May 12th…“WHAT WAS A SPECIAL NICKNAME YOUR MOTHER CALLED YOU AS A LITTLE BOY ON YOUR FARM?”
POEM – “Puny, Puckered, Pickle Ole Pete” by N. Elliott Noorlun
With cucumbers fresh, From garden near,
Mom’s kitchen resounded, With things I’d hear.
Pots n pans, Clinking Mason Jar tongs,
As steam from hot water, Would sing its songs.
I’d watch with baited, Culinary thrill,
As fragrance flowed, From sprigs of dill.
A touch of color, Added seasonings right,
Guaranteed the flavor’d, Be out of sight.
Mom knew her best customer, Of pickles to eat,
Was none other than, Puny, Puckered Pickle Ole Pete.
Be they “Bread n Butter” chips, Or sour dills,
My tummy never grumbled, Or showed any ills.
Pickled Watermelon Rinds, Were a treat from Heaven,
For this farmer boy, Turning six or seven.
And Mom’s Pickled Beets, Were a tangy delight,
That sent my taste buds, Clear outta sight.
From boiler pan to jar, Our tastes were never fickle,
This Pickle Ole Pete, Could eat every last pickle.
Lord, bless our mother, In Heaven up above,
For feeding her dear family, with pickles made with love.
Norwegian Farmer's Son 