay and underneath. Bil was part of the jaguar timing club in Berkeley when I lived there. That club always met at the very first Peet’s coffee house by circling the intersection, loudly. Fun roadsters for sure.

Ellen and I slept in the bus for a week. We changed the oil, put in fuel and drove off to San Diego to find my father. We found him in Rancho Bernardo. Classy neighborhood that was not pleased with an old green school bus that had the word FURTHER on the windshield destination panel. Hippie bus. My long hair the clincher.

Dad’s next door neighbor adjusted the valves while it was running! Stove-bolt 235 straight six. A retired GM factory mechanic that was astounding and tuned that engine till it just ticked over at idle. Smooth as new.

My father was overjoyed to see me and it went well. My girl friend, Ellen,had an old boyfriend in near by San Diego and he picked her up soon after for a visit. She came back very late and confessed to me, after I asked her if she slept With him. “Yes”Things were never quite the same between us.

At breakfast my father said as he looked me in the eye, “they all do that’. He also told me that I was to be the executor of his will. A result of that decision of his you can read about in “The chain saw and the trout stream”

The bus ran great all the way through the mountains and I had accomplished the assignment. Back to working on the section gang at the BN. I had to tell Ellen to leave soon after. However as usual, it was pretty good.

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator