writing

The Joy of Music and Art

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

As it is, so shall it always be. Music, an indescribable and fleeting thing. The string is plucked, the drum
resonates, the bowed instrument plays one note that blesses the fleeting sound. One second it is there.
An eternal second, there is no time involved and the resonance goes into eternity and the joy flows
abounding within the players and listeners.


There are many things that liken to music, draftsmanship or painting the light. Again, the romance of the
stunning scene to the love of creating the painting. Both the musician and the painter are vulnerable to
elevation of self. We do not realize the breaking of our admiration of our talents and contributing one or two notes or a splash of sienna releases real joy and appreciative laughter of the hearing and seeing the Master of all of it.


Images of musicians with the anticipated music played on perfect instruments abound. Especially for ones
that have felt the joy and dance with a word sung or a set of notes played. An image from Lewis: “If
one could just read the score of that heavenly music, they would never be ill nor grow old.”


So many years, so many bands and sitting in with other bands. I was consumed with applause. For
me. A brief smile from a waltzing couple as they swirled past the stage as I played Faded Love is still remembered. The pride of even placing in a fiddle contest would make me proud. Of myself. I am not as fast these days (As I edit this I am 80 years old) and actually, that helps. There were so many
instrumentalists in my life and the attaining of blazing speed with difficult passages was the goal and
passion of so many. Just listen to bluegrass sometime. The song is over before you can even remember
the words. Nice music, don’t misinterpret my words here. Nice music and really nice people play
bluegrass. There were, unfortunately, some artists that would overplay and smirk at my waltz’ or
jazz. That is OK now, I know who was guiding my music in that instantaneous beauty.

Emulating Bob Wills and his stunningly beautiful waltz’ was my goal. I tried the classic Orange
Blossom Special when playing the bar circuit. I would not play it until the third set when the patrons
were drunk enough to enjoy my fiddling of that song. I did OK with it, even the double stop slides, but it was not brilliant as the original. Still, it brought hoops and yells and that satisfied my need of acceptance.


I went to playing in the church..not A church, but THE church was my now my wish. A little mandolin to fill in the missing notes that I hear in spirit. The mandolin is referred to as the violin’s ‘walking stick’. (The tuning is the same as the violin) my last worship leader mentioned when the really high notes of
vibrato ring out, it made him laugh inside. Good description of joy in worship.

Third position on the mandolin is a LOT easier than on the fiddle. It has frets. Those incredible stratospheric violin passages are pretty swell if your fingers are doing OK and you spend every day in the practice room. Playing Since a person was young child helps. I am in awe and joy when I hear those players. I wonder what they are thinking and feeling during those concertos.


So I needed applause to feel wanted and accepted. Now there is joy in worship heard or played when everything makes a brief tapestry of beauty. Offered to Jesus with love and adoration. It’s the only thing that goes to another plane of experience for me now.

As it is, so shall it always be. Music, an indescribable and fleeting thing. The string is plucked, the drum
resonates, the bowed instrument plays one note that blesses the fleeting sound. One second it is there.
An eternal second, there is no time involved and the resonance goes into eternity and the joy flows
abounding within the players and listeners. Nevertheless, beware!

” Every poet, musician and artist, but for grace, are drawn away from the love of the thing he tells, to love of the telling, till, down in deep hell, they cannot be interested in God at all, but only what they say about Him” C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

Applause reflects how others in the room feel that too. It’s heart felt. The thing is, that I now know they are really applauding the beauty revealed of Jesus, the creator of worship music hearts and all things. It’s pretty good. Playing or listening, it’s all the same thrill of eternal music on that sea of flaming glass.

We were blessed indeed by grace to avoid the love of the telling when my family worshiped for four years alone in a house of prayer in a storefront on main street in our local town. We had all the sound system stuff and a drum cage too. There were chairs for anyone who wished to be there, but most of the time we were alone. It fostered intimacy with our Lord. When we left after the building was sold, we had a last set that lasted for hours and started it at 7:20 in the evening. After an obvious finishing song, we looked at the clock facing us and it was 7:20.

Norm Peterson and Jack Gator

An account of 2020’s Covid19 World Attack

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was getting dicey and worrisome for everyone. The quarantine was working somewhat, but the death toll was still climbing everywhere. The news-room personalities were beginning to visibly sweat, and it wasn’t the stage lighting. Cameras were fixed and it was obvious there was only one camera and no director for various shots and video inserts. Just one camera, and no one behind it. The ‘personality’ with a rumpled suit was reading off paper in front of him (no prompter) and the weather didn’t have any green-screen and the prognostication was very vague.

Grocery stores had empty shelves, but that was all right because the parking lots were empty too. Gasoline was down to 75 cents but no one was buying except medical and military. Pleasant driving if you wanted to risk it. Roadblocks and interstate driving enforced with the national guard. No one moved unless you have paperwork displayed on the plates, fore and aft. The bridges were secured.

The phones still worked and the power was pretty good. Amazingly, there were still areas where the fiber carried the internet but the load on that pipeline was enormous. Many reliable and local updates on where latest food and scavengers were moving and advice on security measures. Very little panic. Neighborhoods and townships were unifying and assistance grew within them.

Medical triage and field medic people were in big demand and local connections worked pretty well. After the alerts where the looters were predicted, these honorable people were available to friend and foe alike. The locals began to see something they had not seen before. Compassion and a love for their fellow man, almost impossible to understand. When asked about this, the the medics and doctors would smile and reply with an understandable Gospel. Before it all, the immediate response to a faith message was “great, they’re going to tell me how I can be just like them if only I follow the rules” Now there was serious response to the joy found in listening to the Lord.

There was dialogue and questions. Then we began to reveal how much we thought and felt about this similar ‘bad’ behavior in ourselves. Certainly we were not saints but somehow happy and …well, free. No rules given, just paying attention to the hunger for human contact everyone was experiencing.

The somewhat simple explanation from these medical volunteers was easily understood. Many times there was a demand to have them visit again if possible. It was was new. There were no suits and ties, endorsement of connections. No tracts or phony glad handing. Real missionaries. The calmness and strength of these volunteers was what everyone needed. The usual isolation and fear of each other was being replaced with community and trust. After a short while, safe housing was set up for the desperate roaming families and civilization started to come back to stay. There was no doubt that Jesus had done a miracle and there was great hope and strength spreading throughout the land.

Norm Peterson and Jack Gator

Sudden Treasure

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I was just sitting on the couch, thinking of my morning swim. Driving 20 miles in the early morning at 5:45 in the old ford with well over 20000 miles on it. Heated garage and a pleasant drive to the school where there is a nice 25 meter pool.

The on line pool registration for this morning had a small amount of swimmers signed up and it was easy to think of getting in before the second lap time and finishing early before the buses and children arrive.

The pool was full with 8 swimmers which was 5 more than were registered on line. I waited to get in by the edge of my favorite lane. The older woman in that lane said she would gladly share. I did so and she soon got out and I had the lane all to myself. I got in a good half an hour swim and then more swimmers started crowding in at the end of the pool. There were only three signed up on line for the second session and there were over six in already. The pool has six lap lanes with floating lane markers.

A man standing at the end my lane was a pool friend I had not seen in some time and I stopped there and told him I would get out as I had done enough laps and would forgo my usual number. I felt good about that and we talked for a minute about my upcoming cataract surgery. He is retired doctor and reassured me of the great results and ease it was. A pleasant way to get out early.

I got into the locker room and saw three times the usual piles of towels and clothing. After showering and dressing I got out earlier than usual. The school was empty and I drove out of the quiet parking lot and motored home. A little black ice on the way back, but traffic was light and it was a casual drive home.

The parlor stove was still warm and I made a cup of coffee and put away my swim bag.

I sat on the couch with Julie and our Brittany spaniel and one of the cats curled up in my lap. I relaxed and Julie went off after a nice chat to ride her stationary bike.

I suddenly had a vision of a man offering me the contents of a small basket. Three kernels of popcorn told him, “well, I’ll take one and you can give the two to Julie”. He turned around quickly and now the basket had a Butterfingers candy bar and a Hershey dark chocolate one in it. These are our favorites. And the vision ended.

I began looking at our home from the couch and saw treasures. The big Hummels on top of the cabinet grand. The rubber tree extending up to the second floor library and the half circle window there where I can see Orion in the clear winter morning.

Two Stained glass windows at each end of four in a row with bluebirds flying towards one another below the second floor library. My 1921 Gibson A model mandolin in its case and the photos on the wall of the staircase of our children. The menorah and scroll work of our youngest son’s wood shop. A string of Himalayan bells next to my desk. On and on I gazed at treasures and I was overcome with those things being shown to me.

The sun was shining and the morning snow was dripping from the roof. Now the pooch was lying in the sunshine that is making bars of warmth on the living room floor. Treasure in the vault of a rich man’s castle.

Set in a valley of 30 acres of trees, fields and gardens visible from all the windows. A castle indeed. I think I earned all of this but it just came and we are blessed beyond my words.

Julie and I spoke of what heaven is like just before the vision. C.S. Lewis’ The great divorce came to mind and that fell short. Jesus’ words of paradise and his eternal beauty and romance for us was next in our chat. The garden where lions purr when you pet them. The banquet table with the best wine of Cana to toast the wedding feast to come.

‘Visions of that book that no one on earth has ever read. Our lives here are just the cover and table of contents of that book in which every chapter is better that the one before.’ A.

A . G.K. Chesterton

It’s pretty good. Jack

What’s the Rush?

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

I have noticed an uptick in velocities lately. 65 is the new 55. The speed limit signs used to say 55 day 45 at night.Not only on the highways and byways but everywhere. Rear ended in the baking supplies aisle as I was looking for canned garbanzo beans. Little did I know they were in the next aisle. Found them and fronted the shelf as there were only a half dozen back a ways. Pulled them up (it’s called ‘fronting’ in the retail biz) I thought that was a kind thing to do. I missed them first time around and I am certain there is ‘someone’ out there that needs them too.

I began to notice traffic in the carts had picked up since I entered the big box store. The speed of the carts picked up, and I found a check out lane that was staffed and began to wait my turn. It’s always easy to pass the time by reading the scandal magazines with gossip about the royal family. I got rear ended again. A lot of downward smile remnants and avoidance of eye contact. I have written a column about this called ‘anxiety’ but this time I remembered my recent church experiences. ‘Be anxious for nothing’ from a short book called Philippians, chapter 4.

I am a volunteer at what people refer to as a Mega church. Beautiful place to be and I have made many friends with staff and other volunteers. It’s easy in the earlier mornings because there are very few of us around. We wear name tags which helps those of us that have loose pages in our memory name section. I have an excuse for my internal Roledex missing entries. Seizures a half decade ago. Usual complaints we all have. The electrical system in me got a few circuit breakers tripped and corroded. A little rewiring needed. After a few months, we all remember each others names. Usually.

I stay at my volunteer position all morning from 0700 and leave around thirteen hundred hours. By that time, the parking lot is fairly empty and it is easy to find my way My son who is on staff as production director (I am the assistant director) drives us and buys me a crafted press near Forest lake on our way in. Perfect time for Father/Son chats as well. the picture above is my son at the directors console

We spend a lot of our time in the media production room and have breakfast at VC (volunteer central). In between services we get to go into the lobby and chat with people and relax. Sometimes I go into the ‘green room’ where the musicians relax and pray with them It’s a pleasant Sunday in church. I am at comfortable there and since I am there every Sunday, I am a familiar person. A lot of volunteers are there on one Sunday a month.

The usual flow is somewhat different. Within minutes after the service is over, it is almost impossible to enter the main sanctuary and work your way to the front. The salmon upstream with four to five abreast coming at you. No one makes room and it is puzzling and scary in some ways. It feels like a fire alarm has gone off. The worshipers have spoken to God and I want to ask if He spoke to them. I like hearing about those things.

Same deal in the lobby and the parking lot. There are orange cones volunteers put out and police directing the outlets to the frontage road. It’s a lot like leaving the airport. A lot of give and take getting out of the lot. One message encouraged us to give way once in a while to someone waiting to get in line. “you don’t have to be Mother Theresa and let everyone in, there are cars behind you as well”. Just pay attention and move but slowly.

Why do we rush about? I can understand a crock pot miles away or a plane scheduled. It’s that way everywhere, always. Not just in this church.

I would love to chat about this mornings worship, the music, the soul scratching messages. The lobby food is all gone, the coffee shop is closed and it feels like we should now wave goodbye to a pleasant ‘restful’ holy day. The musicians leave as soon as the second service is over. After the second service begins, the food is put away in VC and the cleanup starts.

I like the big lobby in between the 9 and 11 services. People leaving and going but the atmosphere is gentile and relaxed. Some people go to both! We do, we have to. When the second service is over, the camera operators come in to our control room and hang up their electronics and badges and we mention a few shots that really were perfectly, and artistically done

We have a good half and hour to shut it all down and say our goodbyes to staff that are hard at work cleaning and making certain of their tasks. I like going through the corridor between our control room and the musician’s ‘green room’ and trying my hand at a double flip on the plastic hatchet throw target. Sometimes tickling the ivories on a old baby grand that is there with the rest of the stage and cables.

That area I Sometimes refer to as the ‘junk drawer’ corridor. A big electric lift platform next to a work bench with a microphone being soldered. Which hadn’t been touched in 6 months It feels like our shop at home with neat stuff. I soldered it last week with my learned skill building short wave transmitters. A delicate touch is required. I still love the smell of rosin core solder.

Alone among several thousand people and in this instance there is someone beside me and with me and is always for me. He turns His face towards me and gives me peace. I can introduce you to Him if you are interested. I would love to, no rush. It’s pretty good,

Norm Peterson writing for Jack Gator columnist.

Dream Connection

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

How do you teach a method of connection? What do we connect with? Or who do we connect with? The biggest question for me what is connection? The topic just ‘happened’ to come up in one of the myriad books that I leave around the house. You know, or are, one of those people that read when eating, before sleeping, when waiting for those two things. Skimming, flipping through chapters, some of the pages dog-eared in a good place to start again.

So, the topic of connection was in one of those scattered piles throughout the house and it stopped a thought train with screeching brakes and a trail of sparks on the tracks of otherwise placid reading. Connection. Why would I want to connect with someone I have never seen, but just read about? A connection in a dream about Hemingway I just had? Why try to connect with a great author that has left the world decades ago? There is a way to connect with him by reading his writing and taking notes. Was the dream a connection with my memory, one which I have been missing or ignoring for decades? The dream seemed to be from my best friend who told me important things.

It was a vivid dream. I was in the big city and drove by a splendid home that triggered a memory of connection. I went up the sidewalk to the familiar home and was welcomed in by several people that knew me. The memory of living across the street and being mentored by Hemingway when I was a boy flooded in. The books from the fabulous library loaned, hours sitting with ‘Papa’ and being told, someday I would be writing truth with skill to make images with words. Stories of adventure. The dream ended with one of the daughters telling me it was so good to see him again and would I like to stay for a while?

There was a loud noise that sounded like explosions and I was awoken suddenly with a strong wish to remember the dream by writing it down. At four in the morning. (The sound sounded like the summer people having fun blowing things up.) It was only the family dog.

It seemed the dream was a message from my self. Deep in rem sleep, dredging up ‘connections’ that surfaced as reality sleeping dormant. Or was the dream a connection with someone else that had spoken it? I write about life, but to develop a story like this one was ego and wish palpable. Still remembering the dream knew what the connection was and with who.

It was encouragement and confirmation from the greatest authors ever known. “Keep writing, stay steady and tell the truth . Don’t try and make your writing original, write the truth and and write the story as best you can and originality will come forth.” Indeed, the question of ‘what is truth’ was asked centuries ago and the answer was silence. The truth of that life was obvious and the words written about that life still capture and hold us. When truth is revealed, it is a beauty sought.

Sometimes only five words can take your breath away and be remembered forever. Connection. As coming awake again from the dream of life. The reason, the hope, the answer to so many questions. The book that can be read again and again that speaks and shakes our inner man with it’s truth. A book worth dreams awake or asleep. Dreams of destiny and worth.

I was stopped on the sidewalk soon after this column was printed and directly asked; “did you ever live in Spain where Earnest lived?” I answered yes and he furrowed his brow and walked away. I did not mention that when I lived in Spain I was in prison for six months for evading a murderer and running from the military police. It affirmed the column’s legitimacy for that man. It was fun to tell that truth, I left off the prison detail.

As Johnny Cash said: “Sooner or later, everyone comes back to Jesus. The Bible, It’s pretty good.

Norm Peterson

A Door Gunner and the Old Fiddler

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It was a beautiful drive, one I take often to a small church about 8 miles north. On Fridays that old Lutheran church gives away bread from a bakery 80 miles south. Every Friday for years they have done so. I pick up as many bags as they will give me as I give away most of to a local secondhand store about 7 miles to the East. Caring Hearts. I like to drive those rural roads.

Today, I drove past a place of good memories, on a lake called Wood and glanced at the places on the road before the lake that I like to look at. Old abandoned houses that used to be pretty swell and houses that have acres of metal junk around them. Wind-rowers, hay loaders, antique bulldozers. Tons of steel, waiting for nothing, akin to tossing old scrap lumber out to be burned out in the field thing. How that stuff got out there and what the price of steel is going for occurs to me. Reminds me of an old forest that is past it’s prime and the mess that is too. Wood lying about is a lot easier to look at.

I drove past wood Lake (we have a lot of nice ones nearby) and remembered an old friend that was a veteran like me. He had it rougher and served on Helicopters shooting people out of the door with a belt fed machine gun. A .50 or .30 caliber. Don’t remember him mentioning that. A war in Vietnam that no one wanted, a war I was drafted into as I was in basic training for the Navy! I just missed that meat grinder. A returning veteran was hated by many Jane Fonda fans. Danny Carlson was this veteran’s name. He was friendly to me and our stories were good to share with one another.

Danny knew I was a country western fiddler on the local bar circuit and he wanted to have some fun and put on a fiddle contest at his lake shore home. OK, I got hold of another fiddler, Bill Hinkley, and we set it up with a stage overlooking the lake and advertising it at the local watering holes. We even took out an add in the newspaper. This was a big deal for towns under 2000.

We got a half dozen fiddlers to show up for the chance for the 1st place prize and the beer kegs would set the stage for some good fun. Bill and I started out demonstrating what fiddling was with Bill’s wife Judy on guitar. Then we started the contest. Bill, I and Judy (official judges) got to sit right up front on the beautiful manicured grass which sloped gently down to the lake. Quite a few people showed up.

Good acoustics too from the water. Near the end, an older fiddle player showed up. He was at least as old as I am now and needed a bow. We got him one and he started sawing away. His tone was off and the speed wasn’t there, but the Bill and I and Judy looked at one another with a nod. This was the stuff of legends. We knew what this man had been and in our ears, still was. Bad bow, arthritic hands, bent over and knowing it was the best he could do. We gave him the 1st place without a doubt. Bill and I were thinking that we can even play at this man’s age we would be blessed to fiddle as well as he was. Uncle Zeke was his name and where he was from and were he went is still a mystery.

“The struggles and events of his life are just the cover and chapter page of the book of his life. The book no one on earth can read is the real story and every chapter is better than the last” 1.

Dan a short time afterwards, died across the road from his lake home in his trucking outfits office from carbon monoxide gas. In his sleep. My wife, Julie almost died from the same danger from a bad propane furnace way out west when she was camp counselor before I met her.

So Every time I drive past Danny’s old lake home I think of these things and ask Jesus, why? Why take Dan and spare my wife with only a bad headache and some temporary cognitive loss’? We will never know until I read that book of real stories that I can’t read now.

Somehow, in some way I find that answer adequate. I still ask why these things happen and am getting better and waiting for the answer I already know. Ask me sometime and I will let you in on what He says to me. Usually stop, look and listen. I am so glad Julie survived that carbon Monoxide and we have this incredible life together. Thank you Lord!

Somehow I know there will be that book about Danny I can read and I will read it with him. I will share those books with my old Navy buddy that will hand me his book as he reads mine. It’s pretty good. I like reading really good books.

Norm Peterson. (aka Jack Gator)

1. G.K. Chesterton “the apostle of common sense”

I Escaped

/ Norman Eric Peterson / 1 Comment

Mine has been an interesting life. So I have been told by people who read what I write.

It seemed normal life to me, what did I know about life? A weirdo and a geek and I have written a few columns about myself. Inward when outward isn’t working. Reasonable when most people are not.

Brilliant and surprising and not understood why. Asperger syndrome, a variation of Autism, a precursor. Advanced in mathematics asking grade school teachers about soil stratification. Then obtaining my novice class amateur radio license in grade school. General class a year later

Dad knew I was different and catered to my interests. The rest of my family stayed at arms length when I acted normally by my thoughts. Knowing the joke about Santa Claus as I waited obediently in my room for my father to knock on the front door and great the great Satan in his red suit with warmth to fool us. I knew Santa clause was evil for his behavior and indifferent attitudes towards people with anti social tendencies. I was used to it after all. Truth is truth.

I would have welcomed coal as we burned it in our basement stove with all it’s steam punk gauges and clinking doors.

As I age, my brilliance has faded somewhat but the wariness remains. Conversation and acceptance always seem to go hand in hand. I like genuine smiles and try to do so. I engage people in places that are not usual for most and use ruses of my own to do so. I complement a vehicle that I see and engage the owner with a complement on it. Conversations fascinate me and I always learn something. Mechanical or even better. I have learned to ask names and even origin of different ones. I guess at the country of origin of their name and this begins the game I reveal to them. It softens the spirit of strangers and lets them know they are seen.

“you’re so friendly and easy to be with!” That is what I have been developing over decades and the wish to bridge the chasm between me and the world. As the improbability device on the Pot of Gold in the hitchhiker movie says: “now approaching normality 2 to 1 and falling”

I am at a loss for words often to express myself and that is why I write and edit over and over till it makes sense to readers. I put the blame on the world and then exalt the cure for us all by mentioning Jesus who is healing me of many things. Mental and physical, I love to pray on the spot for anyone that needs and wants it. It’s a gift from God who has gifted me to do so.

After all, the first thing of communication is to seek it. The early days of my amateur radio were obvious to me. In Morse code the first call tapped out to speak with someone you do not know are the letters, CQ. Seek You. Makes sense to someone looking to communicate with the world. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe to K0JMV.

Junk Drawer

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

It is a missed opportunity for a Game Show! “ I am a plumber, what’s in my junk drawer in the kitchen?” Easy one to start with rubber drain plugs, Teflon pipe tape on a roll, Monkey wrench etc.

“I am a philosophy professor and writer, what’s in my junk drawer?” Used dialectic cliff’s notes, puns to cause groans during a debate. Disarming platitudes, Names of noted Greek philosophers, half full glasses of water.

“ I am an atheist and my wife is a deist, what’s in our junk drawer? Slightly tarnished valuable shelf gods of antiquity, pocket tracts of Richard Dawkins, various colors of silly putty for repairs to the idols and a small bible with “don’t panic” taped on the cover.

Our junk drawer is good to use as a collectible at the Smithsonian as Americana sculpture. The Norman Rockwell of junk drawers. It would be a hands-on installation starting out with a drawer that was sticky and had a screwdriver at the top that prevents it from opening.

Compartments that have several paper clips and stamps on a roll intertwined. Small flashlights that don’t and are empty of AAAA batteries.

I can give you an absurd compendium but I tire of trying open it and then find a small set of pliers that I wanted last week. There is a small Phillips screwdriver in there that I needed to disassemble a worthless scanner in there that we inherited. Being a ham operator it was irresistible to try and get it to work. The junk drawer revealed it on the bottom in the back of course. Stuck under a large pencil sharpener.

I recycled the old scanner because the batteries in it came from a pyramid excavation and I recycled it before the charger caused a melt down. There is a gap in King Tuts hand which the ancient scanner would fit. I saw that in Washington’s Smithsonian where his body is on show. Who can refute that? Another conspiracy story akin to the fake moon landings. I have made an offer for the used Moon rover but the shipping was out of this world.

Collectibles are an American tradition along with second hand stores. I can do away with the humorous and self sarcasm but there is a collectible that is often found in many homes and it is bound with old leather sometimes and dates back to the family for generations. A book written in 1611. The originals are priceless and can still be read! The King James Bible. The only thing in my junk drawer is an old Yad from Israel for reading such books. A pointer used to read scrolls of the words of wise antiquity.

If I just dig it out of the drawer, I know it has to be in there! I did find an old 5 shekel coin once and gave it away but I don’t think I gave away the Yad, Or did I?

I know it’s old and most of those sorts of things are pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe.

A Sister at Laguna Beach

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

The Laguna greeter.

There was a time in my life that I was a dedicated surfer. I moved in with the president of my old high school class (King?) and far from being the outcast weirdo in high school, now I was one to be admired. With borrowed a surfboard from a slightly older young man who lived downstairs from the apartment in Hermosa Beach. There was a bond instantly between them as they both had the same last name and were both slightly autistic and emotionally intense in various ways. Different and knowing they both were.

So, I went to the beach every day and learned how to surf. Readers of this column will remember that time in the article, ‘Super Chief’ I just loved surfing and was totally committed to it. I slept on the floor of my room with the board next to me so I would rise early without disturbing the other young men and walk a half a block down to the beach. Except for the jellyfish, it was a time in my life that means a lot to me 50 years later.

At one of the parties in the apartment, a young woman (girl) took a fancy to me and slipped into my room during the party and I offered her the other side of the surfboard to lie on. No seduction. Genuine friendship and it astonished her and there was a bond, a different young man that treated her with respect and friendship. Carrie is her name

She never forgot that and after a year or so, I was in San Diego, Navy training base. After basic, I went to A school at the same base. and was then training young Naval men radio operations. I had a background in radio from my amateur radio days and still held a general class license.

I wondered if Carrie, was still at her Uncles place in Laguna Beach. I called her and she was pleased. She asked me to visit on a weekend. Since I was now on staff, I had every weekend off. I even had civilian clothes to wear. Little did I know I was in a pretty good situation right out of boot camp.

Because I washed out of the nuclear submarine service (bad color vision.) I was no longer striking for nuclear technician,so they told me I would be a radio operator. They knew my skills at being one. I trained young men in Morse code in A school and basic electronics. It was the best duty assignment I had with the Navy. Myself, I learned how to touch type listening to code. Nice thing to know when the code comes at 30 wpm

The San Diego bus to Los Angeles went right through Laguna Beach and I went to see Carrie. She picked me up at the bus stop and drove me to her Uncles place in the hills. She drove 1957 Corvette convertible, bright red and powerful with the first stock fuel injection in a sports car. Her Uncle was on an extensive art tour in Europe at that time and the car was there for her to use. A wealthy art dealer in Europe and he had a pretty good ‘duty station’ too! I never met him nor know his name.

So, I would come up every weekend and lounge around the pool that overlooked the ocean and do a little painting (with Uncles paint equipment. The brushes, canvas, tripod and acrylic paints.) Occasionally my new ‘sister’ would bring a young man home and introduce that man to me as her brother was a way of overcoming the puzzled look I got from the men. I liked that immensely. My ‘organic’ sister never liked me.

They were one-night stands and that was understood by all. A new sister that liked him, I liked that. One weekend, I called my old high school president that was living in the Hollywood hills and asked ‘sis’ if he can borrow the Corvette.

The occasional boyfriends never even got a nod with that question. She knew when they started saying “Hey Carrie can I….NO” I drove up to LA and visited my old buddies who were living large in the Frank Lloyd Wright Circular apartments. Class. The red Corvette fit right in at the curb and I got a smile nod from everyone I saw. Poseur.

That corvette was fast on the freeway!

Back at the beginning of the city of Laguna, the Greeter there gave me a wave. (The greeter was a man that stood for years at the north end of the city and waved at cars)

All in all it only lasted a season of my life and made a big difference in both of us. She shared her heart in a way nether of them thought they would do or even contemplate and it was a good start on real relationships for them both. They had no idea they were both being trained in their hearts near the ocean and some of it stuck. Carrie treasured my paintings too, she said they would be worth a lot of money when I became famous. Still waiting for that, I’ll send her my book if she is still there.

It’s pretty good.  Norm Peterson RM4 Comservron 6 Naples, Italy

What is Happening to Higher Education

/ Norman Eric Peterson / Leave a comment

A shock to myself at the closings of our universities across our state of Wisconsin. I cannot believe that declining enrollment and expenses have caused 6 campus’ to be closing within the next year.

Wisconsin is or was ranked 43rd of the states for funding in spite of community support and reasonable tuition costs. Beautiful campus sites with environmental programs, an observatory, and healthful and well staffed. What happened suddenly where this occurred suddenly this season? We all took them as rock solid, after all, many of them go back a ways.

Northland for example was founded in 1892 and has been a beacon of college education in Northern Wisconsin for as long as I can remember (and no, I was not around at the turn of the last century to consider be matriculated there) Outstanding bedrock of Ashland community.

Lack of student enrollment and not enough funding even though alumni have gathered millions to save these institutions. Some say it was just the lack of students of college age. Another group say it was funding from the state government that falls short of needs. Many theories are put forth.

There is change afoot in our federal government that is too late to rescue our treasure of education with the beauty of Wisconsin integrated with these campus’. A trillion dollars of our money has been spent on ridiculous efforts to promote racism, revisionist history throughout the world. The ‘deep state’ that has existed for decades is now refusing to give in to mandates from our president to step down and stop this nonsense.

A sign with a falcon mascot remains inside the closed University of Wisconsin Oshkosh-Fond du Lac campus Friday, Aug. 9, 2024, in Fond du Lac, Wis. Angela Major/WPR

Bureaucrats that bring to mind a Russian story by Saltikoff . ‘There were two generals that worked in a registry office of some kind. They were born there, reared there and grew up there and as a result knew absolutely nothing about anything whatever.’ Sound familiar?

Jack Gator Reporter