writing

Song of Solomon

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It is a book that is either devoured or skipped. Misunderstood on the surface and dismissed with all those images of sheep teeth, pomegranate foreheads and couches and dark tents.

It is another book, written by the wise one, Solomon. He wasn’t just writing about worldly romance and the flesh longings. Why is it in the Bible anyway? It is there to show us who we should be, how we can see our time here as a great battle for our hearts. A battle against the world and it’s blindness’. A battle against our own weak love.

Solomon 8: 6-7 as a starting illumination. “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; For love is as strong as death, Jealousy as cruel as the grave, it’s flames are flames of fire, a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it. If a man would give for love all the wealth of his house, it would be utterly despised”

How about this line: “I am my beloved’s and his desire is toward me” There are many such allegories in this book and a lot of them have been dismissed as even pornographic or lusty. My oh my, again why would this be in scripture? In my limited study and instructions I have found Jesus in every book, every prophet, every word from Genesis to His revelation. Indeed He is mine and I am His. I have searched for him without even knowing who I was searching for. The ‘watchmen’ have beaten me as they did Him. I have indeed heard His voice right outside my door but I opened the door and there was no one there. I was blind and could not see but I could hear alright.

Think about these things in every book of scripture where Jesus is revealed time after time. Could this be yet another book of revelation? Of course. Jesus shows up and is given a tithe. The name given is Melchizedek. He shows up under that name a few times. Just to ‘prime the pump’ of man’s astonishment and wonder. The questions, the queries and the exegesis begins when ‘Mel’ shows up.

Another name of the reason for living, the creator of living and the totally righteous one. Moses asked who shall I tell sent me? “I am” Tell them that.

Actually, a beautiful song written by Misty Edwards uses the exact words of the song mentioned above that starts in Song of Solomon 8:6

Perhaps it is not comprehended by many but I learned it and it indeed, is a powerful image of truth. I am His and He is mine. Talk to Him without thinking of the next thing to say or proclaim. Yes, He is creator of anything that was made. Ask Him why he made you. He will tell you if you listen. I try to ask him questions, not “lift up” someone he made. He does the heavy lifting. He knows these things. Ask Him for faith and truth.

“When we pray for someone, He hears that prayer. He hears them all. When answered, we often have a tendency to rejoice that our prayers or many were the cause. When the event that we prayed for occurs, your prayer has always contributed to it. When the opposite event occurs your prayer has never been ignored; It has been heard, considered and refused, for your ultimate good and good of the whole universe. But this is, and must remain a matter of faith. You will, I think, only deceive yourself by trying to find special evidence for it in some cases more than in others. “ C.S Lewis

Regards, Jack Gator

photo is of the ‘cathedral in Trade Lake

Wisdom and Satire from Old

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Quotes from Andrew Arndt’s Mother

He is the security you seek in Money

He is the high you seek in Alcohol

He is the ecstasy you seek in sex

He is the health you seek in doctors

He is the song you seek in Music

He is the dance you seek in performance

He is the beauty you seek in traveling

He is the wisdom you seek in books

He is the peace you seek in worry

It is Jesus that you seek

Quotes from the Philosopher Diogenes

Alexander the Great was reported to have said, “Had I not been Alexander, I should have liked to be Diogenes.” Once, while Diogenes was sunning himself, Alexander came up to him and offered to grant him any request. “Stand out of my light,” he replied.

(There are many other references to this incident, principally Plutarch, Life of Alexander, XIV.1–5.)

When asked why he went about with a lamp in broad daylight, Diogenes confessed, “I am looking for an honest man.” Seeing a young man blush, he remarked that it was the complexion of virtue.

Why do people give to beggars, he was asked, but not to philosophers? “Because they think they may one day be lame or blind, but never expect that they will turn to philosophy.”

To a young man who complained that he was ill suited to study philosophy, Diogenes said “Why then do you live, if you do not care to live well?” Of grammarians, he was astonished that they desire to learn everything about the misfortunes of Odysseus but nothing about their own.

Of mathematicians, that they keep their eyes on the heavens and overlook what is at their feet. Of orators, that they speak of justice but never practice it.

When asked why he alone praised an indifferent harp player, Diogenes replied “because he plays the harp and does not steal.”

When asked what wine he found most pleasant to drink, Diogenes replied, “That for which other people pay.” 

Photo of G.K. Chesterton and his wife who I owe some of these compilations to.

The Best Advice, the Hardest to Do

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 2 Comments
Al Quie

Chuck Colson

There is a man that I trust. More than any other man I have ever met. I’ll tell you about him in a little bit. There is another man, I talk to him less often, but the trust bond is there as well. This other man tells the truth to people. How many of us have a job like that? Tough job, really. Lot’s of training involved, study, college and ‘ample’ on the job training as well. The part that may confuse you is that this man’s desire is to tell stories about the other man! Oh yes, truth is absolutely a job requirement for both men as well. Character, discernible, is a gateway into seeing these things. Usually, the eyes are the first indicator to character. You may do this without even knowing that you do so. Eyes that look into you as you look into them.

I have spent a lot of this life looking away, fearful of what I might see (or be seen.) You also know this without it being something you think about when you meet an old friend or are introduced to someone. When the eyes, portals into the mind are not giving information, I usually forget their name as soon as it is said. This may also due to short term memory function a bit lacking. There are tests for this, usually avoided if possible. Who would want a total stranger telling them they were old ten years ago. “get used to it”

The second man has a lot to say to me and often, in a room filled with others, I will notice an unease in some as what this man has to say is a bit disconcerting and perhaps even confusing to those of us not used to communicating deeply. Questions are raised, sometimes boldly seeking some other fine point of the this man’s spoken words. Good questions, even encouraged and I have questions but usually hold them back because I am aware of an awkwardness of focus to others.

I would rather be silent and let the talk by the second man sink in a bit deeper without a distraction of speaking aloud. There was a man that did this speaking better than anyone since. He is long gone from us unfortunately. His name was Jonathon Edwards. A standard to which most speakers of truth aim for. There was one ‘speech’ that Mr. Edwards delivered that was so powerful and so convicting that a room full of ordinary listeners fell on their faces. There really was no other response that could be made when hearing the most important and life changing truth for everyone within hearing. A long time has gone by since that original speech but it remains powerful, convicting and stunning still.

The bold and inescapable truth taught was how bad we really are, especially if we think we are OK and are pretty nice. Compared with ‘those people’ we are in the ‘swell’ zone if there is a measuring device that could do that. Actually, there is a ‘swell’ or ‘free of faults’ measurement and on the other side of the gauge: ‘Bad and Wicked’ There is a thumb on the scale however and surprisingly, it’s our thumb. I leave it to you reader to decide which measurement the scale defaults to. Every time.

The revelation of who is first man is now at hand. He has many names that are used by many people to address Him. Somehow all those names are powerful nouns and are recognized easily by people that have met Him. Some of them are: Yaweh, Lion of Judah, First and Last, Beautiful, Shiloh, King of Kings, Everlasting, I AM, Chief Cornerstone, Teacher, Dayspring, Son of Man, Prophet, Alpha and Omega, Bread of Life, Savior, Light of the world, The Word, Branch, Good Shepard, Jesus. Those are just a few of his names.

As an illustration of what the first man does for those of us who look to Him for help, I will use the story of Al Quie and Chuck Colson. Many of us remember Watergate and Mr. Colson was convicted of conspiracy. Minnesota Governor Quie, quoting an obscure law, offered to serve the remainder of Mr. Colson’s sentence. Chuck did not take him up on it. The offer was real. Look it up.

Quite a bit of time passed after that before the Al Quie center was built at Lino Lakes prison. It was for the prisoners there to study Jesus and hear sermons from dedicated men that wished to serve. I was part of this ministry and was always told to give a sermon on the wrath of God. It was hard for me and I suspected the ministry leader was giving me an honor to select me for the task. Think about teaching a room full of prisoners about wrath and judgment! A challenge for certain. I have finally found out about God and His wrath. We deserve it but the first man has taken it upon Himself. All of it, for all of us. Impossible we say, but it’s historical truth.

There are many incredible stories about this Man. No one is like this, no one will ever be like this again. Now I am flat out preaching and it feels good to do what my friend does for me.

“There is something going on and you don’t know what it is, do you, Mr. Jones?” Bob Dylan

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator

Sea Anchor

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

Moving through a hurricane, we had a sea anchor set. This anchor, set at the stern, is adrogue that gives a steady pull, deployed like a huge parachute dragging behind the ship.Steering into the oncoming waves at an angle to prevent being pushed sideways and the pull from the drogue preventing us from pitching forwards. (It’s called pitch poling in nautical terms.)

We had to keep steaming to punch through and keep adjusting the helm to enter another wavecoming at us. I was standing two decks above the main deck and the waves were thirty feetabove me. The ship had a big draft to the plimsoll line, so I figured 60 foot waves.

I watched the spray covering the bow back to the masts as we kept steady onward. I heard thatwe were in the ‘shadow’ of the island of Malta. The place where Paul the disciple was shipwrecked. A real place of peril for everyone. Right in the middle of the Mediterranean sea.

It occurred to me in afterthought as I was listening to a podcast was the phrase of being safe and secure as an Anchor was used, quite a few times. We had huge anchors and used them when we had to ‘anchor out’ at a seaport. Tied up at a dock, we used hawsers and fore and aft ‘spring lines’ to stay steady. Anchors kept us in one place of course. The anchor of my soul gives me the image of the sea anchor. Moving through my life with it’s usual storms and holding on as best I can and relying every time now with staying the course with the Lord’s sea anchor. Keeping me pointed straight through my life filled with peril and

my penchant to change course in rough places.“My anchor holds against the gale” Not to stop but keep pressing in to the goal. Don’t get off that true and righteous path.

“ The safest road to hell is the gradual one—the gentle slope, soft underfoot, with out sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts “ C.S. Lewis

Stay the course, He will hold you and guide you and give you peace. It’s pretty good and guaranteed.

Norm Peterson/ Jack Gator

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

A Pontiac Woody and the Minerva Chain

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

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

Our cabin was east of Danbury on Gull Lake. I handed tools up to dad as the roof rafters formed up. The end of the ridge pole was cut off and the chunk fell right on my head. I yelled up “I’m OK” and the work continued. It was a pretty small piece and surprising when it arrived.

It was exciting to be right there when the dream cabin was actually forming up. Dad was a city fireman and used to ladders. He built cabinets on his off times in our basement. Grandpa was a fireman too but he was too old and cranky to come up and help. Besides, Gramp’s didn’t like to fish like his son in law and grandson did.

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

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

Dad would scale and gut and lunch was served with the resort owners sharing in the bounty. Every decent day, morning and night was my job to row out and harvest white fleshed fish to be fried in butter. There was a camper that myself and my sister stayed in while the two men went into town at night and they stayed pretty late.

Sis told me later in life that she seduced me when we were alone. I am pretty foggy about that but it would explain my sisters reticence for friendship when we were older and with our children.

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

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

So we got the ‘big’ V hull boat loaded up with all the accoutrements. he always used artificial jigs and spoons, so no bait was needed. The red Daredevil was a favorite It was always exciting to motor up the channel between Gull and Minerva. That old Evinrude just putting along . There was no one around there. No other cabins, no other boats seen. After trolling for a while the motor was shut off and the waves it made were heard on the banks. Ten years later, it was big Navy fleet ships that made splashing noises too. Waves slapping the hull from the battle fleet and sometimes sounds from nearby shores were similar. I would be back in that small channel just like that.

Sounds do that for me. They are music that moves me as a masterpiece of any art can. The movie August Rush lines it out. Try a concerto directed by Jacob Collier in an Orchestra hall.

Wind and waves with shaking trees. Add the mix gas smoke and the vibration of the motor and you have orchestral surround sound. A loon now and then to add the high notes.

I love the sounds. Perfect. Dad’s smiles to remember when things got tough later on. In those early years, I thought a lot about those things, wondered where the fish came from and why it was so good to catch and eat them. I wondered why Dad smiled when they were together. Dad didn’t smile much back in the cities. I wonder about a lot of things as most of us do. It gets stronger when Wonder is manifested in our lives. The symphonies kettle drums and strong brass awaken us and our pulse matches the score.

Over five decades later I got some answers to some questions from Jesus, my friend who created me and all things. We do not think about the thoughts of young children and their questions of what and why. We are very complex and our thoughts on life itself are formed and dreamed about early in our lives. Children are wax recordings of life and can melt away if we don’t listen to those concertos when we think we are grown. I look for the wonder I had with my mouth smiling and my eyes staring at beauty while the music was all there. It’s not gone, the cacophony of life masks the concert.

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

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson /Jack Gator

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 ‘

Rebirth

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

We have all done these things. New curtains and carpets, out with the old and in with the new as the saying goes. It was with more than trepidation that a task came to the forefront of our lives. The ‘tearing down and rebuilding task. Two forty yard roll off dumpsters sort of thing. Nails and ancient dimension lumber. Insulation above that appeared to be cotton candy coated with mice having their own free wheeling toilet and dining areas.

All of it, the windows, sill plates and trusses. 30 by 40 or so. Fifty years ago it was old when I bought this farm in 1976. I drove up with the rental van and walked in the rain to the barn that faced the house. April fools day, 1976. All I could think of was to play my fiddle on some old bales of hay and look at the house through the open barn doors. First house, my best friend about ½ mile away and a mortgage through the GI loan. A life style remodel, boot camp haircuts sorts of things.

Two years later, I was on the bathroom throne and collapsed on the floor getting up. I could not rise. Excruciating pain. A slipped disk pressing nerves to my legs. I was able to crawl. I occupied my mind by reading old newspapers off the floor. Zippy the pinhead comics were distracting and pleasurable read. That worked for a few days and I began to go into a bit of a decline.

I survived by crawling into the kitchen and drinking the cat water. The black wall phone was unreachable. It was die or get help. I emptied my dresser and made a ramp and rolled onto the bed, There was a princess phone on the wall side of the bed. (not pink)

An ambulance ride and extensive traction gave me mobility. Spike mauls and shovels were a not an option and I ran out of ‘injury’ pay and had to sue the railroad for money to live. The settlement was very low and it would pay the VA loan for a year.

It seemed a good idea to open a repair shop for foreign vehicles! I had experienced many years of repairing engines and with my electronics background, it was plausible. Hand lapping a failed rod bearing in Omaha while under my truck was my diploma for repairing engines. Emery cloth looped around the journal. 100 strokes, turn the engine 90 degrees, repeat, 180, 270 and back to the top. 2 or 3 hours or so, Mic the journal. When it got close, I switched to fine and polished it up pretty good. Perfect oil pressure and never gave me trouble again. It took about 3 days. (The people that helped me were the ones I met on Motorcycle Pilgrimage 1). Amazing people. Their friends had a repair shop and they loaned me everything I needed. Even got me a ten thousands under set of rod shells!

Foreign cars was my niche. After all, there were at least a dozen foreign cars in the county. A kind and clever snap on dealer had me rebuild his 280Z engine for the tools it would take to do it. Micrometer, cylinder gauge, ridge reamer, cylinder hones, ring compressor, torque wrenches. It ran quite well and I was off and running and walking and bending quite well. That tool dealer spread the word and slowly, my business was created. An LLC was obtained and I named it Fine Tuning Auto.

Sliding wood doors and no heat with a somewhat usable floor and foundation. 30 x 40 feet. I was 30 and could do anything, just like my son to come. The barn and chicken coop and old silo foundation were gone soon, along with the summer kitchen later. Oak 2×4 boards that held nails strong enough for mild tornadic winds. A time lapse film would appear interesting. A friend built a chimney in the shop and wood heat helped in the winter.

There was a remnant of a barn on the adjoining property to the north and it had some nice old ‘barn wood’ left (most likely a remnant of the original owner of my land owned that 10 acres) I took that wood and paneled my kitchen with it. (The owner of that property said take what you want.) He came over frequently and was a farmer with a good sense of humor. Claire Melin.

50 years later, our house was completely remodeled but that barn wood is still on the wall. Akin to an old Ford 8N parked by the driveway we have all seen here and there. Fond memories that trigger us to the past.

As I have referred to some of these events in missives, they remain in that section of my mind located 3 ½ inches between my ears. Influential, pleasant in formation and now known as the path and road to redemption.

“Why did this happen? Why would a loving God make me go through this agony? We ALL ask these questions. Puzzled, we attempt to understand and perhaps even control the events of our lives that we cannot anticipate nor control, Since my conception (or perhaps even before) I was made for purposes that make sense, to me.

Here I am, with beauty and fulfillment surrounding my life. I think I have arrived here because of my Resistance and spectrum gift. Gifts indeed. I have tofinished well. It is all due to Him who made me, just to be here with His face turned towards me and giving me joy.

Now is the present and things are quite different. We just signed over the property to our youngest son that lives with us. Protecting the property from the possibility of a nursing home using to IRS to bleed us with $100 nail clipping funds and hot-dogs for lunch. Our son, Soren, is gifted in construction and mechanics. Naturally. He has excellent friends that help him with their labor as I did. Just making a ‘garden coral’, ( to protect the plants from the deer that have been corralled by nature here) and putting the place right in so many ways

I help as much as I can and so does Julie. I volunteer at church as does he and we have good friends to encourage us on our paths to the Blessed Assurance that guides us all. You know who that is. Jesus, Lord of all.

I know now that God does not have a plan, He is plan.

1. The series, Motor Cycle Pilgrimage 2, has details of Omaha friends @ Gatorsgracenotes.com

It’s pretty good Norm Peterson / Jack Gator