travel

Faithful lovers of Music

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

What a gift to have met and then be offered friendship with the beautiful ones. Living in the Forty Acres of musicians neighborhood, Norm found himself with room mates that still astonish him decades later.

Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson took me under their wing and taught me well about music and love. The romance of Kismet. Poets with guitars, a fiddle and a mandolin, Coleridge and Tennyson did not anticipate these two.

A gentleness with much laughter and brilliance. Together they astonished people coast to coast. The little coffee houses, the folk music cafe’s. Platforms and postage stamp stages. It was the same show every time. The musical score was different from place to place, but the humor and duet solidity was always the same. They got invited back all the time. It was a dance with romance that never grew old, for all of us and them too.

I was invited along on a road trip with them, way back in the early 70’s. That’s a bit over 50 years ago in the last century if you like doing math while reading. Small town colleges were a significant place to perform on the trip. From Indiana to Pennsylvania and then way up in northern New York state to finish off. Four of us in the old four door. Myself, Mike Cass on dobro and pedal steel and Bill and Judy. The trunk had a few small packs of personal “stage clothing” (no cowboy hats) and a few changes of underwear. The rest of the trunk was instrument cases lined up. Fender to fender with guitars, mandolins, a dobro, several fiddles and a pedal steel.

We ate at Campus’ lunchrooms (Wittenberg in Ohio was the best) and made do with sleeping quarters. Often the sleeping bags were used on the living room floors of the friendly families that arranged the bookings. No extra money for a motel. Airbub was not even a concept and hotels had good water pressure with room costs to match.

It was a grand time and music poured out like anointed oil upon this rag-tag quartet. Gas was cheap and the car didn’t use any oil either. There were tips from impromptu sidewalk venues and generous amounts of coffee and sandwiches from club owners. We ate well and for the most part, played well. Plenty of obscure folk and country blues songs that resonated with us and the young folks that go to those sorts of places.

When Bill was dying at the VA (he was fluent in Japanese. Hush hush military stuff) I stood on his right and Jim Tordoff, an excellent banjo player, stood on his left. We prayed and told him, if it works this way, we would like him to meet us when it’s our turn. Meet us with that Lloyd Loar Gibson with gold tuners.

We can then go worship the risen Lord forever together. Kiss the son indeed. We loved Bill and Judy, still do. It’s pretty good.

Norman Peterson / Jack Gator,

Warp Ten Scotty

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We have heard the command many times in ‘Star Trek’ for the Enterprise space craft to go as fast as it can to watch where no man has gone before, or to catch somebody that can almost go that velocity in outer space. The speed of light is a measurement as is a cut of precision in a 2 x 4. Measurements great and small are the concept of our minds. We measure everything we live with: “what time will you be here?” “How many of those do you need?” “How long will this trip take? (one minute driving, an hour walking as does my phone map app says) Incidentally, electricity and radio waves travel at the same velocity, speed of light. Why?

Why do we then measure, or try to measure the distance of stars? Because we want to put them all in our concept of time. Absurd lengths as the speed of light and the star group of Alpha Proxima is only four light years away! It’s the closest one to us, let’s get going and see what is around it, at 36 thousand miles per hour it will only take 78 thousand years! That’s where Voyageur is headed after leaving our solar system some time ago. It has a record of Chuck Berry’s ‘Johnny Be Good’ aboard. No record player though. If they get it it will only take four years for them to call us back via radio and ask us how to use it! Light and electrical waves travel at the same velocity. Who do you think set that up? Again, 186 thousand miles per second. Six times around earth in one second. Close to 2 seconds to the moon and back. Eight minutes for sun light to reach us. So when you see the sun it is actually 8 minutes past what you are seeing. It’s quite a distance when I think of those things. And that’s just our neighborhood.

There is research on a warp drive which is much akin to surfing (I surfed for the better part of a year at Hermosa Beach in California) You just ride the wave in an Alcuberre space craft which would only take 20 years! Of course, the space craft is a gram sized wafer. Theoretically of course. Smallish. Coach class only.

We do not understand infinity because we live and think in time. As Novatian stated in the third century (200 to 263 A.D.), “All our thoughts, will be less than He, all our loftiest utterances will be trivialities in comparison to Him”

Of course, being locked into time ourselves, we can’t really understand eternity (unless you are Stephen Hawking who is now dead, eternally) He tried to. We try when it is a convenient time in our comfy chairs or even listening to a sermon about the infinite God. We misuse that word infinite as it is convenient to bring eternity into our reasoning. “It took him infinite pains to paint that!” or “She had unlimited patience with her class” Really? Or as A.W. Tozer puts it, “ We say unlimited wealth or boundless energy” which for us is absurd and only applies to an infinite being.

I asked a question as I was flying over the East Coast, close to D.C. It was a clear night and I figured each street light represented two people. I saw lights all up and down the eastern seaboard. I asked our Lord. ‘How can you count every hair on our heads?’ “Easy He said, it’s a finite number”. Oh of course silly me. Enlightening and a very quick response to a fairly decent question.

Why do we do this with our words and thoughts? It’s a toss out in speech or writing to trivialize something we can’t understand. Whether we admit or not, everyone contemplates eternity and even the atheist states that they will be eternally dead as though eternity was a really long period of time.

One of my favorite songs is “Strong Love” and it has the lyrics to describe God as Neither height, nor depth nor length or width can separate us from His strong love” Rightly said. Closely sung and experienced, we are singing about four dimensions which, of course, include eternity. It’s fun to think about our eternal God while eating breakfast and reading one of my favorite books of Dr. Tozer. At some point (another measurement) I reach for my coffee and take a sip and contemplate the day’s schedule.

Much akin to a 20 amp circuit breaker in the gray box, my mind goes to a familiar place and things inside that box. A safer place. A place that has measurement in hours and days and even split seconds as hearing the micro-wave beep finish the now warmed fore mentioned cup of coffee. A place that the circuit breaker is allowed to safely trip and allow some ‘time’ to redirect concentration.

How about this riddle: ” What is always coming but never arrives?” Tomorrow.

So have fun with the Eternal Revenue Service that only asks for everything you are, everything you have and everything you think and believe. In turn, if you are truthful on your return form and are genuine in your giving everything, then our Lord will give you love and joy and eternal life. It’s pretty good.

Norm Peterson/ Jack Gator

Warranty

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We have all been there, done that and almost given up on it. I know I had a ten year warranty on that leaf-blower! Oh dear, I will look in my pile over on the desk, OK? Otherwise we can look on line. Could you get me the serial number? When did we get it and is there a model number on it?

Paperwork, endless claims sent to claims department where the phones are manned by well meaning people who don’t speak your language very well. An insurance claim has the same rigmarole with hidden clauses of abuse of product or subparagraph B. which states you have no claim if you are living in one of the following states: A state of exhaustion, bewilderment or confusion. Of course the warranty is a lifetime one, but whose lifetime is tit?

There is one warranty query that comes up often, throughout the world and the forms are quite direct and to the point. I wanted to check and make sure the warranty was OK so I inquired the maker. Name and model number. Norman Peterson, Human. Serial number, XY. Date warranty was issued, December 1970. Regular maintenance performed? Yes.

Amazingly, the warranty contract forms were issued about 1960 years ago and are still solid and in effect for anyone that ‘fills out the form’! You can find the warranty in books, on line or in small pamphlets often found in nightstands in hotel rooms. Your contract can start at any time. Payment for this all inclusive contract is to completely follow the maker’s instructions. Give up all thoughts and actions and give those things up to the manufacturer. He will gently give you directions on how to do so. This is not the fine print at the bottom, it has to be read over and over and there are supplemental readings that can help and assist you. There are also offices throughout the land where you can get encouragement and help.

The forms are more specific in the last chapters of the book which spell out the terms and conditions. They seem rather difficult the first time you read or hear about them. Complete and utter surrender of all assets, life holdings and your life itself! No other payment required.

You have probably guessed by now who honors the warranty. It’s pretty good actually, your make and model are warranted forever. Eternity. Actually your old model gets a complete overhaul and is made perfect when you move into the Arms of Jesus.

It will be good, feels right and the warranty is now eternal. If you understand what eternity is. The best I have read is a parable about pinwheels!

Spin one with all the colors and it will look white. Spin one with past, present and future and they will all look the same too. It’s a package deal. You also get to read a book that no one on earth has ever read! Every chapter is better than the one before.

I haven’t a clue. I’ve tried to understand a place with no time and filled with incredible beauty. And us. Would you care to view the warranty and guarantee? Let me know, I’ll help as best that I can.

It’s pretty good, Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Forty Years of Touring

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A musical career that started around 1962 when I hung around with a four piece right out of high school. The Fables. We lived right down the block from The Trash Men and it seemed like a good path to follow. I just played bongos at that time even though keys were my strength. The Trash Men’s big hit was ‘The bird is the word’

In basic training, San Diego, I joined the Blue jackets Choir and marched and sang with them all through basic. I then taught radio at the A school in San Diego. Sort of musical with morse code. One has to have a certain ‘swing’ and it is called ‘ A good fist’.

Next I was fresh out of the service and played at the Minneapolis YMCA for a youth gathering a few times a week. That time with my brand new Martin D-28 doing folk music. Peter Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, Joan Baez songs. Got engaged for a brief time too! I was disengaged abruptly due to the Guthrie Theater. Another story.

Soon afterwards I met a 12 string guitar player and toured to the west coast and back. We were calling ourselves “Actual Mexicans” and I wound up living in my truck out in the bay area and playing on the street. Mostly in front of my favorite Safeway grocery store.

Back in Minneapolis I did a few folk gigs on the West Bank at the Riverside Cafe and then toured with Hinkley and Larsen and Mike Cass through the upper Midwest and up the east coast to NY state. We played obscure tunes, some of them a bit risque. Bob Frank, Fraser and DeBolt, and homemade ones. Mostly blues and folk style.

In the famous jams with Peter Ostrushko, Stephan Grapelli and the Grateful Dead. I was offered a guitar job by Jerry Garcia. He liked my odd rhythm chops. The bay area summer of love bands are all dead, heroin. I declined his surprising and tempting offer. Read Motorcycle Pilgrimage 4 and 5 for more details

Off to live in Wisconsin on 30 acres and began playing with a country Western band, Dandelion Wine. Singing classics and playing guitar and fiddle. Bars, clubs, dances and weddings. It was 1976 when I moved to Trade Lake.

Years afterwards with that little farm and a delightful family I toured with Duck for the Oyster, a square dance band for years and even played in my own wedding with Bill Hinkley, Kevin McMullin, and Mary Dushane with our four fiddles for the wedding march. Fantastic wedding in Lewis, Wisconsin, at Seven Pines lodge where Julie and I worked serving meals and acting in mystery dinners. Similar to Colonel Mustard in the parlor with the candlestick sort of mysteries. Guests loved it.

I was on our families worship team, Well Spring and we went and played on the National Mall, sang at Times Square church, Madison, Milwaukee, Superior, and local church events as well as in our own created house of prayer in Frederic for four years every Thursday night.

There was a terrific guitar player, Jeff Warren, I played with at a local church, New life, for several years. Fiddle, Viola and Mandolin with him. And that was about it. I play a little at home and try to keep my ears and fingers working and adding our Cabinet grand to worship in our living room. That’s it for now as I am aging a bit after Otto Uno times around the sun.

I sing along with songs from my PC right next the piano and am satisfied with 40 years of touring. I now work for Eagle Brook Church in Video production and it is satisfying. Often I wonder why I do not get asked to play with some of the groups that I still come in contact with, impromptu gigs as well as posted ones in local coffee houses and the small town newspaper nearby. Protection from my Father. There is no room for old folk musicians that thrived on Bologna sandwiches, beer and applause. Good.

I believe it is the Lord and his Holy paint caravan showing me once again, A fool on the road to redemption (title of my upcoming book)1stprinting 1stbook for sale for $25,000 printing costs and editing costs

As usual, It’s pretty good. Norman Peterson / Jack Gator

Photo of Bill and Judy with thanks to The Prairie Home Companion

Photo below of Bruce Berglund, founder of Actual Mexicans band and my best friend

Clearing a Pathway to Shelter and Life

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It’s one of the farm chores in the winter. Looking towards the east of this photo is the barn. When we had horses and a few cows, a pathway would have be made from the driveway east about 150 feet or so. If the walk behind snowblower started. We always had a laugh about our snowblower that did not like to start when it was cold. The big snowblower for the driveway was not used for the path. Too many stumps and debris that were hard to see from the tractor seat. The walk behind would not be damaged bumping into such things. Nice and slow and closer to the ground.

The hose for filling the water trough would be laid out next to the path. When the trough was full, the hose which was set up on hooks that were screwed into the garden end posts. Then the hose would be blown out with the air hose from the shop which has a manifold to the water supply. Tedious work and the hose ran right across the parking lot and had a few damaged sections seen in the spring and had to be repaired. It was easier to see the leaks in winter and make note of them.

The chicken coop was next to the barn and of course, needed water as well. We sold the horses and ate the cows and the chicken coop is built on running gear. When a place is cleared nearer to the house it will be much easier to gather eggs and give them food and water. Meanwhile the water had to be taken in a wheelbarrow in summer when the hose and horses were gone. A declaration over breakfast “who’s going to water the chickens?” A brief summery which chickens were sharing a nest and how many eggs should be in it.

Farm life without a stand pipe in the barn. Labor or a lot of money to bury the water line. Which choice to make after cursory glances at the bank balance?

There are other paths that do not require snow blower attachments, or shovels and cups of coffee to accomplish. These are paths much more important than watering troughs or gardens in the spring. Paths for us every hour of our days till transformation to what we really are. We are created as eternal beings. All of us.

A place, a time and a decision can put a path in front of us. I made a decision on an address that had the first three numbers of my old Gibson mandolin as I walked by. 777. It seemed right and stunning. I kept walking into a church because of that sign. A guidepost for only myself that I trusted immediately. I Still go there.

I was walking out to the barn in the middle of a snowstorm and when I reached the barn, there was a white out of snow. The only way back home was to follow that water hose , or be lost. Trust in the creator of all things and He shows us how to walk out of the wilderness. I was lost and now am found.

The shelter He calls us to when we have a bale in each hand when the wind blows bitter and the shadows are dark A.

The architects of large buildings of every kind do not know how pathways are supposed to be built. They watch and look for wear and footprints of the people drawn or working there. Those paths tell them where to put sidewalks. They are called meander lines. No one gets lost in a blizzard there but it can be tedious to find doors if there are no direct walkways.

Be steady on your walk through life and look for that lifeline that is given by the spirit of the living God within you. It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A. Frederick Buechner

How Far, How Much Time?

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

As usual, I have a good amount of time to drive to my study or to rendezvous with my Son

and ride to where we work on Sunday mornings. It is a 25 mile drive for me Sunday morning and I leave around 5:15, leaving plenty of time. I drive under the state limit, 45 miles per hour. There are animals crossing, especially deer, and the stopping distance is adequate IF I pay attention. From our driveway exit to the main highway I see 2 to 6 deer lounging at the shoulder or prancing across. There is very little time to brake when one of those fall harvest animals are going full bore.

It works for safety and on a Sunday, there is very little traffic behind me. I can see headlights behind on Highway 87 and it is a game to see if they are getting closer by estimating distance and velocity. Sunday is casual but often, a vehicle comes up quickly and follows me at a close distance, after all, I am going under the speed limit. The dash gauges show me I am getting over 30 miles per gallon or more and I am on time.

At the next dotted center line, the following vehicle passes and often, leaves unburned hydrocarbons in it’s wake. Bad exhaust converter, and and faster then the double oxygen sensors can compensate and report it. You know the smell, and it isn’t a flat skunk ahead. Passing velocity in excess of 65 or so. Quickly to avoid the double yellow ahead. Or ignore it.

I shake my head and laugh when at the lower limit ahead, I am behind them and count the seconds behind. Fifteen or thirty perhaps. I see brake lights ahead, and they are still in sight. Why the rush? I remember velocities from research. If we drive at 60mph, 24 hours a day, every day, it would take 165 years to get to our sun. Probably, a few years less at 45 mph. Just in time to have a flamed out truck or car.

It’s now sunrise and time to get out the sunglasses. Another statistic, there are ten galaxies for each of us in the universe. Lot’s to look at another ‘time’ Myself, I want to ask our Lord to see the interior of a black hole or a super giant sun. Lots of time as there is no time in eternity. As I pray for the truck passing me I wonder when they cross the double yellow they may get to those 10 galaxies soon. Time means nothing to me then, I am on earth going 67,000 MPH and going on a roundabout of the sun that takes a year to get around. Mercury has a shorter time to get around, but the pavement and us would be ash in less than a second. An unpleasant place to be and Venus is further but the same issues arise. It’s a dump and I chuckle at terraforming talks.

We are living in a perfect place and mars is further out and another joke as it has a miniscule atmosphere and it’s a dump too. Check out our moon and see if you can spot the small used car we left there. It took a lot of money to make it and leave it there, but the price is cheap if you can afford AAA to tow it back for you.

I am getting the impression we are living in the only place possible and the only reason we are here is we were placed here by our God who is able to laugh at our talking about eternity as though it’s just a few big numbers and time and distance. Evolution is a child’s concept.

After all, 65 is the new 55 and it means nothing except if we are late for a very important date. “Rushing is not of the Devil, it is the devil”. He hates us and he hates eternity. I can only imagine what it would be like to spent eternity alone without our Lord. There is no roundabout and the atmosphere may be like Mercury, who knows, it might be there.

Anyone can go there and you don’t need a Saturn 5 booster set to do so. All that is needed is to dismiss reality and live for only yourself. I don’t want my neighbors land, I just want the land that is next to mine! Venus, the Greek Goddess of love might be just the ticket!

Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Islands of Reality

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I began to feel the undercurrent of life on Malta. It now reminds me of stories from ‘Jack’ about towns that are dreary but in vivid memory, stand out to once again astonish me. Real life.

Places that have no ‘eye appeal’ as hungry land realty people describe places and homes of no value to them. Only our limited impressions that puzzle us and them. Why would anyone live there with joy and smiles of satisfaction? Folks willing to help and extend hands of welcome when it seems poverty overwhelming is seen.

When Julie and I were bicycle touring the shores of the Great Lakes, we took a boat ride to an island in lake Huron, Mackinac (pronounced Mackinaw). Recently wedded we booked a fabulous hotel on that island that allows no motorized traffic. Perfect and quiet. Expensive. All of the hotels around the perimeter are almost castles. Nothing is heard through the open windows expect some wind and the clip clop of delivery wagons of milk and supplies.

Only a surprising motor sound of the turbines of the ferry twice a day. Delightful, being back on our farm with only the sounds of fishing boats on the lake over our hill. Waking up to breakfast prepared with linen and silverware arranged correctly downstairs. An expensive luxury we heard about and were enjoying.

Another hotel next to ours just as stunning akin to a multilayered wedding cake, perfect white siding and horse liveries waiting for riders around the perimeter. We decided to ride our Santana tandem bike around the nice road. Half a way around there was a road heading inland like slicing a pie in tow pieces. Irresistible and quiet with our bike we pedaled into a small village in the middle. Unassuming and welcome to strangers on a bicycle gazing at their town.

We were on a honeymoon of sorts and different. We were shown to a small tavern that had a one lane bowling alley. Set your own pins. It was fun and we talked truth. The people that lived there were the workers of the hotels and referred to themselves as islanders and we were cottagers. No linen settings and luxury king beds were there. Just honest and friendly working people as we were. More memories embossed. Commoners that sold clay pipes on Malta and worked for visitors as people do on islands throughout the worlds waters.

Those unforgettable memories are the best gifts given to us by the giver of all things. Guided by the gentle voice of the Son of God to hear and see life. Pause and listen to Him as the gentle whisper once again shows us that path to redemption of our souls. Beauty and love on that road that leads us to the middle of creation itself. It’s pretty good, Norm / Jack

Scrap Yard or a Junk Yard

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was hard to see, I did not know it would be so. I was looking up one of the Navy ships I served in and found it had been scrapped down south. There were a few photos of it and some of the steel that was salvaged and sold. I looked for a moment for the 02 level up by the bridge, a gun turret or maybe my porthole aft on the mess deck when I first reported on board. All gone except for a few guys like me that have memories of the old fleet oiler. It was one of three ships I served in and I imagine the other two have met similar fates.

Recently I went to a scrap yard about 20 miles away, looking for a part for a 25 year old Pickup that we bought from a good neighbor for a dollar. It didn’t run and the windshield is cracked. It needed some suspension parts, it still smells mousy and has a few quirks. I was now seeking a drivers seat belt assembly. It was torn and would not move through the metal belt loop up high. It would get caught when the door closed and it was unsightly and not as strong as it used to be. It appeared to be chewed on by a dog that was bored.

The scrap yard has been there for decades and is known by the other scrap yards as specializing in Ford vehicles. Perfect. I drive Fords. My first commuter car was a Ford that I drove every day for work at the Railroad section yard in Dinkytown Minneapolis. An easy commute from NW Wisconsin of 75 miles. Every day. It was a 1941 coupe and I put in a brand new engine before I moved up nort. That’s local lingo for north. “Hey you going up Nort this weekend or no?” It’s worldwide language quirks that identify our ethnicity. You know how it works eh.

So, off I drove to the scrap yard to see if a seat belt unit with retractor wheel was …somewhere. The owner and I roamed about and he knew where to look. It was a hard job to break loose those 20mm torx bolts and I could tell by the grunts and battery impact tools that it wasn’t going as well as hoped. Language pronouns and other crude exclamations came forth across the weeds and debris to where I was sitting on the tailgate. As I am a retired wrench wielding pro I know that hovering over a tough job is a non starter for fellowship.

It was out and we drove back in his old side by side with all the tools rattling in the little bed. How much I asked. “Twenty five bucks”. OK. I handed him a twenty and ten, got five in change and put the parts on the floor of the old Ford and motored home.

It was the wrong one. I got the year wrong. I had it right according to the door sticker but it was a year later build. That was a moot point as the retractor was stuck. Back to the scrap yard the next day and the search began again. The owner is astonishingly older than I. He was old ten years ago. We got on pretty good as I am ‘getting up there’ as the saying goes. This pleasant fellow was in the Enoch School yearbook.

This part was close to correct. The seat buckle was OK and the lower fastener was dinged up when it had to be cut out of the body with an electric whiz wheel. I asked him how much and the amount quoted was the same for the wrong one. “Twenty five bucks.” I looked and told him all I had was fourteen. He said, “OK, Fourteen then. I worked pretty hard on that job.”

I acknowledged his work and difficulty for the second visit. He looked at me, my rusty truck with the cracked windshield, and smiled put out his hand and we shook on it.I plan on returning once I get the folding money together and give him the remaining Eleven dollars he deserves.

It was a wreck of a place and there seemed to be acres of vehicles on the property. To a gear head like myself, it was pretty neat. His office had trophies from car shows made from stroked pistons and rods and many accouterments of the genre of car shows, formula 1 racing memorabilia. It was a glorious mess.

A few polite questions and we knew we had a mutual society of sorts. I met his wife who earlier gave me a cold water as I was admiring her patio flowers and wind chimes. I was relaxed in the dark Homeric shop as the Odyssey and the Iliad flowed by in the wind. The chimes nearby were the Siren’s call to comfort on the patio, but I stayed where I belonged.

I put the seat belt in yesterday and it works. It needed some tweaking to fit but it is OK.

Some illiterate people would call it a Junk Yard but that image is of cranes with claws and magnets. Piles of brake rotors and pyramids of squashed cars and refrigerators. Not old cars that had been yours or mine with weeds and trees growing near and in them.

The recycle generation embraces the concept of the scrap yard. Not in my back yard though. It got close when my shop had dead cars that people couldn’t afford to fix were parked in the lot. It’s a gentle slope, soft underfoot and with no warning signs that leads to the scrap yard. a.

Just ask around when you need that rear view mirror for your old 2CV Renault and someone will know someone that will put you on the scent of the right scrap yard. Adventures await.

It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

A. A ‘slightly’ modified quote from C.S. Lewis, ‘the great divorce’

See Eleven Dollars Short for the conclusion

What strategies do you use to increase comfort in your daily life?

Up the Coast to The old Lake Shore

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was a trip that many of us have taken. Perhaps quite a few times for some. Julie and I decided to go North and become relaxed by the worlds containment of a third of all the fresh water on the planet. Lake Superior.

We made a brief stop at the entryway to the North Shore, Canal Park in Duluth. It was a Thursday morning and there was hardly anyone around and parking was a breeze.

An automated parking meter had issues and would not finish its given task. We tried to talk sense into it but the last thing we tried worked. Like a vagrant with an attitude, it wanted money, folding money and not plastic money. I understood that as I was a street busker in ‘The City’. Before credit cards. Only cash or groceries were placed into my guitar case. If you have been to that California city you know where that is.

Square card processing is not a possible sometimes when you are sitting on a sidewalk in front of a parking meter.

There was limited entertainment from the meter and it was adamant about cash. It pulled in our dollar bills and was satisfied and permitted our car to be parked next to it for 4 hours. We went into the basement coffee shop and got coffees and scones and went up to the second floor to the violin shop.

Old friends own it and they repair and sell bow played stringed instruments. A tale was told by Chris, the owner, about the guitar shop on the same floor. An interesting character was there buying a 1920 Martin D28 guitar. He paid cash and stood out side the violin shop with the guitar in his left hand, leaning on the stair case balustrade with his right. No one paid any attention to him as Duluth is rife with odd men. Chris knew It was Willy Nelson who was in town for a gig and was unrecognized and not fawned over either. Willy finally just strolled down the stairs and out the building. Another busker in from the cold seeking treasure. We had no idea what he paid for that Rosewood Martin.

We left for highway 61 to go north. Another famous guitar player wrote a song about that highway. My mind was now peculating along with the lyrics that Bob Dylan wrote back a few years ago about Abraham and his son Isaac.

It was easy to find the cabin they would have for the better part of a week. The really good ones are on the east side of the road where the lake shore is.Forget about the three story mansions and hotels with widows walks and turrets and fantastic views. The quest we were on did not consider those things. It was easy to find the cabin’s gravel road and small sign after acquiring a smoked whitefish from Kendalls just up the road.

The cabin was as close to the shoreline as physically possible. About 25 feet or so and the same above. It was perfect. One room with everything you would need. Toaster, sink, king size bed, table. The civilized things.

Stunned by the almost exotic view, they got everything out of the trunk and made it home there. I made some toast and coffee right away and Julie went down the boulders to the shore. There was some wind and left over waves from somewhere and the crashing waves and foam worked their welcome. She build a campfire and I worked my way down on the big rocks,and with her guidance we settled in. There was a stairway we found later.

We slept with the window cracked and the heater cranked. Two quilts and a wool blanket and we were sound asleep as pillow rearranging was done. The crashing of the waves was a familiar sound to me from my Navy days. The oil on board below the ships compartments made rushing noises as the ship rolled at about 12 knots steaming. It is akin to an ocean beach sound but the regularity is the key. I was rocked to sleep on aboard the old WW II tanker with eight million gallons of bunker oil that was heated by the steam pipes just below deck. it made the compartments nice and warm in Decembers at sea. It was all there in my deep memory and I was asleep quickly. The waves never stopped all night and through the next morning. Storm surf.

A hot cup of coffee and the fingers of foam rising up from the black rocks below was mesmerizing and the anxiety of civilizations rush began to fade fast. Nothing to concern our self with as Eternities Eternal song called us away, calling us home.

Waves for thousands of years on those chiseled rocks. The centuries of time, rolling on and on. Wearing away our world one channel of rock in it’s own ways. It roars and leaps and then there is a passive swirling as the next impact swells up and in seconds, crashes again. Timeless and the soothing power of creation.

We will probably return to Bobs cabins when we hear the Lords gentle voice calling us to the North Shore of Superior for refreshment and reassurance again We rely on the Him for His wisdom and provision for these things. Indeed that time is a gift and a treasure locked in our memories. Forever.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson /Jack Gator

Trust

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Who do you trust? Have you ever trusted anyone with your life? It’s a wondrous release from fear! Quite some time ago, I was at sea. My ship was massive. Over 600 feet long, 35 feet from the plimsoll line to the keel, 30 feet high to where I was stationed. Pretty big beam too. Somewhere beyond 60 feet wide. Huge ship with two props and 8 million gallons of various fuels. Bunker oil, JP4 aviation, gasoline. An AO class fleet oiler, biggest in the fleet.

Late at night, down below laying on my bunk, I was rocked to sleep and the deck was warm. As the ship would take a slow roll, the oil below would move from port to starboard and back again. A gentle whoosh sound, much akin to the waves washing a beach. The oil was heated with steam pipes and remained very fluid, thus the warm deck. In winter sleep was achieved as soon as your eyes closed. Safe, secure and steaming towards a port over the horizon. In the middle of the sea. (When all land is unseen, you always seem to be in the middle of the ocean. )

Awakening with the CP4 announcement speaker lifted the delightful warmth and sounds quickly away. The high whistle of the bosun’s pipe was our only alarm clock followed by, “Reveille, reveille all hands turn to and trice up, sweepers, man your brooms full sweep-down fore and aft. The smoking lamp is lit in all authorized places. Now reveille, reveille” Obviously I have never forgotten that alarm clock.

I like the memory of the sound of the bosun’s pipe in my mind. As a musician, I harbor certain notes, forever. A quick sweep up with a slow drop back down. No one every figured out what a clean sweep down was. Something to do with old wood decked ships.

After a long time steaming, an illusion sometimes comes that the ship is standing still. There is a current streaming by the bow. Nothing changes, the pounding of the props and the flutter from the signal flags up on the 05 level. The water streaming by seems to be a big river, making the bow wave. It’s easier at night and you can see the fluorescent wake.

There is a powerful radar constantly circling above the third deck (03 level) and the signalmen who work up there are are told, if they ever want children, they are to stay away from that radar dish.

Danger came now and then to the huge ship in the form of other ships alongside. Hooked up with large hoses, often on each side. Pumping that fuel into their bunkers as everyone watched their heading and also moving as fast as possible to keep flight ops on the carrier beside them. The carrier was always on the port side (left). That nuclear powered carrier loafing along while our ship was at flank speed and the mess decks would shake in the stern when our powerful props broke the surface.

Once, when the ship was refueling a carrier on the port, and a ‘tin can’ (destroyer) on the right, a fishing boat came in sight dead ahead. Three huge ships, incapable of quick turning with all the hoses and rigging, we just came at that boat at flank speed. That boat passed between us and the destroyer, bouncing side to side and It just spit out at the wake of the ships. It was still afloat with what seemed like a dazed fisherman gazing back at those three huge ships just moving away from him. He was blessed, that’s certain. What a story back at Ville’ France, the fishing boats home port.

There were no ‘fiddle rails’ on the mess deck tables, so the men would put four slices of bread under their trays and then keep their food on the table. Extra work for the baker who’s oven was too hot. Way Soft bread. Norm had to explain when the lieutenant in charge of the mess deck asked him rather briskly why he took the bread just to toss it away. The galley window had a garbage can filled with bread. “Everyone does it Sir, it holds your tray from sliding off to the deck.” ‘Oh, I see’ said the LT. Not too much later, the oven got repaired the bread was pretty good. Then in rough seas, the clatter of an aluminum tray would occasionally ring out along with good humored laughter.

In the midst of a cruise, the big oiler became engulfed in a hurricane. Reeling and rocking with waves seen high above the second deck where our radio division worked. That’s about thirty feet over the water. Craning their necks, the guys in the communication division figured the waves were at least another thirty feet above them.

All hands were then in the skills of the captain and the navigator/quartermaster above, on the bridge. I was afraid and suddenly realized I trusted the old, crusty captain and my fear and worry were unnecessary. Would it help to be worried? Released from my fear, myself and my mates had a contest see which one of them would lean closest to the deck with their pea coats open and catching the wind. I won with a good 30+ degrees before I hit the deck.

Meanwhile, the deck apes were down below the main deck which was open with railings. They had secured themselves with small stuff (Navy jargon for what we call ropes) and they were just washing around down there having fun in their own way. Crazy. Another way to deal with fear.

Now, later in life, I put my trust in the Creator of my soul, King and Rescuer. It took me quite some time to realize, once again, my life was known and protected by our Captain. The course is laid in and station keeping true. Faith and trust and our Captain’s love takes the fear away. He always takes time to tell us that He will never leave us. He is for us, not against us. He is for you, He is for you.

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator