Sitting in my comfy chair and reading in the morning. The snow sneaked in last night and the small step ladder outside the kitchen window shows six inches on the three steps. A sturdy little thing of aluminum that helps the reach to the kitchen roof with the snow rake. Just clean around the two vents and try to control the ice dams.
Musing on writing something and finding solace in a brief Tennyson quote: “Death closes all, but but something near the end, some work of noble note, my yet be done” 1.
It occurs to most of us, that what have we yet to do now that the curtain is getting close to coming down on the play? As most of us, I have worked hard and made a few good choices to be where I am now. The great dream of a beautiful wife, younger than I! Two great sons of intellect and achievements that love us and our 30 acre homestead.
We have all worked hard and with sweat and satisfaction through most of it. The gardens of provision and beauty, our mechanical shop of provision and repair, still usable now for us and friends. Tools that only need an occasional handle because we use them. Heating with wood and always splitting and stacking and calculating supply. I have gotten so fussy in the winter that I have a tape measure out there to make certain certain lengths are put in the wheelbarrow. Long, short and gnarly for day and night fires in the stove. It’s in the middle of the house.
All of the accomplishments great and small some of which are still visible. Some are tenuous and need conversation to reveal them to one another. Pictures on the stairway wall of births of the kids, a summer kitchen and a field all limned by a photo of Julie, very pregnant with our first son, Bjorn. Myself, just our of basic training taken by a pro in town with my cover just so, leaning to my right in my dress blues. I look happy and am looking to my right and smiling.
Another accomplishment that I just heard today from my son Soren’s good friend Zeke. I asked
him before a Saturday breakfast what he would call our home. He only paused for a few seconds and said; “Casa Del Pas” house of peace. A good handful of men come to join us at times. Good strong young men that are bonded with Soren and us. All of them live in the area but many times Julie and I awaken to extra boots in the entry.
Making sure the coffee maker is filled with water and the fire is properly set and banked is my job as I rise earlier. Breakfast on Saturday mornings with pancakes and eggs/bacon and good coffee after an hour or two. One bathroom and the ballet for it and the preparation for breakfast is done as the snow keeps coming. Pastor Zeke blesses the food and our meal is shared. House of peace indeed. “The author appears on the last act, the best of all”2 1 and 2 Lord Tennyson
It began in high school and the young physics students made friends. I was the teachers pet. I had all the math classes aced Solid, Trig, Quadratics and so on. I would stay after class and tidy up all the Bunsen burners and the testing equipment. One of the students, Don, stayed after with me and we began the friendship process geek to geek. Neither of us were on the any teams in sports or forensics or even knew any cheerleaders. Just a couple of guys interested in electronics.
My teacher, Miss Bertie, had the entire class come over to my house and see my ham radio setup. My rig was in my bedroom and the thrill of having one of the cheerleaders sitting on my bed while I explained and demonstrated the rig was a touchstone that lasted for a while.
Don was there too and he was hooked. I gave him his novice exam because I was licensed to do so and he got on the air too and soon had his general class license. He had a friend at another high school a little south of us and the three of us began to get serious about amateur radio. Especially the part about having cheerleaders sitting enthralled on my bed. One time deal though
The three of us started to be pretty good friends and their parents were pleased with our choices of classmates. I started to hang out with my new friends, Don and Loren and we all hung out at Loren’s place as his dad was a drummer in a Dixieland band that played downtown at Brady’s bar. We were allowed to stand in the back of the room and listen and watch Loren’s dad, Lloyd play with band that had a stage above the bar. Smokey and loud and our first taste of adults at play. We were not anywhere near 21 but we got free cokes and nods of approval.
The band was called the “Lloyd George Quintet” They were good. It was tough on Loren’s dad as he was a hemophiliac and his position as drummer was not a low impact one.
The patrons really liked the Quintet and there were always drinks handed up from the bar from appreciate listeners. A lot of drinks. The music flowed on for hours along with the booze.
We would pick Lloyd up after his gig, load the drums and pour Lloyd in the back seat and take him home. We had a big Plymouth with a bass drum in the back seat and we began ‘fronting’ down west Broadway and acting cool at the Clock drive in. Our ‘band’ was nonexistent but we already had a name ready. “the Fables” that’s what we were, a fabulous fable with ham radio geeks eating fries and burgers with all the looks of admiration we fantasized. My friends formed the band later but I was far away then. Loren was, of course, the drummer.
We had a little club every Friday night on air and would get together at 8 o’clock sharp on the ten meter band on AM (amplitude modulation..voice) and chat. I would lie on my sanctified bed and pull a string hooked up to my send and receive switch and lie down with my mic in my hand. It was about as geeky three guys get. We called our gathering “the fish net” This was what passed for our entertainment in the late fifties of the last century. Pretty swell eh?
The last time we met was when I was on liberty before my next duty station overseas as a radio operator. We watched the infamous Minneapolis tornadoes march across the sky south to north around 1965. My friends were still in college and exempt from the draft. The big Buick convertible of my mothers was rocking as we watched those tornadoes. The heavy Buick began to sway back and forth as we were up on a hill on memorial drive.
It was time to leave the danger zone and I drove home. They avoided serving in the danger zone in the military and stayed in college. And we all moved on. I was saved by God several times afterwards and Would like to share that with them today, but my letters go unanswered.
I am Puzzled. 73’s to you. 88’s to the cheerleader too.
Jack Gator K0JMV
P.S. Praise the Lord for pleasant and humorous memories and the miracles of life we are blessed with!
Things were going well for me, teaching code and basic radio operation in San Diego. Still at Camp Nimitz and then things changed. A lot. I got orders to report to Comservron 6 in Naples Italy. I thought this must be an embassy position! Just like my first job as a radio operator for the Boy scouts! I went back to Minneapolis and caught a commercial flight to Italy via Heathrow, Berlin airports. How exciting for me, the great unknown Naval job overseas. I connected with the base in Naples and was put in a landing craft and deposited on the quarter deck of an old WWII fleet oiler. The Missisinewa AO 144
I declared, “there must be some mistake. I am to report to comservron 6!” The OOD told me I was standing on the quarterdeck of comservron 6. I saluted him and turned and saluted the flag off the stern and stepped forward with my seabag. A sailor was there waiting for me and he seemed to know what it all was about. He too, had a radioman symbol on his right shoulder along with a rocker that stated the command.
He showed me my quarters below deck and I stowed my gear and claimed my bunk. He then said he would show me my duty station. We headed aft. Is this were the radio room is? No, this is where the mess deck is. He explained: Every division on board has to send it’s most junior man to work the mess deck and that is your duty station right now. Oh. “Where do you work?” He also stated he worked the mess deck until I showed up. He was Smiling. Relieved of duty.
The mess deck lieutenant showed me where to go. The potato peeling compartment. I was to put a load of potatoes in a big stainless tub and turn it on. Water would spray in and the tub began to turn. It had notches much akin to a hand peeler all around the inside. It worked. The peels went over the side and the potatoes were quite smaller then. Dump them into a stainless bowl and repeat. I heard the bosuns pipe announce “Now arriving comservron 6” which meant our captain was aboard and we were getting underway.
I watched Naples slowly fade away and was pleased I had my very own porthole. Join the Navy and see the world though a porthole.
I peeled potatoes, went down to the freezer locker and brought up frozen chickens by the flock full. There was 324 men aboard plus staff which was my division. A lot of chickens and potatoes. There was always a lot of sliced bread for every meal. More on that later
I started to meet my fellow radiomen and began the process of friendship or not game. I felt very unfulfilled and gloomy. After a few months of scullery, frozen entrees and swabbing decks, I was informed that a new guy from our division was coming aboard! I was as happy as my 1st escort was and went to the quarterdeck when we anchored out in Malta. You know the drill.
The radio shack was on the 02 level above the main deck and I found it familiar. Same thing as I had at home a while ago. Dials and wires, guys with headphones on one ear and typewriters at every radio. Morse code keys too. I was relieved and assured by the undeniable smell of electronic power surging about the compartment. Just like my old bedroom without my bed next to my ‘rig’ I had faster code abilities then expected by the men and quickly move into the comm position of communicating with the big stations and ships we were tied to. I typed pretty well and when I got promoted when we were in Beirut, I began with my top secret clearance and a petty officers ‘crow’ on my uniforms. I was then trained in teletype in my own compartment and had to synchronize our deck to overhead transceiver with a signal from England every day. Eventually I ‘cut a tape’ at 80 words per minute. The tape was six holes across and every combination of the holes was a letter or a number. If I made a mistake, all I had to do was punch a special key and it would punch all the holes and no information would be put on the tape.
It was very good alone time because the only person allowed in besides me was our division officer, Lt Laird. A mustanger that achieved an officers rank the hard way. Work your way up from E2 to E8, master chief and move up the ladder a few more times. He was tough to say the least. Do not cross one of these guys, they can do anything they want and have all the respect due them. “Attention on deck!” “As you were men.” I had dreams of making it to chief, the brown shoe navy.
After six months at sea (one tour) the oiler was headed back to the states. Staff had to transfer all our gear, records and files to another fleet oiler next to us and begin another tour. The Neosho was my next ship. Almost all of the 300 plus ships company dreaded our arrival as it meant crowding, more work and new guys that were the command structure of the missions.
I was doing well with this life. We stopped at Izmir, Rhodes, Malta, Via France, Palma De Majorca, Gibraltar, Barcelona and a few other places I cannot remember. We always had to ‘anchor out’ because no government wanted us in port with 8 million gallons of various petroleum. I loved the bunker oil because it was stored below our deck quarters. It had to be heated to make it flow. As the ship slowly rocked, I heard the flow of oil slowly back and forth and it sounded like waves at the beach. I would be asleep easily. In the winter below the decks were warm. There were some perks to being on a big fleet oiler. To be continued chapter 5
My second commercial airplane ride took me to San Diego for the second time in my life.
The first time was as a 17 year old representative of Fashion Curtain Company in Traverse City Michigan. This time I was bused to recruit depot at Camp Nimitz and met with a big Marine Gunny that became my new focus in life. The usual hair buzz cut and a lot of shouting and insults. Pukes, trainees, moms boys, etc. A lot of it was true and we shaped up fast. Fire watches, endless screaming and shouting and a little manhandling. Men that know basic training
can recall those things. Mostly with laughter and even fondness for finally some direction in our lives that actually changed us. With a laugh the gunny told me I got my draft notice in the mail
We trained on board the USS Recruit with many things a ship has to offer. Ladders, hatches, fire drills. Rope, line and small stuff for knot tying and spring lines and lanyards. Lots of knots. This was important stuff for us later on in life as well. How to tie your laundry on lines with small stuff, how to slide down a ‘ladder’ (stairs) on the rails. It was neat except for all the physical training and endless marching. Left, right, left right..pick it up! Those drill sergeants ran up walls and do more push ups than there were possible. And leap and clap their hands after coming up. We were wimps.
Suddenly, there was a call for musicians and singers! The Navy Choir need some guys that could sing and march and take orders well. I stepped forward (NEVER step forward to volunteer!) the choir director was from the Mormon Tabernacle and knew his stuff. “Sing these notes” In or out and sometimes got praise. There were 10 of us in the Blue Jackets Choir. I remember their faces I remember them and where some of them went afterwards. ‘Father Flanagan in the back row went on to Pensacola to be a Navel Aviator, things like that. I am in the front row 2nd from right. We sang ‘For those in Peril on the Sea’ the Navy anthem and the National anthem along with several classical church songs on Sunday at the officers services. Marching in parades and more boot camp stuff to go with it. We had our dress blues already and there were quite a few puzzled men in our class that could not understand why an E6 was in training with them (1st class petty officer with three red stripes and a ‘crow’ on my sleeve) would just answer that I was recruit education officer which was true in a way.
I skated through boot and was assigned to A school on base for training to be a radioman. Not to New London for Submarine training! I wanted to be a nuclear technician as a career choice but my color vision was inadequate and I wore glasses. Recruiter lied to me. A common procedure, after all, the draft was full bore and I did not want to go to Viet Nam under the national draft. As I mentioned, I was drafted in boot camp and just missed the chance to be discharged early and come home with a flag over me.
The Lord of my life was unfolding His plan and I had no idea that was happening. The hymns we sang in the choir were beautiful and that planted small seeds of wonder. Much later in my life I heard His voice save me from death and to say it was extraordinary is not enough. It was a miracle.
So after basic training I went to A school right there at the camp and I was turned into a teacher at radio school. My ham radio license paid off and I was given liberty every weekend and I realized soon that this was the best duty station I would have from then on. I was free to visit my ‘sister’ during the weekends and you can read about it in “A sister from Laguna Beach” here at Gatorsgracenotes.com.
Grade School at Loring Elementary in North Minneapolis. Four blocks away from the Russell Avenue home and an easy walk. Twice. There was no lunchroom at the school and the walk home was a welcome relief for most of the students unless one of the class bullies was lurking about.
There isn’t much recall about Kindergarten ( German word derivative of ‘children’s garden’ )
I do remember 3rd grade when I boldly asked Miss Peterzaine when we would study soil cosmology or depth structure. She laughed and said that would come later.
Indicative of a precocious Asperger child. That term or diagnosis was not known at that time. It would seem I fit the profile. I was intellectually in another world and still am according to friends and family. Obsessive stimulation by silken edges on blankets, sniffing of hands and counting everything. Still do it. I got by. Glasses by 3rd grade too as there was difficulty in reading the blackboard.
I do remember the transformation of my mind when I first saw leaves instead of green blobs! It helped with the squeaky chalk writing. Dry erase still squeaks now and then but there aren’t any erasers to clap together outside. Chalk is still used in sidewalk games and art.
Thinking of softer stone and a stylus, it seems to be progress to keyboards and printers. Unless an older typewriter with the key jamming as you typed a little fast.
All of the odd things about grade school still lurk in my mind. Remember the ‘duck and cover’ when the spinning air horns would rattle the windows? Cold war or tornadoes. I embraced the image of becoming one with my desk with a nuclear attack. I liked my desk and it was comfy down there.
Home for lunch and a meeting with a war damaged Croatian boy and that was about it. Pleasant, predictable and perfect for me. I love routine. Still do. More on that later.
High school in 1956 and my sister was a junior and is this place, there was a cafeteria for lunch. I did OK and took every math and science class available. I was very interested in electricity and went after amateur radio in eighth grade. Being a recluse, it was easy and my dad helped me with equipment and setting up a ‘long wire’ from the house to a boulevard tree. It was up as high as a city fireman ladder can climb and it worked well. I was using Morse code to talk to other ‘Hams’ Not long after I wanted to move from Novice to General class licensing and studied electronic circuitry and perfected my code. A trip downtown to city hall came and I passed the technical exam and the 13 words a minute Morse code test. “youngest person ever to pass the test” they said. K0JMV is my call sign. Still have it.
I made friends with some other fans of radio in another high school and since I was now a general class operator, I can give them the test to become novices. We formed a little club and I have lost touch with them. They still have their call signs and I found them in a ham publication. I wrote a few of them and they never responded. I have many fond memories of them and am sad that I can’t reconnect. Isn’t that the way we are? We remember our home location and phone numbers after many decades.
I was very proud of Dad and even got to slide down the fire pole when he gave me a tour. He was a pretty stern guy at times and there were some scary moments between him and Mom.
Their bedroom was on the second floor and mine was right where the stairway began.
There was a bad argument when dad found out about mom cheating on him with a fellow fireman that lived nearby. Mom cried for help and I came out of my room and peaked into the kitchen. She was on the floor and Dad was standing over her with an angry demeanor.
One day, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth and saw Dad coming down stairs with a suitcase. He turned to the right and went through my room to the small porch and out to his car in the garage and that was the last I saw him until twenty years later. I hunched over the sink when he left and sobbed because I knew this was the end of our family. My mother and my sister stood outside the bathroom door and giggled and laughed. Odd to be separated between people you love that way. Things changed in me and those changes took decades to be brought into the light. I never forgot those moments but now they do not define who I am. It’s only light in the darkness of those things that changes them to stories rather than character.
I began to into a bit of a decline at this point. (that’s a quote from Marvin the paranoid android) It was a true condition. When my mother remarried after a short time from Dad’s departure it did not bode well for my sister and I. My stepfather moved right in after the wedding. Upstairs of course. He wound up sitting on my bed one night, completely nude, and started to touch me. I bolted up and ran out the door to the porch yelling. Not too much later, my sister told me he had braced her up against the wall asking for sex. Things were not going well. Escape seemed like a good idea for both of us. Sis got pregnant with a dentist and I left after high school for adventure in San Diego. By the way, the dentists name was Doctor Wunder and he was from Painsville, Minnesota. Seemed appropriate. They quickly married and escaped. Decades later I had him fix some bad dry sockets from wisdom teeth surgery. He was really gentle and good. He indeed, was a wonder.
Almost immediately after my high school graduation, I went with a classmate to San Diego on a whim and we got an apartment and begin to sell Encyclopedias with a reference book called a Syntopicon. We wore our graduation suits and forerunners of men in suits that also went door to door talking about their faith. We never sold one and I am always friendly to men in suits that come to my door with briefcases.
We had no money for food and so I used my briefcase to prowl the neighborhood for fruit trees and we ate a lot of oranges and grapefruit. I still love grapefruit juice. It’s hard to find in the marketplace these days and I get by with orange juice. Food memories of rescues by fruit. A classmate that was a great boxing champ years later, came out and rescued us. We tucked our suits back in the suitcases and drove home to Minneapolis in an old white Packard that burned oil. The trunk and rear bumper where not white anymore after that trip.
By that time, Mom and her fireman husband had moved north further towards the city limits and I moved into a spare bedroom with them. Quickly obtaining a job in a wood processing plant I worked hard and bought the car of my dreams. A 1961 MGA convertible. (that job is in a column on this web page titled ‘Freedoms bouquet with Tea’)
At this time, there was a war overseas in Viet Nam and the national draft was working strong. I was very 1A which means top of the list. I signed up with a Navy Recruiter to be assigned to the Nuclear Submarine force as a Nuclear Technician. They still call them Boats. I had the intellect and Electronics experience with straight A’s in math so it was a shoe in. The recruiter did not reveal two things to me: I had glasses and my color vision had some issues. This story continues in several columns: ‘Santa Fe Super Chief’ and ‘A sister in Laguna Beach’ Enjoy the stories, they are all true
There is a common feeling and conversational platitude. When asked where did you grow up, we usually respond with the name of a city or region of the world. Appearing to be clever or witty some of us will say “in a house” but where when the slight smile goes with the second question, the answer is a nice neighborhood. A sheen of ‘normality’ and wit to deflect focus from ourselves.
Some of us grew up in homes that were destroyed physically or internally. Our childhood is not just a growing up like a house plant. We are awake and like the potters clay, are formed into someone unique and beautiful as our creator meant us to be.
Our world is filled with people that grow like trees, all of us have a heritage of leaves and branches and roots that grab a hold. We are meant to grow near streams of living water and our roots then go deep and we grow strong. That image has been written about and sung.
Images of buck thorn also come to mind and the pain of touching one of those is not forgotten. What happened to creation and why was it there? We want to cut it down. I don’t like them and it seems they don’t like me either. It is then that judgment on many grow. I think of the superintend”of a dormitory that Anne of Green Gables lived at when she was in college. Anne described her as ‘prickly as a cactus” Katherine Brook. She was portrayed as that.
A potter can throw clay on the wheel and when it is fired and glazed it becomes a work of the hands. “The colors are off” A painting of beauty seen before the first brush stroke comes forth framed and a thorny one remarks that there is a smudge on the corner. Written poetry is put on paper and given to another. “Oh, I really like that image of the withered branch!” But a critic notices a spelling mistake or a missing comma. Love within trapped by our own thorns.
A tree that has weathered storms can be gnarly or even destroyed. The work of the potters hand can be broken and written poetry can turn to ashes. Chainsaws, anger and indifference are the tools wielded by the thorny ones. I use a chainsaw by the way, a small one to cut down prickly ash and buckthorn. No one likes those except Goats who eat them.
The question for me and you is, am I a buck thorn among the grove? Do I find fault instead of the poetry of creation? Do I listen and see the light? There are many things that can change us into grapevines that tear down the trees. We have our excuses, some dredged up by a therapist we did not know was an operating system in our hypothalamus! I was told I had 6 tenths of a second to differentiate between a threat or an old memory. It took a while to deal with that but it is possible.
A hand gesture like a pointed finger, a tone of voice spoken what seems harsh. Triggers that instantly made me run away, to get away. To leave that danger by the small boy that still lives inside. PTSD from experiences recent or long past. All the same fear and loss.
As children we are much more aware of our world than we know. We draw conclusions about our world, nurtured or abandoned. Abused or cuddled. Fully alive, taking it all in and processing to make sense of where we are and who we are.
I think of John the Baptist and Jesus in their mothers wombs. Joyful at meeting one another before they were born. Why is that in the Bible? Tender words, gentle voices that guide us. We know who is our mother. It feels so good and perfect when a very new person responds to our smile and soft words. “Be like children” good idea, the best advice given by the One who made us. Again, Anne of Green Gables, a kindred spirit like two tuning forks ringing together.
Just close your eyes and think what it will be like when Jesus opens His arms and smiles as He embraces us. In His presence, all fear is gone. Eternity, is calling me away, eternal song is calling me home. It’s still there in our spirit, the wish to be seen and wholly loved. It’s me, the prodigal son. I see my Father running towards me. My tears he holds in His heart and He cries them over me as we embrace. Eternities, eternal song, is calling me; calling me away, calling me home. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe
I and my dad came up north (way north of 8) to build a cabin in the middle of the last century. Dad had a really 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 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 em’ to low”
The 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 too 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 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 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 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.
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 those white fleshed and fried in butter morsels. 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 much 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 both older and with our own 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 then. The lake shore is filled with cabins now. The fish population was diminished in an equal ratio.
It was grand and now and then, just me and 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.
They had to get the ‘big’ V hull boat loaded up and then start the motor. Dad always used artificial jigs and spoons, so no bait was needed. 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(with dad at the helm) 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 but the sounds were similar. I would be back in that small channel just like that. Sounds do that for me. They are music and that’s pretty OK. Music will moves me as a masterpiece of any art can.
I liked the sound of the small motor at the transom too and especially the smell of mix gas. There were 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. Over five decades later I got some answers to my questions from Jesus, my friend who created 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.
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. Jack Gator
And there he was for Dorothy to discover, the man behind the curtain. Pay no attention to him but how could she ignore the blustering sounds? The thundering and loud voice, sending out many thousands of oversize postcards that were so slick that other mail slipped over it. Going to the mailbox for real information was difficult as the lobbyist’s large glossy mailings were in the way. She saw her attention was drawn to the fearful words written in Red or Blue.
She felt she was dreaming when the source of confusion and fear came into view. Pay no attention indeed. As though she can pay no attention to the wind.
There was a battle going on for Oz and it was hard to tell friend from foe.
She met new friends and they were very odd and in many ways, just like her. There was a tough guy that she knew had no heart for the battle and the thunder coming from the Lobbyist. He was very shiny but weak as tin foil.
There was a very peaceful man that also appeared tough in a softer way but confessed he had no courage for battle of any kind. He appeared to be a huge orange cat and roared instead of purring. He was very furry and gentle.
The third one was very odd and actually was trying to be scary! A scarecrow that stood among them all and waved arms of straw and obviously had no brains whatever. The scarecrow made no sense but kept up the behavior nonetheless. The scarecrow seemed friendly enough and had a big smile and with lot’s of laughter but was hard to understand as it kept repeating words. It said a lot of unkind things about Oz and everyone who lived there too.
As Wallace and his dog would say, “no use prevaricating about it” The lion was very tired of the scarecrow and all the lobbying that ‘shouted’ to listen to the laughter. He had enough, and found enough courage to tell the scarecrow to stop waving arms and laughing at him. He pushed back and the scarecrow toppled over rather quickly.
Astonished, the Tin foil man and the huge cat looked where the scarecrow had stood and there was nothing left but what appeared to be blue pants and a blue suit coat with the straw whispering around it. The straw blew away and the gust of wind that brought Dorothy to Oz now awakened her when her red slippers fell and made a loud sound when they came together next to her bed.
It was quite a dream and somehow, she felt it was also a part of her life. Things have never been the same since. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator Scribe Esq.
A saying I attribute to Sitting Bull. He spoke of the two wolves inside of us as well. I wondered about this wisdom this morning and ran across more wisdom from Michelle O’Rourke. The little bulls are the battle we have with the little deaths we all must experience in our lives.
The loss’ of physical strength or stability in using what I have left. The bull of my early times swinging spike malls and 16 pound sledge hammers. I agonize over that when I should just join that death with me being the matador and the bull, joined with that blade.
We all have them, those little bulls we embrace. The world inside that speaks failure and personal weakness or loss as the source. To rise up from the sand and brandish the blade and put that snorting thought to death. There are also the worlds many wolves that linger, just beyond the glow of our inner campfire. Eyes lit and eager to pounce upon our sense of worth and trample the fire.
That indeed is the leader of the wolf pack, sense of worth destroyer. I think I am worthless because of changes that come to us all. Physical strength, provision fears. What will become of me when those around me see this?
We indeed do change as we approach death. In old age or in disease or accident. All of us.
My favorite quote from Woody Allen: “I am not afraid of death, I just don’t want to be there when it happens” Why do I cling so hard to my little bulls when I know they must die with me as everyone knows. Playing games within that Jesus will return and I will just be caught up with Him. Maybe I am akin to Enoch and will just ‘leave’ (after a long life) or Elijah who ascends in a flamed out custom chariot with really fancy custom wheels.
Better to listen to our God with his Mighty hand and outstretched arm that delivers time after time and tells me how much He loves me and will never leave me. Loves me the way only He does.
Many times He has shown me my true worth. Small things that are even bigger than the wolves that whisper and howl. He says, “Go here and talk to someone I will show to you” A purpose and all I have got within me. The reason I have had things happen that I can’t explain as excellent and good. My life unfolding with a mystery of loss and gain. Not embracing my mind and the abilities that I have been given as my very own brilliance and creation.
Indeed, the blade must go deep and true to put to death all those thoughts of self importance.
Listen to the creator of all things brilliant. He will give you all the encouragement and worth you ever have needed. He will turn your losses, your grief, and sadness into joy as you dance in the light of His light. Sit at His campfire and the wolfs of the world will not dare approach. It’s pretty good. Jack Gator
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