March 30th…….“SHARE ONE OF YOUR MOTHER’S TALENTS THAT YOU SAW AS A LITTLE BOY ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA”?

POEM – “Mother’s Nicest Gift” by N. Elliott Noorlun (from 5/5/2010)……

Note: Our mother, Clarice, LOVED to quilt!!! This analogous poem parallels her personal traits with her talents of quilting; thus “Mother’s Nicest Gift”. Ohh, by the way, March 30th 1919 was our beloved mother’s birthday (1919 – 2017).

The nicest gift, My mother made me, Had a hidden start.

For she began, With silver strands, From wrappings ’round her heart.

With those glistening, silver strands, She then proceeded to weave,

In precious deeds of love, A golden ‘quilt’ I did receive.

The batting of her ‘quilt’ for me, Is cushioned with each thought,

Of her love and prayers for me, My best she always sought.

The pattern stitched, Upon this ‘quilt’, Has colors in every hue.

Designs depicting, The godly life, Of my mother so faithful and true!!

March 29th………“WHAT NORMAL DUTY, IN THE COURSE OF YOUR CUSTODIAL WORK AT BATTLE GROUND SCHOOL DISTRICT, TURNED OUT EMBARRASSINGLY BAD”?

“WHO’S OUT THERE”!!!!! Came the fiercely fomented feminine flashes of fire-breathing words from within.

During my tenure of thirty one years with the Battle Ground School District, I often had the pleasure of helping care for the classic facility known as Central Elementary School within the city limits of Battle Ground, Washington.

I’ve heard that dear old Central Elementary School had been constructed in the mid 1930’s by local craftsmen employed by the Works Progress Administration (WPA). The 1930’s were the years during which our nation endured what was called “The Great Depression”. The Stock Market Crash of 1929 had crushed our economy and millions of Americans were without employment and the means to even feed their families. The Administration of President Franklin D. Roosevelt helped initiate the WPA to put as many of those people back to work in helping building schools, bridges, roads, etc.. Central Elementary was one of those WPA building projects there in our quaint town of Battle Ground.

Between the years 1972 and 2003, I was one of many support staff who worked in this elegantly constructed school building. Being a lover of history, I looked forward to each time my floor maintenance partner and I would arrive with our equipment and settle in to Central to clean and wax their floors.

There was an aura of immense majesty in the sheer size of that edifice of education. There were ornate wood carvings, at one time, on the corner posts of the main entry near the school office. Those multi-paned, double glass doors gave their trumpeted announcement of your entry by the squeaking hinges that needed some lubricated tender-loving-care on a more regular basis.

Once inside, I’d climb those wide, interior steps to experience the extra-wide hallways covered with a product then called, “linoleum” floor covering (nowadays, a similar product is called ‘sheet vinyl’). By the color, wear and dimpling effect, I’d ascertain that these floors may have been original from the school’s early days.

To step into any classroom of the upper, original building was like stepping back into a time-capsuled episode of “The Waltons” television show, that had, itself, been set in the historical period of the 1930’s. Here, in the early 1970’s, there still hung massive slate chalkboards which dominated the walls as you stepped inside. The weight of your feet on those beautiful wooden floors created a creaking sound of mellow seasoning which had been lent over the many decades of school children transiting education’s portals.

That year, Spring Break came around and all students and staff were home for a whole week of enjoying playtime, tulips and daffodils……….or so I thought!!!

One of my daily duties, even as a seasonal floor cleaner, was to patrol the building and campus to see if all was well before starting my work day of scrubbing and waxing Central Elementary’s floors. As I keyed my way into the empty school building, only my footsteps could be heard echoing a reply off the walls of that ‘mile-long’ hallway.

Near the school office, there was a little Staff Restroom. It appeared that the door was ajar and a glowing light emitted from the threshold area at floor level. I assumed that some negligent person, the previous evening, had likely forgotten the light on when they went home. Again, assuming that the door was ajar, I placed my foot against the thin wooden panel of that 1930’s era door and began to push it open so I could turn off the light. The pressure of my foot against, what actually was a tightly latched door, made the wooden veneer panel let out with a crackle/crunch sound. Another push would’ve likely sent my foot clear through the door and into the restroom. “WHO’S OUT THERE!!?? WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING”!!?? Ohhhh myyyy goodness!! There was someone inside that restroom……and it was a LADY, no less…..and it sounded like Mimi Burda (the school librarian)!!! I was mortified at what I had just done by unintentionally disrupting the sanctity of her moment in that restroom!!!

I was thoroughly and deeply embarrassed!!! I’m sure she was thinking the worst and I surely didn’t want to endure the wrath of Mrs. Burda upon her exiting her domain of privacy. So, being quiet, scared and fast as a rabbit, I flew to the end of that hallway and hid around the corner. Like a lioness from her lair, Mimi emerged from the restroom and out into that empty hallway. Being safely out of sight at my corner and with ears peeled, I heard her steps begin to leave the hall and I timidly peeked around the corner. Sure enough, it was Mimi Burda!!! Of all the woulda-shoulda-couldas out there, that fiasco was one super embarrassing moment for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!!! 😉

March 28th……“GRANDPA, DID YOU HAVE A TELEVISION ON YOUR FARM IN YOUR YOUNG MINNESOTA DAYS? WHAT HAPPENED IF IT BROKE DOWN”?

POEM – “The TV Guy Came By” by N. Elliott Noorlun. Created January 26th, 2019.

Ahhhhh for the days,

When the TV guy,

Would hear our call,

And to our house would fly.

With big tool box,

Full of tubes galore,

He’d spread them out,

O’er the Living Room floor.

For the television sets,

Back in our time,

Used to weigh so much,

It was almost a crime.

But with a twist of tools,

And a fuse tube or two,

T’weren’t long before,

Our TV was as good as new!!! 😉

March 27th…...”GRANDPA, WHEN YOU WERE A TINY TODDLER, ON YOUR FARM NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA, DID YOUR PARENTS HAVE TO WATCH AFTER YOU TO KEEP YOU FROM PICKING UP ANY CREATURE OR THING THAT WAS DANGEROUS?”

POEM – “Low To The Ground” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Back yonder when, I was low to the ground,

Enjoying the magic, Of life’s touch and sound,

It was easy in those days, To bend real low,

And see where the flowers, And bugs did grow.

My hand touched each thing, Be it good or bad,

But was shaken from grip, By my mom or dad.

I didn’t know, What was good or foul,

But my folks sure did, And how they would howl!

But now in my gray-head, Advancing old years,

That are filled with pains, And falling down fears,

I once again wish, That I could return,

To that sweet young time, With energy to burn.

Back when it was easy, To get low to the ground,

Where youth and its treasures, Were easily found!!!

March 26th………“GRANDPA, WHAT HAPPENED ON THE FARM IF YOUR MOM HUNG GARMENTS ON THE CLOTHESLINE OUTSIDE TO DRY IN THE WINTER”?

POEM – “Frigidly Frozen Fabric Friends” by N. Elliott Noorlun

There was ‘Frederick’ and ‘Freida’, With ‘Frank’ and ‘Flo’,

Hung at frozen attention, Above winter’s snow.

Along with red rigid ‘Reginald’, And cool crusty ‘Cal’,

They all looked like people, Just no bodies for pal.

For even in winter, Farm clothes had to be washed,

To rid them of dirt, sweat, And germs to be quashed.

E’en though most of the moisture, Gone by wind’s dry effect,

Just enough was left in, To make clothes ‘stand’ erect.

It was just as if Mom, Was the ‘arm of the law’,

Cleaning fabric outlaws, Of me Sis and our Paw.

Though it be winter or summer, Or seasons between,

Mom’s froze fabric friends, Made us feel really clean!!! 😉

March 25th……..“HAVE YOU EVER HAD THE CHANCE TO RIDE ON OR DRIVE A SNOWMOBILE? WHERE? AND WHAT WAS IT LIKE”?

As if prodded awake from his cozy winter’s hibernation, I heard a blood-curdling roar in the sound of what resembled a tall, standing Alaskan Grizzly Bear. Needless to say, I was about to wet my teenage pants as I trembled in his presence. The presence, that is, of my very tall and very unhappy Uncle Barney Hollembaek. It was March of 1972 and I had accepted the invitation of my Uncle Barney to keep him company as we drove from Washington State, up the Alaska/Canadian Highway (the Alcan) all the way up to his hometown of Palmer, Alaska.

Barney Hollembaek held a commanding presence ever since his service in the United States Marine Corps during World War II. He became part of our family’s clan when he married our dad’s beautiful sister, Ileen. These two were a classic dynamic duo as they set their sights on the rugged lifestyle and raw beauty of Alaska. In the course of their years, there in “The Last Frontier” State, Barney and Ileen had begun a business in Palmer called “Knik Farm Supply”. As owner/operator of that prosperous business, our uncle often came down to “The Lower 48” to buy machines, livestock, etc. to ferry back up to the north country and his clients in waiting. I had accompanied him back to his hometown, on this particular trip, and it was here that I had my first grand encounter with snowmobiling.

Over 2,377 miles had separated my cousin Eric Hollembaek and myself over the years since his birth in the late 1950’s. So, in a real sense, it was like meeting my cousin for the first time on my initial pilgrimage to the ‘frozen northland’ of Alaska. And frozen it WAS! At the end of March, while the “Lower 48” were welcoming the season of spring, snow was still king here in Palmer, Alaska and all was white with its pristine elegance. For being, in a sense, strangers, my cousin and I hit it off famously in my first days as his family’s guest. The expansive lands of the Hollembaek ranch were snuggled up against the vertical peaks of the Chugach Mountains.

Being a young buck of 18 years and looking for fun, I was an eager beaver student in learning all about these marvels called snowmobiles. Between Uncle Barney and Cousin Eric, I was initiated in the basics of this amazing invention for having fun in the snow. Bundled up against the frigid wonders of all this beauty about me, I put on some safety goggles and climbed aboard ‘the sled’ as often as I possibly could to zip from here to there in the crystalline air.

Then, on a moonlit night, pure wonderment happened. One night, under the radiance of a spectacular full moon, Eric and I fired up the snowmobiles for a night ride. Beneath those saw-tooth Chugach Mountains that raked the very stars with their peaks, we had been blessed with a new, deep layer of perfect powder snow there on the expansive L-shaped property there on the Hollembaek ranch.

There was really no need for headlights on the snowmobiles that night. The sheer brilliance of that luminescent moon above us reflected off of the pure white of the snow to make the appearance of noon time as we flew from one end of the snowfield to the other. On one quick turn, centrifugal forces threw me off of my motorized ‘steed’ and I found myself sinking almost to my waist in snow. What an elation to realize the buoyancy of my ‘sled’ that sat atop this white powder. Hopping back aboard my ‘powered pony’, I shot off at full throttle. Snow ‘dust’, from the front skis flew past me in icy tickles that stung my face in a wild, yet enjoyable way. In almost the same instant, though, a catastrophic cacophony of sounds happened under the hood of my snowmobile. Chunks of rubber had exploded, beneath the shroud, and now were pelting me in the face and chest. My ‘sled’ came to a quick halt, yet the engine was running fine as I revved it up to try to move. Cousin Eric slid up alongside me and informed me that my machine must’ve broken its drive belt.

It was easily 10pm, or later, when Eric had me climb aboard his snowmobile for the tandem ride that took us back to their home. Uncle Barney was an advocate of ‘early to bed/early to rise’ kinda guy, so he’d been warm in his bed for an hour or two already when we panic-stricken boys had to wake him up to the bad news about my dead rig out there in the nighttime snow field. Like the roaring grizzly bear I had shared about earlier, I was about to wet my teenage pants as Barney came growling out of his bedroom and ordered me to “HANG ON”!!! as Barney took the driver’s seat and I piggy-backed with him onto Eric’s snowmobile. I was hanging on for dear life as we rocketed back out to the distant field where my dead ‘sled’ rested. Let’s just say that my uncle’s vociferous voice volunteered vocatives that vehemently vaporized in the frozen air while he fixed the snowmobile for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

March 24th……..“GRANDPA, DID YOU LIKE TO RUN WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA”?

POEM – “All Pistons A-Firing” by N. Elliott Noorlun

When my heart was young, With all pistons a-firing,

I never conceived, Of a thing called tiring.

Whether running to the barn, Or back to the house,

I thrilled with the joy, Of flying like grouse!

I’d outrun my dog, In his four-legged pace,

Then kerplop with my sandwich, To feed little boy face.

And even at night, I’d run to yonder field,

To gaze at the stars, Oh Heaven’s bright yield.

The years now have passed, I’ve no energy to spare.

Young heart once within, Is no more I just stare.

But I’m thankful to God, That He gave me years,

When I flew so swift, Without any fears.

With a heart full of power, In my youthful hour,

His praises still sung, Of when my heart was aflower.

For inside I’m still that little boy, Who truly loved to run,

Across farm fields, In their golden yields, And ran from sun to sun.

March 23rd……..“SHARE WITH US, GRANDPA, DID YOU HAVE CHICKENS ON YOUR FARM IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA? AND, IF SO,WHAT WAS IT LIKE”?

Ohhh myyy, how the air ….was…BLUE in that place!!!!, but in a happy farmer sort of way. Unlike the afore mentioned idiom, which is commonly used in describing vulgar language or outright feelings of anger, this ‘blue’ environment had a more manly hometown aura to it and the friendly ‘blue’ was due to the visiting farmers smoking their pipes and/or cigarettes as they enjoyed their agrarian fellowship for the next few hours. You see, it was another “Lucky Bucks” Saturday evening in our lovely hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.

To encourage families to shop and support our local economy, business owners, in our village, got together and pooled their resources to create a $50 “Lucky Bucks” giveaway every Saturday evening. Some folks may say, “Fifty dollars!!! That’s so much money back then”!! Well, even in the early 1960’s, a $50 ‘kitty’ was easy to create when 10 or more businessmen contributed a mere $5.00 each to the cause.

A local person’s name was pre-selected each week by the collective store owners. At 9pm, each Saturday night, the town’s fire siren, atop a tall steel tower, would sound its horn with one long wail. Everyone on Main Street easily heard the siren and would then step inside any store they were near and hear the name of that week’s winner. If farmer ‘John Doe’ wasn’t in town that week, the prize got $50 richer the following week. There were a few times, the coveted prize money coffer grew to $200 or more (which was quite a bit of money in the 1960’s). It was a win/win situation for all. The town businesses grew from the support of residents who lived nearby and families, who had purchased those goods, necessary for daily life, had fun fellowshipping with much loved neighbors, too.

Our handsome farmer father, Russell, had loaded his Norwegian family into our ’56 red-n-white Chevrolet Bel Air as we made our weekly pilgrimage to town for Mom to do her weekly shopping while us youngsters found school and church chums to enjoy playing with. We youngin’s would run all over our sweet hamlet to enjoy as much playtime as possible until we heard Dad’s shrill whistle for Candi and myself to head for the car. On those fun evenings, Dad usually would saunter over to Paul Gilbert’s “Kiester Produce House” store to pick up some new baby chicks (in season), or Purina Chicken Chow to feed our brood of hens back at the farm.

The smoke-laced aroma of “Prince Albert” pipe tobacco and “Camels” cigarettes hung fragrantly ‘blue’ in the air as I’d stop by this place of business to say HI to Dad and his farmer ‘brothers’ huddling there at Paul Gilbert’s store. Paul had a pleasant magnetism about him that drew farmers not only as customers, but as friends and fellow brothers in the Lord. For you see, Paul and his dear wife also worshipped with us at our Grace Evangelical United Brethren Church there in town. If there wasn’t a chair or a counter top to sit on during that weekly fellowship of friendly farmers, there was usually a soft bag of Purina feed to gently rest yourself upon as this gaggle of guys talked about everything from farm ideas, to politics, to the weather. I found the ‘blue haze’ of that manly environment very inspiring and I loved to be the proverbial ‘mouse in a corner’ and just listen to their farmer brotherhood conversations. After the 9pm “Lucky Bucks” announcement, it was time to head back to our farm place with our groceries, happy memories and the chicken feed.

Besides the clanging bells inside of our old-fashioned wind-up alarm clocks, we had the feathered fanfare of our roosters to cock-a-doodle-doo us awake every morning. With every step of our young feet across the yard, one could hear the clucks and chatters of the hens in our chicken house (or coop, as some farmers call it). Stepping inside the door, you saw straw-filled, wooden cubicles that lined the walls. Inside each cozy cubicle, a ‘Henny Penny’ was busy laying eggs beneath her. With a basket in hand, it was one of our chores to collect those eggs for our own tasty breakfasts as a family. The extra eggs we gathered were cased up and taken to Mr. Gilbert’s store to be ‘candled’ (with a bright light to see if a little chick was inside) and sorted. Our very own Aunt Bonnie Noorlun was one of those employees for Mr. Gilbert that rapidly picked up eggs and placed them upon a lighting device to ‘candle’ the egg to see if it was o.k. for sale to the local grocery store. Our family received money from “Kiester Produce” for those eggs which became another source of making money from our farm.

When it came to feeding our farm family, chickens were one of our sources of meat. Since chickens could be quite fast in running from us, big brother Lowell talked about using a poultry catching device called a “Chicken Hook”. It consisted of a long, stiff metal rod, with an almost closed hook on the end of it. With quicker reflexes than those flighty birds, it was used to reach under a ‘clucker’ and quickly hook her by one of her legs. The hen was then given to Mom who’d grab the bird by the head and quickly twist the neck, to snap and break it; thereby mercifully ending the bird’s life as fast as could be done. The chicken’s body was then draped over a wooden chopping block and the swift swing of a sharpened hatchet’s chop would sever the head from the body. To allow the nervous energy, still within the bird’s body, to ‘play out’, Mom would then throw the chicken under a large, upside down metal tub to let the bird flop and ‘run around’ to ‘bleed out’ and let that last energy dissipate to stillness.

Of course, there was the day when our toddler sister, Candi, learned the true meaning of the euphemism about someone “Running around like a chicken with your head cut off”. Our tender and youngest sibling was shadowing our mother as she was butchering chickens that day. The realities of farm life were about to be witnessed first hand for little sister. Mom grabbed the next chicken and chopped off its head. Before she could get ahold of it to throw it under the large, galvanized tub to bleed out, the headless chicken ran wildly around the wide expanse of our farmyard with blood spurting out the neck veins where once its head used to be. Needless to say, our tiny sister just stood there in shocked awe of the last bloody seconds of this bird’s life before it finally bled out and plopped dead upon the ground. For the longest time, our little sister refused to eat any chicken that Mom cooked for our family dinners. 😉

A small fire was kept going under a metal five gallon bucket of boiling water. The chicken’s feathered body was held by the legs and dunked into that boiling water to help ‘release’ the feathers so they could be plucked clean from its body. Brother Lowell talked about being kept busy with dunking the birds and plucking feathers as fast as possible during that production phase of butchering. From there, Mom would chop off the claws and lower legs and, after removing the internal organs of the bird, would then cut up the meat for wrapping in preparation for our family freezer.

On a bit lighter aside, little sister, Candi, remembers how ornery and downright mean some of those chickens could be. She recalls instances, where ‘Cranky Clucker Clarence’ (my name for him) would peck at her ankles whenever she was trying to be obedient to Mom’s request for someone to “go pick eggs”. There our cute little sis was, trying to be a mom-honoring little farm girl, and she was literally getting ‘picked on’ as she’d reach inside those nests to gently pull out the eggs to fill her basket. I suppose old ‘Cranky Clucker Clarence’ was getting his ‘point’ (beak) across that this was HIS chicken coop on the farm of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

March 22nd……..“HOW OLD WAS GRANDPA RUSSELL WHEN HE DIED? WHAT CAUSED HIS DEATH”?

T’was a dark night, in 1975, when those ominous headlights, in the rear view mirror, were coming up fast and beginning to fill that reflective glass. With no indication of their slowing down, and no way of escape, Russ braced himself the best he could in that old 1958 Chevrolet Stepside pickup truck. Just a couple more seconds ticked by and kerrrBAMMM!!!!! that approaching car rear-ended the truck and Russ was knocked unconscious by the impact.

During part of his tenure as Head Custodian for the Battle Ground, Washington School District, our father, Russell Noorlun, drove the District’s pickup truck to and from his school each day. Not only was he custodian at Glenwood Heights Elementary School, but he was also a “Mail Man” and “Delivery Driver”, too. Each morning, Dad would stop at the District office to pick up and deliver school mail and any supplies that were bound for Glenwood or Laurin Intermediate schools.

On that fateful night, Russell was finished with his work shift at school and rolled out onto NE 117th Avenue as he headed that old Chevy north towards Battle Ground, Washington and home sweet home. Flashing police lights, up ahead, signaled an accident being cared for, so Dad down-shifted that old Chevy pickup as he rolled to an obedient stop while officers cared for those in the accident just in front of him. What Russ didn’t know, was that HE TOO would be in an accident in just another minute or so. The culprit who hit our father’s truck was a sorry excuse for a man. To be driving his car in a fully drunken stupor, he came flying up that same avenue behind our father. That terribly irresponsible man, with his senses completely numbed by alcohol, ‘ate the steering wheel’ on impact and lost all of his teeth as his car became a battering ram and crashed, full speed, into our dear daddy. Now there were TWO accidents on the highway that night and our poor father was one of them.

After transport to a local hospital, our precious father was released to go home with a neck brace and bruises to suffer with for the next few weeks. From that day forward, in my own humble opinion, that accident signaled the declining phases of our father’s life here on earth. For the next four and a half years, Dad complained of a number of physical ailments. He often went to see his P.A. (Physician’s Assistant) and followed that man’s advice who said it was “Just your nerves, Russ! Eat more whole grains and health foods”. Well, it is my hindsight conjecture that, unbeknownst to our daddy, that rear end collision, in 1975, had triggered an injury to his pancreas that was beginning to metastasize as a cancer within him.

Summer of 1979 saw our sweet sister, Rosemary, accompanying Mom and Dad on a vacation back to our beloved family in Minnesota and Iowa. Upon waking one morning, there in the farmlands he knew so well, everyone saw that Dad’s whole countenance had become jaundiced. He was yellow/green in his skin coloring from head to toe and bloodshot eyes, too. Our dear father was immediately flown back home to the Northwest while Mom and Rosemary drove the family car back, as fast as they could, from Minnesota. The doctors who operated on Dad, there at the Kaiser Hospital in Portland, Oregon, could not do anything because of the pancreas being fully involved with that cancer. The doctors told him to ‘put your house in order’, meaning Dad didn’t have very long to live now. Every person’s body reacts to cancer in their own way. His doctors said our father might have a year of life left, or even ten years. Alas, though, the cancer ate away, within our daddy, at a fast pace.

Here was the mighty and handsome Norwegian father who helped create me and joined with our mother as they rejoiced in my birth back in 1954. He was able to toss me into the air like a toy, back in my tiny days, and I often watched him exhibit his manly power through many ways and times on our farm back in Minnesota times. But now? Poor Daddy. He could barely make the short trek from his bedside to the bathroom. Even then, I had to help him have a seat on the commode and be there to help lift him off again. So frail, and barely able to stand, he was. One day in the bathroom, after assisting him to a standing position, I held my beloved daddy in my arms, there in that bathroom, and gave him a kiss on his hollow, whiskered cheek as I said, “I sure love you Dad”!!!! To which he tenderly responded, through his pain, “I love you too, Son”!!! The chemotherapy and related drugs he took, to relieve some of his suffering, also seemed to alter his ability to stay ‘in the present moment’. One day, as I was visiting with my brother, Lowell, out in front of our house, Mom stepped out the front door and said, “Elliott, Dad wants to see you in his bedroom”. “Sure, Mom, I’m on my way”. Now, it had been over 13 years since we sold our farm, back in Minnesota, yet, when I arrived in their bedroom, Dad had a yellow, gel-filled, see-through Vitamin E capsule in his hand. Giving me his farming advice he said, “Elliott, if the cows get mastitis, you break this open and rub it on their tits and they’ll be just fine”. Well, knowing Dad’s deteriorating condition, I wasn’t about to argue with him about the fact that we no longer had a farm and cows. I just acknowledged his offered wisdom and said, “Sure, Dad, I’ll remember to do that”. All the while, with tears welling up within me and streaming down my cheek.

God, in His lovingkindness, had allowed our handsome daddy to see the completion of 61 years of life here on earth. Yet, father was not destined to see anymore years in this life, for on February 19th of 1980, after a valiant courage shown, Russell Conrad Noorlun left his cancer-ridden body for the portals of Heaven.

In those days, there were very few, if any, cell phones to let me know Dad was being taken by ambulance to the hospital. The only ‘modern’ communication device I had then was called “pager”. By the time I had received a page and had arrived down at the Greeley Avenue Kaiser Hospital……Daddy was gone from us in death. Our patriarch was no more. While Mom and our family waited out in the lobby, a nurse led me into the Emergency Room, and then around a curtained corner to see Dad still laying on the gurney from the ambulance ride. There lay the lifeless, body shell of who was once our beloved daddy. No longer did he live within that empty frame that had carried him through 61 years and 171 days of life here below. His lifeless eyes gazed at that hospital ceiling, but they no longer registered life. His crossing of that threshold into eternity, to this very day of writing this, brings a flowing of tears in my mourning.

As Christians, though, we do not mourn as others do. In the New Testament book of 2nd Corinthians Chapter 5 and Verse 8 it says: “We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and present with the Lord”. Yes, we miss the daily fellowship of our father deeply, but, I know that I will once again enjoy full fellowship with Russell Conrad Noorlun in Heaven someday and tell him, once again, that he is loved by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! ><>

March 21st………“AS A FAMILY, DID YOU HELP YOUR FATHER, IN HIS WORK AS A SCHOOL CUSTODIAN, AT GLENWOOD HEIGHTS ELEMENTARY SCHOOL IN THE BATTLE GROUND SCHOOL DISTRICT”?

My pile of school books were still bouncing on my bed as I spun around and headed out the door with Mom and little sister, Candi. It was once again Friday afternoon and time to jump inside our brand new 1967 Dodge Coronet 500 for the drive down to our father’s new work career jobsite.

We had sold our family farm in Minnesota in July of ’67 and Dad had begun working as the new Head Custodian at Glenwood Heights Elementary School near Vancouver, Washington (which is yet part of the Battle Ground, Washington School District). Just like the popular television show of that era, ours was a “Family Affair” when it came to helping our dad get his work done. Just as in our previous vocation of farming, success was achieved by a team effort. Therefore, we three were in route each Friday afternoon to assist Dad in whatever chores we could perform there in his school that he cared for.

Being young teenagers, and full of energy’s spunk, little sister, Candice, and I were assigned the weekly task of cleaning 60 chalkboards (20 classrooms times 3 chalkboards each) and burning the trash in the monstrous incinerator back behind the school building. Every aspect of life was new to us since moving here to the Pacific Northwest and I, for one, relished each new adventure……even cleaning chalkboards.

To help us transition and familiarize us with this new school building, we looked to the jovial and good-natured custodian helper that worked with our father in his new career. This handsome young man was Ray Zimmerman who would be graduating from Battle Ground High School in the soon to arrive late spring of 1968. With his friendly confidence, Ray helped my little sister and myself get used to Glenwood’s layout and this new way of life for us all as transplants from our farming days in Minnesota.

Schools, back in those dear days gone by, still used good old-fashioned white chalk on either traditional slate chalkboards or fiber boards painted with a “chalkboard paint”. After a week of teacher and student usage, the trays, below those chalkboards, were usually filled thick with white chalk dust and itty bitty pieces of broken or used up chalk ‘crayons’ (as one manufacturer called them). In residence, on those trays, were usually six, or more, small erasers that had become impregnated with white dust from erasing the chalkboard surface. Together, they made quite a mess to clean up. Some wise custodian, in the past, had come upon the bright idea of using a large, tough, cardboard ‘egg carton case’ to haul clean and dirty erasers. That originating custodian had also installed a wooden panel, with a carrying handle, at the center of said box and it worked very well in carting around our board cleaning supplies.

First, we’d each grab a small eraser from the tray and hard-rub all the writing from the board’s surface. Now removing all the dirty small erasers from the tray, we’d throw them into the dirty side of the ‘egg carton case’ box. Next, we’d take a rag to gently push the chalk dust from the tray and into a coffee can, leaving the tray nice and clean. Each of us then took a long, chamois-covered eraser to deep clean the chalkboard’s surface. We’d walk along the length of the chalkboard holding the long eraser tight against the surface. At the end of each pass, the chamois eraser was rubbed clean with a rag for the next pass on the board. When the board was groomed for the upcoming week, we’d then put out the same number of small, clean erasers as we had taken off in the beginning of this procedure.

With all sixty chalkboards cleaned, now came the fun part; well, for me at least. In Dad’s collection of custodian gadgets was this really cool electric machine, called “The Little Giant”, that was a combination of spinning brush and impellor fan that sucked the dust from erasers and deposited it into a fine cloth bag. For this former farm boy, though, I preferred to take the “Little Giant” outside the school building and clean the erasers outdoors withOUT the cloth bag. The kid in me loved to watch the massive white clouds of chalk dust fly into the air with each eraser’s pass over those spinning brushes. Upon inspection for cleanliness, each clean eraser now went neatly into the side of the ‘egg carton case’ box for clean erasers and sat in reserve to be used the following Friday afternoon.

Tall, cardboard barrels, onboard the long custodian cart, were filled to overflowing with mostly paper trash from the 20 classrooms each evening. Since most of that garbage was burnable, we’d pull that long cart outside to the northeast corner of the school property. Out back, all by its lonesome, was a gigantic metal incinerator for burning that refuse. It was fun to fill that monster to the brim with all of our school trash for that day and set it afire with a match or two. We’d then let the big metal lid go KAHBANG as it shut and trapped everything inside. With each passing minute, we could hear the roar of the fire within the beast climb to a higher and higher decibel as that day’s undesirables were consumed and smoke bellowed from the tall stack above our heads.

By this time of the evening, the sun had set and darkness enveloped the Northwest countryside around us. With Friday night chores completed for our dear daddy, it was now time to get his weekly reward of a delicious “Captain Crunch” ice cream or a “Double Delight” vanilla n fudge ice cream bar from Alda Nutter’s school kitchen. Alda was Glenwood’s beloved school kitchen manager and she was such a darling lady. Daddy paid her in advance each Friday for our ice cream, so after our teenager work was done, Dad keyed his way into the kitchen and popped open the ice cream freezer for our treat to enjoy. Until the end of our father’s work shift, we also were rewarded with a fun time in Glenwood’s gymnasium. Some Fridays, we played hoops, either just shooting baskets independently, or Candice and I would play a game of H-O-R-S-E. Other Friday nights, we’d play indoor frisbee, climb ropes to the ceiling and any number of other fun ideas contained in those big gray Physical Education cabinets.

Glenwood Heights got its name from resting on top of one of the highest promontories of land in that part of Clark County. And, with it being so situated, at night, you could gaze down and see the lights of Portland, Oregon sparkling in the far distance. Depending on my mood and energy level, some Friday nights, rather than play basketball, I’d just quietly enjoy my ice cream bar and gaze southwards to the city lights of Portland far off to the south horizon. Having come from a tiny town in the flatlands of Minnesota, I was mesmerized by the immense expanse of this large city that I beheld. While I pondered on those beautiful quiet lights in the distance, a revolving search/spot light on top of tall Rocky Butte, there in east Portland, would ‘wink’ at me each time it made its pass in the nighttime sky. This former farm boy was enthralled with the beauty of our new land that we called home for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.