There I was, Camera 2 on a tripod mounted at Front of House. Instructed over my head com to push in with the lens and get a closer view of the electric guitar on the left side of the platform.
What a sound! The number 4 camera got a really nice shot and the director kept that shot on the side screens and lobby screens for a LONG time as Troy played the song. ..” I see creatures all around you, thunders and lightnings” of the Revelation song. It was loud, wicked and over the top” You could see troy with his famous grin, enjoying the worship with a heart filled with adoration. He was having too much fun.
The steam powered Bigsby bar sound coupled with a metal finger slide brought the house down and suddenly, there was a loud scream from the front of the room: “I’ve been washed!”
She was dancing and leaping about and kept her hand over her heart and security just stood there amazed, stunned and reassured that the Holy Spirit was in full force in the room and in them. A thousand people or more just filled with Joy they never experienced nor expected.
We got it all and the simulcast went all over the world. Things began to happen in England, Poland, Australia and other places too fast to type down off the internet feed. It was glorious. The room began a conga line up and down the aisles, laughing and enjoying the joy that spread throughout…everywhere. “Holy, Holy is the Lord God almighty” was heard six times every second around the world. The speed of light is like that. Fast.
There was a sea of glass in all skies, blazing and the man with eyes of fire replaced the sun and moon and called us to join him in rapture. Forever. It was pretty good! Norm Peterson / JackGator
Many thanks to Mitch Teemley for capturing the picture of the guitar
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
In order to prove the theory of gravitation which is linked with the resonance of particulars, a linear accelerator the size of a galaxy would be needed. That would take quite a government grant. Another quote: “..it all depends on exactly what you call gravity” or, “ will we ever know the real nature of space and time?”
We Have a swell free magazine operation in our small town. Early or late, 24 hours open is the library magazine drop off . (It is the place where I met the ‘North Dakota Drifter’) I stopped on my way to an early morning swim, stopped at the library’s heated atrium with a small bench and deposit slots for media and books. On the bench cardboard magazine contribution box I found several magazines of interest. One of them in particular that had an article speculating on the beginning of space and time. There is some disagreement among the research and the most popular version involves a fantastic theorem. Well researched and well written too.
Roughly the theory speculates that both space and time emerged from the structure and behavior of more basic components of nature. It is often referred to as “The theory of everything” This might be the analysis that the Monte Python movie was inspired by. Hyper pan dimensional mice are responsible for creation is that theory. Quite close to the article in Scientific American actually.
Suddenly, in the midst of this complex article the “Big Bang” gets brought into the playground. OK, here is the summary in the article. String Theory: “It’s eponymous strings are the fundamental constituents of matter and energy, giving rise to myriad fundamental subatomic particles at particle accelerators around the world.”
That’s pretty basic stuff and it goes on from there. If you are a nuclear physicist, this is just the credits before the main attraction. Sort of like the disclaimer in action movies that state all names, places and people are fictional and bear no resemblance to real ones. It is very entertaining if you like to go to those sorts of movies. And of course, we have to add Star Trek nomenclature into the thesis with black holes. Not the ones at the on ramp to highway 8. Those holes can take you where you have never gone before. Places like Jay Austin’s Auto sales and service. ( ‘Flywheel movie by Alex Kendrick )
Seriously, there is more with diagrams of resonance to particles galaxies away. Now they are getting somewhat closer. Science fiction such as “Out of the silent planet” or ‘Perelandra’ by C.S. Lewis are more entertaining with the precepts given in those books. Try ‘Life, the universe and everything’ by Douglas Adams. There is even a movie made out of that one. Hitchhikers guide to the Galaxy.
I recommend you to to meditate on Joshua’s adventure. The battle of Jericho and the nation of Israel’s victory spun out by a prostitute that gives refuge to Jewish spies and she turns out to be directly of the lineage of King David. And of course, Jesus Christ’s family. Nice impossible plan. God does not have a plan, He is plan.
I am looking forward to those wonderful revelations revealed. Perhaps, as I speculated in one of my columns, ‘The watchmaker in Paradise’ (published October 27th2021)
We have no idea what we will encounter in a place indeed without time or the universe as we see or imagine it is. This thought ‘string’ is perhaps what all these brilliant physicists are searching for. Desperately searching for anything to explain how and why we are here, or what here is.How there is a mind that created me and you and all that we are and will be. After all, the brilliance of scientists ends at the endorsement of the theory of ‘The big bang’ a popular view that takes God out of the creation. Perhaps some scientist will actually believe that they can create life from elements of our earth or discover life in our own backyard of the solar system. The challenge to create life from dirt is you have to get your own dirt. Evolution does not compute at all. My eye could not possibly be built by waiting billions of years for eyes to ‘evolve’ As in the article of string theory it could be said, “Get your own string” The most basic thoughts from children is “If there was a big bang, where did it come from and who lit the fuse?”
Three words can describe our existence and they are written down in an incredible book. “In the beginning..” Is anything impossible to the eternal God that was not created that can spend an eternity with just you or me?
“Eternity’s Eternity is calling me away, calling me home” 1.
As goes a saying, especially in a novel by George MacDonald (At the back of the North Wind), the window in our hearts has to be open for change to enter. Of course, the change has to be done by Adonni. The man of no reputation, the healer and the Abba Father. More on that later.
I used to think that the window was the focus, as could be interpreted in the novel. After all, the North Wind says it isn’t A window, it was Her window. The Holy Spirit’s window.
If the cleanliness of the window was the issue, it would not be good. My heart especially. If you have read a few of these columns over the last few years, you know a bit of my life. Not very sociable is a light term. Speaking of which, another column more recently addressed that issue. Especially church attenders and faithful ones too. Open Windows.
This column is dedicated to the folks that have been attending church for some time, some even since childhood. Deacons, leaders and elders too, attentive and a lot of times, complimenting the Pastor/speaker on their talk. Just say ‘thanks, I needed that’. It’s good, don’t misunderstand me. As had been said by my very closest friend, Julie, “don’t take condemnation”Pay attention to what I am saying without judgment please. It works to think beyond our image of ourselves. Growing up is better and preferred. It’s hard and often embarrassing. We all need to grow, constantly. It’s why we listen.
All this illuminating about scripture can be rather distracting if we are not paying attention to the complete conviction and the very passionate person standing in front of you,saying these important things. It’s not a college lecture on philosophy or metaphysics. It’s not the old Greek style of a famous orator. Taking notes is very good, I do that too. The notes are not the passion. They are to be read now and then. After all , you wrote them for that reason! Just as in school you wrote crib notes for the coming exams. The thoughts of those notes return
‘Watch, look and listen’ just as at a railroad crossing is good advice. If we don’t, it’s easy to get distracted by the speeding train in our minds. “I wonder what’s for lunch?” “That gal I saw in the lobby certainly caught my eye till I remembered God’s word on that!” the worst one for me is “I wonder when church will be over, I’ve got to get some shopping done”
We must open our hearts to what is being said, don’t concern yourself about schedules and perhaps about the dirt on your ‘window’. Throw up the sash and let that cool breeze into your heart. When you start to weep, that is the first sign of successful communication and often, astonishment. Those besides you may ask, “What’s wrong!” The correct answer from me is: “these are tears of joy! I cry at great music too”
A word of caution! Don’t wipe your eyes, just get the run off. Tears are good for you. The Lord says he treasures them for grief and this grief is real. It’s conviction for how short our arrows fall when we think we are making a bulls eye with our life. The voice you hear goes way beyond the speaker in front of you.
Let the transformation begin when our dirty window is even slightly open. It isn’t a window per se, It’s just our guard we have developed to protect our damage and disappointments. Filthy windows, and hard to see into as well. We know the dirt and smudges and they mean nothing to who we are. We are created as one of a kind, a miracle of incredible complexity and unique potential. Throw open the sash and indeed, the tears will flow when truth is heard. We don’t usually hear truth about ourselves supernaturally. It’s pretty good. Norm / Jack
I was curious. There was a noise about a mile away, maybe two that was irritating me. A noise like a Chinese water torture. A machine emitting the beep beep beep as it backed up. Over and over, all summer and fall and now approaching winter. None of my family was irritated, but I heard a constant A above C wherever I was working on the ranch. Over and over for months and finally it was time to find the source. Perhaps a bobcat or Track Hoe building a road or parking lot. Big parking lot.
Finally, the last wheelbarrow of dry firewood was stacked on the porch and I had it. I got into the old Ranger and drove to the noise. Backtracked once but found the source. There is a road that goes off the main highway to a gated housing community. New homes. Gravel road. Gator drove up to the gate which was open. An electrically operated gate. There was a new road punched through the woods covered with #3 coarse rock for a short distance. I could hear the beep beep and knew it was the source area. I began walking up after shutting off the truck with it in reverse gear selected.
Realizing I might look out of place, I grabbed a couple of papers out of the glove box. Looking like an inspector of sorts as I walked up the wobbly rock. There was a parked truck just up ahead. It wasn’t bad going until I got past the truck. Then wet clay with puddles. Nope, too mucky.
Nothing within sight, curiosity somewhat satisfied, I started back to the truck. No truck. What! I looked left and right for it and rounding the corner, saw the truck. It was parked in a ditch on the wrong side of the road. A rather steep ditch and walking up to it, I found the ditch as ‘a bit wet’. Truck was ok, started but just spun the wheels (not 4wd). Suddenly a young man up on the hill at the only home on the road so far, called out to him and said he could help. A tractor started and began to warm up in a shop and the young man walked down his driveway with a canvas tow strap and chain attached.
Astonished, I immediately got down on the wet ground and hooked the strap to a convenient tow hook on the front of the Ranger. The strap was of a perfect length and shortly, down the driveway came a nice sized New Holland 4wd tractor. Gator easily hooked the hook to a small length of chain on the top of the bucket. A nod and thumbs up from the driver, back to the Ranger and the tractor pulled me out to the road. I crawled back under the front end of the truck (now with wet pants but not in 2 inches of water) got the strap off and the young man came off the seat of the tractor. He had a lit cigarette and I asked him for a smoke. Standing there with the crisis over, I was back in the military when only a smoke would do to relax. I have not smoked for decades but it is the thing to do when your life has been saved.
Several cars drove by, high end cars without a glance in their direction. Nice Mercedes’. A few minutes earlier, there would have been a serious problem. A sixty thousand dollar car with an old Ford rolling backwards across the road. I must have missed the last quarter of an inch engaging reverse or perhaps it just popped out from the strain of the steep road. The parking brake cables had long ago broken and if you are familiar with rear drum brakes, the repair is not fun, expensive and who needs parking brakes anyway? We never think those are also referred to as emergency brakes. I didn’t, I do now.
It was amazing and impossible. Shaking and humbled, I drove home, thanking the Lord over and over for His protection and help.
My expotition (family word from wind in the willows) was successful as my rescuer filled me in on the development project. It was a driveway to a sold winery that overlooked Little Trade Lake. A good friend and neighbor that lives on the lake, Rick, the was pleased as this turn of events. The winery had numerous parties that echoed over the lake waters late at night.
We could hear those parties now and then, but high above the water with amplified acoustics, it was over the top for our friend Rick. Of course, as a small bonus, lake development in rural America is funding a large amount of township taxes. I lived in the ‘cities’ most of my life and can comprehend the quiet of rural lake cabins. Mostly quiet. Now it’s power bass boats and jet riders but only on the weekends that are warm. As a pleasant sound, those weekends are sprinkled with kids laughing and sporting their parents side by side ‘golf carts’ up and down our road. It has to be an incredible feeling of freedom for them and does not irritate me at all. Just the incessant beep beep backup alarm on a bobcat. For months.
We disconnected that on Rick’s bobcat a long time ago when we serviced and used it. No one has gotten run over yet.
There it was, so fleeting perhaps and gone quickly. So many moments in our lives that stun us that we cannot reproduce. The fragrance of a smile in the midst of a ferocious storm or a measure of music that was perfect, even in a recording cannot reproduce the moment you heard it. A memory of beauty is not the moment it was seen or heard or even smelled. A farmer working his field with the music of his machines. A hummingbird, dancing in the lilac bush just outside the window that I opened. The sound of It’s wings, the sight of the bird going back and forth, dancing for his mate just inches before him. Exciting, unexpected and so intimate that I had to sit on our bed and thank my creator for that gift.
The beauty of paintings that come close is a slight opening to the painters grasp of a face. The Mona Lisa of Leonardo described by Vesardi :”There was a smile so pleasing that it was more divine than human” As I meandered in the halls of the Vatican almost sixty years ago, I was silent and amazed at the masterful paintings, the priceless paintings that came close. They made me long for the painters mind and visions that he tried to capture. Beauty close but not all of it. The smell of the oils, the touch of the brush on canvas and the gift to see what conveys some of the experience.
Later in my life there are moment’s still strong in my memory of desert sunsets. The sound and motion of lying in my bunk at sea, rocked to sleep with the rush of the warm bunker oil beneath the deck. Describing it can invoke memory but it is not being there. Beauty and comfort in a war.
The sound of laughter and an overwhelming partnership between a couple next to me. We were playing and singing in upstate New York, Cafe Leena near Saratoga . I was with Bill Hinkley and Judy Larson on my left. The song was obscure but the music swirled about them. Judy’s laugh and Bill’s smile created beauty for eternity.
A small storefront in Northwest Wisconsin that my family had transformed into a place of musical worship was beautiful. To the family, remembering years afterward of those moments of unity indescribable. We all played and sang together in the evenings. The small, hand painted sign over the sidewalk, hanging from the awning is gone. (Recently, that prayer room has been turned into a tattoo parlor.)
When we were there, the Pioneer bar that gave free internet to us through the brick walls. It burned badly years after we left and that bar looked like it got the wrong end of a 105 mm. Next to the burned bar building was a closed bakery storefront. No small tables with good breakfasts and glass cases displaying the sugary delights. All memories that cannot be captured with photos, smells or conversation. No more pedestrians walking out with with white bags of donuts. Those memories are stored away within and are precious.
As I edit this, the bar is being rebuilt, with the bakery part of it. A common plaza shared by them offers me a vision of sitting there with a crafted beer and a donut, enjoying the new view and ‘sus’ the ambiance of a rebirth. Worship music on the jukebox perhaps? God does interesting things.
The sighing of the wind through a tree top, the sudden smell of flowers as my son rides by on his opposed transverse 4 cylinder Honda. The sound of the power coupled with that wind. Where does it come from and where does it go? That is an old question asked by Jesus to Nicodemus. No isobars and satellite images that guess at where the breath of God comes and goes. Nicodemus could not answer that question either. Can you? As the song goes, “This is the air I breathe”
A combined beauty of things seen, felt and smelled that cannot be captured to enjoy again. Fleeting and a glimpse of eternity. Our memories are reminders but not the real moments, of stunning beauty
My navy best friend Chuck told me about it in five words. “It’s better than you said!” He said those words appearing to me just as he died several thousand miles away. Another memory, strong, stunning and indescribable. I do wonder what I said when I visited him. We grasp the wind and paint with our camera’s lens, beauty heard and seen.
“At the family burial plot, all the people I have ever known are buried there—the bouncing boy, my mothers pride, the pimply boy and secret sensualist; the reluctant military man; the beholder at dawn through the hospital glass of my first born child. All these selves I was I am no longer, not even the bodies they wore are my body any longer, and although when I try, I can remember scraps and pieces about them, I can no longer remember what it felt like to live inside their skin. Yet they live inside my skin to this day, they are buried in me somewhere, ghosts that certain songs, tastes, smells, sights, tricks of weather can raise, and although I am not the same as they, I am not different either because their having been then is responsible for my being now.” Frederic Buechner: ‘The Alphabet of Grace‘
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. 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 to finish as an Asberger child must. I have finished well. It is all due to Him who made me, just to be here with His face turned towards me and giving me joy.
I know now that God does not have a plan, He is plan. As one of my favorite quotes goes:
“Time itself wanted to die with You” Mark Batterson
There is a special quality to working alongside a son. Here I am with Soren, our youngest son and He is completely reconstructing my old shop. This photo was taken as we were both mildly bleeding from the usual construction hazards. Or, in this case, deconstruction before construction.
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. 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. I was so nonplussed that I went to the old log barn and brought our my fiddle and played it. April 1, 1976 and I had just arrived with a moving van. In the rain.
A few years later after loosing my track worker job due to a back injury, it seemed a good idea to open a repair shop for foreign vehicles. After all, there were at least a dozen of them in the county. A kind and clever snap on dealer had me rebuild his 280Z for the tools it would take to do it. It ran quite well and I was off and running. 1979 and I should have a plaque, it’s there inside and doesn’t hang on the wall. It dangles about 3 and a half inches between my ears. Memory.
Sliding wood doors and no heat with a somewhat usable floor and foundation.30 x 40. 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 much later. Oak 2×4 boards that held nails strong enough for mild tornadic winds. A time lapse film would appear interesting.
There isn’t much of it left in this photo. The floor and the Brick were left a few days after this
photo. Small injuries were the norm for all the family and friends that helped. Nails, metal siding and roofing, splinters from 75 year old dimension lumber. I was the only one that got nailed with a falling black walnut as I worked outside gathering those green tennis balls off of the ground.
Prep work. Building the trusses and putting up the walls and gently hoisting them onto them. As I write this, the rear you see is ¾ done with wiring and roof steel to do. Then inside walls and some shelving for all the shop sorts of things. Chemicals, parts and screws and bolts. Things all shops have in abundance. Possibly a new bench and a place for the freezers filled with venison.
Last night we pushed in the pile of inside particle board and after that goes up, the freezers go back. somewhere and the hoist is then clear for our car’s oil change and other chores. First is the install of the new hydraulics for the Kubota tractor and attendant bucket to complete the outside roof and siding. Getting closer to winter! Below freezing tonight here in the NW of Wisconsin and today, also bring up firewood to the rack on the porch for the parlor stove.
Fun, fun, fun till daddy takes the earth tilting it’s way from the sun. The design of a master creator to give us seasons of growth and hibernation, Heat to grow and snow to slow things down. Not withstanding the hydraulic snow blower on the tractor installation.
Rakes for shovels as the glory of creation gives us all another trip around the sun. 81 times around for me, how about you? Norm/Jack
One of those jobs to clean up the closing of a lifetime. It was a gardening day and the weather was pretty good except for the mosquitoes and expected tick removals. A bit of weed removal with the swell DeWalt battery powered weed whacker with four .40 ‘strings’ on the business end. Culvert, dandelions in the garden. Usual mess of doing things the lawnmowers cannot do. Tipped the business end just so to utterly destroy the pokey plants and the dandelions. I took the weed whip and put it in the pick up. It was nowthe time to do that delayed chore on the township road up ¼ mile from the mailbox.
It was time to remove the old sign for the shop. The really nice one put in when the boys were young and the sign bright and visible. A sign donated from the local parts supplier and put up with a sticker from the county on the back that made it official, it was just far enough from the private field and close enough to be seen with an arrow pointing down Lakewood drive to our sign at the beginning of our driveway. Fine Tuning Automotive Repair also on a big black metal pole. The road sign was a beauty decades ago. Now the wind and weather had taken their toll. Part of it was torn and the words and arrow sort of visible. The sign at the driveway is still there. We had an Eggs for sale on it for a while.
The shop had been closed less than a year after my best worker, really a son, had so little good work, that financially it closed. Excuses flowed from me and about technology difficulties in the automotive field. Financial updates, recession in the country. Reasonable excuses. That loved and faithful worker lost interest and the cash flow was less than a good job as working as a machinist in a local business. A good decision for good work that a talented metal manipulator and machine tool worker could do.
Decades before that time, I ran the shop by myself since the late 70’s and it was enough for our small family to survive on. Our new man who lived with us, ran it for a few more years after I had a period of seizures and was aging into my 70’s.
Big jobs, as before, were the meat and potatoes of income. Engine rebuilding, brakes and suspension problems. The reputation of my shop was electronic diagnosis and repair. When I began the business as a ham radio guy, I was not afraid of wires and electronics. The business grew and after a while, I doubled the building size. The old wood stove was replaced with modern waste oil furnaces and the sliding wood doors upgraded to real ones with electtic openers. Things like that. The electronic tools increased and technology did too. Check engine lights came on and hardly anyone knew what to do to put that light out with the accompanying loss of performance.
The reputation of my shop was solid and drew customers by word of mouth without much of an advertising budget. Customers from other counties and restorations now and then for thousands of dollars.
It was closed now and our friend who lived with us for years was getting ready to move away to a different life with his new life and newly wed wife. They left and took everything that was his contribution to the repair tools. Even an Led light bulb in a ceiling fixture his distant dad gave him. Understandable nostalgia. They moved to his Dad’s place, 35 miles away. There was no reason to stay and his Dad needed him there. It made sense but still was hard to see them go. They don’t see each other anymore. The memories of their times together are vivid. Worshiping with him on piano, my son on drums, Julie and I also singing and myself on viola and violin. oddly, there was no communication from him and his wife and it was hard. The big Bumper to Bumper lighted sign on the front was still there but the fluorescent lights had long been out. The parking lot started emptying out and the land line was canceled after a brief message of the shop going out of business.
The shop was still warm and my tools were still there. My youngest son, Soren, and I worked on the family machinery and there are no more tow trucks arriving at night with ’emergency repairs. Often vehicles that had not been running for a year or so. The emergency was that vehicle was now needed by the owners
So I unbolted the road sign after gardening and put the battered pieces in the truck bed. I then drove up to the local big dairy tourist shop for a bottle of Merlot wine. I could not get out of the truck. The Minnesota license plates kept rolling in and rolling out with ice cream cones and fresh cheese curds in hand.
I could not get out of the truck. I felt like I was driving a hearse and there was a body in the truck bed. More than the phone goodbye message, more than the big empty parking lot, more than the absence of our close friend and his wife. The loss and the finality fell inside me and the death of Fine Tuning was final. I took the sign to the metal scrap yard the next week and the burial was done. Some tears inside the old Ford Ranger as the tourists came and went. After a time of mourning it was time to move on and get things done at the dairy. A few pleasant words with the wine tasting gal and a sip of good wine from her and a bottle of Merlot, it was time to head home. The spring tourists had snapped up the fresh cheese curds.
The body in the bed was now quiet and the familiar farms and homes on the country and township roads were seen as stable and unchanged. A few new names can be seen on some of the mailboxes. I still see the one with the front door blocked by missing stairs. Home again for the Friday Shabbatt and the sign, dead in the truck bed, acknowledged by Julie and she understood my sudden grief. The morels, asparagus with the good Merlot were delicious.
Years later our son who began supporting us, started the complete remodel of the shop. Removing the customer counter and many of the bolted on tools and workbenches and pulling down the ceiling in the old back shop. It all went into a 20 foot long roll off and a borrowed bobcat hauled a lot of blown in insulation and panels out to that roll off. New trusses and panels, rewiring all the ancient stuff that was there from 50+ years ago when I moved to the farm. A new roof and siding. A propane furnace that is now required by our insurance company and all the things that need updating on a massive project. I helped, at 81 now, slower but able to haul branches and tree parts that had somehow appeared at the back of the shop. We had removed the huge totes parked there that held the waste oil and sold them and the furnace. Now was the time to get the debris removed. The roll off delivery driver bought the lighted sign for his man cave! He even helped to remove it. Four foot square sign up about 12 feet on the front of the shop. The wasps had made a weather proof home there and had to be evicted.
I was pleased with the transformation and all the new space for our machinery, boat and the still useful tool boxes and attendant bigger tools. 30 ton press, 3 freezers that were now easy to get to. Usual things that garages are full of, usual farm things. Even room for the Kubota tractor and snow blower. Warmer and handy without all the necessities for a commercial operation. I did not have grief this time, but relief and astonishment at my son’s vision and speedy work. He is very talented and fit for the work. I am over 80 and can still run a few things. Mostly the wheelbarrow and the small John Deere LT with a trailer. I never did run the old wheat combine. Too many chains and gears and the cab makes you feel as though your are in a carnival ride, hovering in space.
The grief has been replaced by acceptance and the pleasure of change. It was gradual but did not take a long time to see the logic and rightness of my son’s vision of his inheritance. Very pleasant to see that and even help to do it. Not many older people experience this part of life. A lot of farmers do. They get off the big tractors and combines and hang out with their sons and daughters who inherit the vision of family farms.
Life itself is the inheritance and values around the pancakes and home grown food. I am blessed by our lord with these gifts and I know that Daddy is pleased to give them. “Come to me and all these things will given to you.””I pray this for your joy.
“Your Daddy’s so proud of you., your Daddy’s so proud of you. You are faithful with much, faithful with little. Faithful with words for others. Well done, well done. Daddy’s so proud of you” A,
I live for this vision and the joy of His gifts and presence.
It’s pretty Good. Norm/Jack
A. A song I learned at River Valley Christian Church.
A recall of my life is now being revealed to me, bit by bit. Indeed all the mistakes, roads taken that had no outlet or were literally dead ends, were there to take me to a place I did not know I was going. This is the reason I was given the opportunity to write this book. I thought it was my idea!
The Author whose books anchor a sagging bookshelf in our library, has given me hope and excitement as he has done for so many. C.S. Lewis. The first name Jessie Seline and I decided on for my Fiddling Gator identity was Jack. {It was Clive Staples Lewis’ nickname.}
So many authors have that first name in fiction writing and Jessie and I decided it was perfect. Punchy like Jack Dempsey. Masculine and only four letters long. It stuck after being known as ‘Mr Gator’ for years. That story comes to light in this book. A simple newspaper article about my role as a judge in a fiddle contest with a cartoon of an alligator, rocking back on his tail. playing the fiddle.
I know, without any doubt, that our Lord Jesus has me on speed dial to my spirit. I did not even know I had a phone like that before others before that have those, taught me how to listen. I listened when I was a big fool and now I am a tool. Those two letters are close on keyboards and are pushed with the left forefinger. Pointing the way to Him.
My counselor, Mr. Beeves, told me he had never met a man with more trauma than I. He also told me it would always be in my mind and would have six tenths of a second to turn off the reaction of fight or flight to perceived new trauma. Recently, I have asked Jesus to have a USB port put into my head and a jump drive with a program to dive deep and encase those memories where they belong. The past. He has recently acquiesced to that request! Very recently. I did not know He could do that or that I could ask. Look for the port if we meet and I will split hairs with you and show it to you.
Go, Set and get ready. Go to Him set your heart before Him and with Him, and you are ready. Stay on that Highway to Holiness, for “the road to hell is an easy slope, soft underfoot with no warning signs” a. I have asked many friends that were near death to meet me as I ‘cross the bar’ to eternity. I saw one of them leave with five words as he disappeared: “It’s better than you said!” It is.
Jack gators grace notes 