August 3rd…“WHEN YOU WERE A TEENAGER, IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST, DID YOU EVER FIND THE LEGENDARY “BIGFOOT MONSTER”?

Born and raised in the “Volunteer State” of Tennessee, our next door neighbor, Mr. Chuck Gross, had the deepest southern drawl “ya’ll dun evah herd”.   This tall, lanky southern gentleman fed his family by tromping the forests of Southwest Washington State as a true-n-blue, real-life logger.   With his massive chainsaw, Chuck spent his life harvesting timber way up in the forested hills that have to do with today’s story.   For you see, these same mountainous hills, that Chuck called home five days a week, also were the alleged domain of a creature the Indians called “Sasquatch”…..also known as the “BIGFOOT”!!

We were blessed to have the Chuck Gross family move right next door to us there on what was then known as Hawthorne Street in Battle Ground, Washington.  Our father, Russell, and Mr. Gross, coming from the same generation and being a couple country boys, became fast friends.  These two dear men grew in their bond of respect and friendship until it wasn’t long at all before they were like two, long-lost brothers that had finally been re-united again.   Chuck’s youngest son, Robin (who we called Robbie), and I also became good buddies really quick.  On many a pleasant day, we could be found shooting basketball hoops at the backboard goal above the Gross family driveway.  Or, we’d have a fun ‘rassle’ on the carpet of green grass that grew lushly between our two houses.

On numerous starlit nights, we two rowdy boys, after a good rasslin’ match, would lay back on that cushion of green grass and stare at the stars while we rambled on and talked about our teenage life in general.   Sometimes, we’d even let our conversation wander into the spooky realm of stories that involved a giant, furry creature supposedly living in the forests of SW Washington that was called the “BIGFOOT”.  This giant creature of legend was alleged to be between 7 and 9 feet tall.

Being youngsters with vivid imaginations, we figured it’d be a ton of fun if Robby’s logger daddy would take us up into BIGFOOT country for some camping and boyhood adventure.  Chuck agreed, and the fun was about to begin.  Tum-Tum Mountain was a conical peak just past the campus of The International Paper Company near Chelatchie Praire, Washington.   That point was to be our gateway to the fabled landscapes that may just contain the folklore legend, BIGFOOT.  This former farm boy was both thrilled and scared at the same time.  Who knows, the three of us may just come face to face with the legendary creature himself??!!

Being the seasoned mountain man that he was, Chuck Gross had that 1960 Ford pickup truck of his packed to the gills with everything we needed for doin’ some fishin’ n campin’ in the wild country up yonder.  Heck, that man had everything ya’ll could imagine……..from food, fishin’ poles, lures, sleepin’ bags,  “skeeter” spray and he even packed a “surprise” that we didn’t learn about till later.  We three adventurers were all aboard as Chuck slipped that worn key into the ignition, and, with a twisting command, that old Ford came to life.   We Three Musketeers rambled on through the hills of Clark County Washington till we reached the edge of the Cascade Mountains.   We now crossed over into timber country owned by giant corporations like Weyerhaeuser (pronounced WAREHOUSER) and others.  Chuck knew these forests like the back of his hand since he lived up here five days a week.

After chugging around some cliffhanger logging roads, we finally arrived at our secluded camping site.  After some exploring and fishing, we set up camp.  Our master woodsman, Chuck, got us a giant campfire going and we settled in for an evening of eatin’ chow and listening to the forest around us as we chatted.   After a trout supper, the crackling campfire flames worked perfectly to make some roasted marshmallows and prepare us for a night of cool, wooded slumber.

As if on cue, that old stinker, Chuck, began to get all excited as he pointed behind us to a hill and exclaimed, “Hey guys!!!”, his southern drawl was heavy, “Ya’ll see them thar beady red eyes a glowin’ in the deestance?!”  “Well, hoo-dawgies, I do beeleeve that thar’s oneah them thar BIGFOOTS that caught wind of our fish cookin’ on dah farr!”   Robbie and I were thinking a combination of, “Yah, right old man!!”  and “Hmmmm,…….maybe?”

After enduring some more teasing from Chuck about BIGFOOT, we saw him slurp down his last cup of coffee for the night and settle down into his sleeping bag for a snore.  Robbie and I followed suit as we unzipped and climbed into our cylindrical sleeping apparatus…….better known as sleeping bags.  There we were in those natural surroundings, and, ya never know….. maybe something else was out there that was NOT so natural, ya?   Imaginations in high gear now, every snap of a branch in the woods around us made us jump.  Us two youngin’s with the heebeejeebees made sure that one of us kept a log on that fire all night long, in hopes of keeping that BIGFOOT monster away from our campsite and not eating us tender young morsels of meat for HIS supper!!!  Hehehee 😉

BIGFOOT must’ve been scared away from our roaring, all night campfire, right?   Not!  Foolish boys that we were.  The real surprise, though, came to us at dawn when Robby and I came awake and began to stretch our young bodies to a new day of life.  And, sure, we were thankful that we hadn’t been dragged away overnight and eaten by the monster of the woods.  What was that surprise?   Turns out Chuck Gross had kept a loaded pistol under his own pillow throughout the night!  Tables were now turned.  Robby and I launched into his dad with teasings that it was CHUCK who was ‘chicken’ for sleeping with a loaded gun under his head.  In his good-natured way, Chuck just shrugged off the tease as we all continued that very fun camping time that is still held a special memory for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

August 2nd…“DESCRIBE TO US THE ATTRIBUTES OF YOUR MINNESOTA CHILDHOOD’S FAMILY HOME.”

The back door was the front, and the front door was the back.  Sounds a bit silly, ya?  But, that’s the way our home sweet home was approached each day due to the U-shaped gravel driveway that circumnavigated the house we called home.   Folks coming to visit would just naturally follow that driveway around to the back, rather than stop alongside the house, get out of the car, walk across the lawn to the traditional front door and knock.

Though just for a minute, our true front door of the house was used in the mornings when we heard that metallic yellow banana of a school bus pull up out by our mailbox and honk its horn.  Like many an American family, we kids would be a hurryin’ and a scurryin’ to finish our breakfast, grab our school books and then our jackets.  Mom would pop the front door open and we young whippersnappers would rocket outta the house, across the lawn and straight as a bullet into the open, vertical school bus doors while Marie Meyer gave us her usual gregarious smile and greetings.

The Bible says, in Ecclesiastes 3:2, “There’s a time to be born…”.   Even though we’re uncertain of an exact year, we surmise that our farm home was “born” sometime in the middle 1860’s or so.  Before the Noorlun family enjoyed this quaint domicile, it was the childhood home of our landlord’s wife.  This large, fluffy farm wife’s maiden name was Tina Santmaier (or Sandmaier likely a German family).  A 1913 land plot map shows a family owning the land, at that time, by the name of S. K. Thompson.  Were these possibly the parents of Tina’s mother?   Then, by pure conjecture, Tina’s mother grew up to marry Mr. Santmaier and thereby it became the place of Tina’s young days?  Only the Lord knows for sure, but just think, when Tina’s ancestors came to this spot, there was nothing……just dirt……only the Indians had known this land up to that point in a time long before the White Man came.  All the farm buildings, including our home, had to be constructed from the ground up.  What a task that must’ve been for the original homesteading family.   As years passed, Tina married Morton Holstad and then they became the caretakers and farmers of her parent’s acreage.  In 1946, our parents, Russell and Clarice, heard that Morton and Tina were looking for someone to take over their farm as renters so that they could semi-retire to a home in our town of Kiester, Minnesota.  Our parents were elated to begin renting the farm and the Holstads, as our landlords, became yet another loving pair of surrogate grandparents for us young Noorlun children.

It’s true that “Home Is Where The Heart Is”.  And, even though our farm home was small and humble, by today’s standards, it was a “castle” for our Norwegian family to gather inside each day and give God praise for a place to stay warm, beds to sleep in (with cozy quilts over us) and even running water!!!   Our beloved mother, Clarice, shared that before I was born, in 1954, we didn’t have piped-in water to the house.  In today’s America, running water is taken for granted and even expected in a home.  Not then.  Even when pregnant with this little pre-born farm boy, our beloved mother had to bring water in buckets up from the Well House (also known as the Pump House) where it was pumped out of the ground.  She’d then have to lug those buckets inside the house for washing dishes, clothes and for doing her cooking.

In another instance of our farm home’s life, when I was a wee little farmer boy, I vividly remember that our home did NOT have a flushing toilet…….at least not yet.  In the bathroom of our house, there was place we kept a white porcelain (or ironstone) bucket known as a “Chamber Pot”.   We kept that pot about half-filled with water.  When “nature called” (also known as potty time), you’d take the top lid off the bucket and put down a “seat”for your little behind to rest on while you “done did yer duty”.  After you were finished with the normal human functions, you’d remove the “seat” and replace the original lid to cap the odor and looks of what was inside the “Chamber Pot”.   Of course, like proper boys n girls, then you’d wash your hands and leave the bathroom to enjoy the rest of your day.  At least once (or sometimes twice) a day, someone had the task of grabbing the wire bail by the handle and carry the “Chamber Pot”, with its full contents, out of the house, across the yard and over to the “Outhouse” (outdoor potty).  Off would come the lid and the odoriferous nasty contents were poured down the hole of the “Outhouse” potty pit.

One night, I had the need to go downstairs to use the “Chamber Pot” in the bathroom.  Half asleep, I trudged into the bathroom and groggily took the top lid off the pot.  What I failed to do, in my almost sleep-like trance, was to put down the “seat” for my behind to rest on.  Lost in my hazy thoughts of returning to slumber, I lowered my little bitty butt cheeks lower and lower till they actually touched that icy cold and nasty water.  YIKES!!! I was INSTANTLY awake and shot bolt upright to a standing position!!  I think I even lost the urge to “go”!!!  Hehehehe 😉

Stepping inside our back screen door had us entering the pantry/porch area.  We kept a large chest freezer in there for massive storage of meats from our animals, chickens, ice cream and any other food that needed to stay frozen.  We also had a milk pasteurizer in there to make our cow’s milk even safer to drink for our family.  In the color photo of our house (here in this story), you can see a pink, cement block chimney with a window on each side of it.  That was our family kitchen.  Mom and Dad’s Bedroom was to the north of the Kitchen.   An open archway from the Kitchen took us into our family Living Room (color photo with downstairs window to the far right).   A small downstairs Bedroom was to the north of our Living Room.  Upstairs were two Bedrooms.  Brothers had the small room, sisters had the larger Bedroom.

Although rough-hewn in its rock walled construction, our family home basement was a veritable gold mine, of sorts.  There were two entries to this subterranean vault of coolness.  One entry was down some open wooden steps that came down from a doorway in our bathroom.

The other entry to our cellar/basement was located on the north side of our farm home.  It consisted of two wooden doors that were set at about a 45 degree angle.  When opened, they revealed a rock stairway that led down to our cellar/basement.  This location was ideal, in that our family garden was very close to this spot and allowed an easier time of bringing the Fall Harvest of  food crops down into the cellar/basement for winter storage.   I considered our cellar/basement a gold mine because of our beloved mother, Clarice, who would invest countless hours and sweat from her brow each year to “put up” the food harvest into glass canning jars.  There would be row upon row of various pickles, fruit, tomato paste, etc. and etc..  Then, thanks to she and our father Russell’s help, there’d be heaping bins full of potatoes, onions hanging to dry, and all sorts of goodies for our family to enjoy before Old Man Winter would once again visit our world with frozen deadness.

As I look back to those days, I can realize why I had such a peace of mind and security.  It was because of the fact that our family enjoyed a cornucopia of provisions from those shelves loaded with God’s blessings of delicious foods that He had given for us to enjoy.  True, our house was very small and humble, but to me, it was God’s castle for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 1st…“DID FRIENDS, RELATIVES OR EVEN STRANGERS STOP BY TO VISIT YOUR FARM UNEXPECTEDLY?

Our ears were always tuned to hear the crunch of happy stones under the tires as a car would bank into our driveway from the country gravel road that passed our farm there in south central Minnesota.  Our U-shaped driveway wrapped around our humble home, so the sound in our ears meant we’d better run out the back door and see who had just arrived to give us a visit.  Back then, there were no blasting stereos, headphones or earbuds to muffle the sounds of the world around us inside our home.  Instead, the quietness allowed our ears to pick up the sound of a car or truck engine that was different than our own.  “Visitors!!”, is what ran through my little boy heart, as I’d run to see who had stopped by for a friendly “talk story” with we Noorlun folk.

Maybe it’s because we came from a Norwegian heritage or maybe it was just the custom in our part of the world, but we were always glad to have the privilege to welcome guests into our home any time they drove up and knocked on the back screen door.

It didn’t offend us in the least that a visitor hadn’t called ahead to make an appointment for an official visit.  Folks just showed up and we loved having them.  In our ancestral language of Norwegian, the word for “welcome” is spelled VELKOMMEN (vel KOH’ men).  And, true to form, our dear parents, Russell and Clarice, were always happy to welcome friends, family (and even salesmen).  Even if they DID just drop by for a visit and maybe a bite to eat.  I can still see the scene next to our house, a visitor has just arrived and Mom and Dad greets them at their car.   Car or truck windows rolled down, they all enjoy a few minutes of visiting together.   Pretty soon, one of our folks would say, “You just gotta spend a few minutes with us and chat, ya?  Come on in and have some coffee and cookies…..or maybe a sandwich!”  And, rightly so, any dessert or light meal, during that visit, was easily brought to perfection with a great cup of our mother’s fine coffee to wash it down with.  The klinking sound of coffee cups on saucers was a form of music to this little boy’s ears in those golden days now gone.

Our parents treated everyone with kindness when they stopped by our farm for a visit.  Many were the times when an old-fashioned traveling salesman would just happen along with intent to try to sell Mom their wares.  I distinctly recall the local “Watkins Company” salesman who drove an old, blue 1954 Ford panel van that was actually more of a tan color from the thick coating of gravel dust it had gathered from all the country roads he traveled on a daily basis.  The Watkins Company had been in business since 1868 and carried a plethora of home products from a Kool-Aid type of drink to spices for cooking, etc..   And, like the Watkins man, there were other peddlers who plied their company’s products, as well……all were welcomed and offered some coffee to “wet their whistle” before rolling down the dusty road to the next farm, and hopeful sales.

Our farmer father often had to ship livestock to the local sale yard.  Since we didn’t own a large cattle truck, we had the pleasure of welcoming yet another friendly visitor to our farm.  This dear professional trucker man would climb down from his BIG cattle truck and always offer my sister, Candice, and I a tasty stick of gum.  His flavors were usually, Black Jack Licorice, Beeman’s Pepsin or Clark’s Teaberry gum.   Sister and I just couldn’t wait for the next load of cows to market so that we’d be able to have another tasty gum treat from that kind-hearted trucker man.

Our lovely Norwegian mother, Clarice, was so resourceful for feeding our unexpected guests to the farm.  Being from the Greatest Generation, our farming parents always kept a great stock of food on hand for our family AND for any guests who graced us with a visit from time to time.  On these happy times of entertaining those guests, Mom would grab packets of Jello, a Jello mold from the cupboard and some fruit or fruit cocktail.  Together, she’d mix the ingredients, throw in some ice cubes to make it chill faster and by the end of a visiting session, she’d have a sparkling dessert for friend and family.

Over the years, there on our farm in Minnesota, many friends, neighbors, relatives and even strangers came to visit us on our humble farm.  I think my parents would agree with my philosophy………”There are no strangers in my world, only friends I haven’t met, yet!!”  Such are the nostalgic musings of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 31st…“DURING YOUR YOUNG YEARS IN MINNESOTA, DID YOU EVER TRY TO “GET AWAY” WITH SOMETHING DONE BY A CHILD ACTOR ON TELEVISION?”

POEM – “Slam Then BAMM!!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Hollywood kids, Seemed to have their way,

In anything they wanted.

All it took, Was to blow their stack,

And dig in heels undaunted.

TV parents would sigh, Saying, “Me, oh my!,

“What is it that Johnny wants?”

“He’s blown his lid, That poor little kid”,

“And to his room he haunts!”

So this here child, Kinda meek n mild,

Decided to play a game,

To see if I could get away,

With that tactic, Oh so lame.

Once came the day, On an afternoon,

When some food I wanted to snack.

I went to the fridge, To peruse inside,

For the goodies that I’d attack.

My folks were both, In the kitchen that day,

Mom saw what I planned to do,

“Now close that door, No snack right now”,

“Supper’ll soon be ready for you.

I thought to myself, “I’ll throw a fit!”,

“Just like I see on TV!”,

So I slammed the door, Of the fridge and swore,

I wanted my sweets, by gee!

Just then Dad launched, From his chair nearby,

And before this boy could run,

His hand to my collar, The other to my butt,

Of this ornery Norwegian Son.

I flew like a plane, To the place of pain,

To back bedroom is where I flew,

And as he had the chance, Dad yanked my pants,

His hard hand hit KAHBLEW!!

Before ya know it, My backside showed it,

It started glowing red,

“TV just, Ain’t like real life”,

“I just might end up dead” (or so I thought).

“Spare the rod and spoil the child”,

Says Bible verse so true,

And even though, My cheeks did quake,

And quivered through and through,

T’was then I realized quite quick,

That TV shows are cute,

But it’s more important, To obey your folks,

Or you might just get the boot! 😉

July 30th…“HAVING BEEN A MINNESOTA FARM BOY FOR YOUR INITIAL 13 YEARS OF LIFE, WHAT WAS IT LIKE TO SEE THE MIGHTY PACIFIC OCEAN FOR THE FIRST TIME?”

There, on the relatively flat farmlands of Minnesota, the only ‘ocean’ I knew as a young boy was green and its only ‘waves’ were the cornfields that flowed to the horizon of our windy world.   Living in the center of the Continental United States, the real ocean was so remotely removed from us, that for me to ever see a real ocean, was the equivalent of me getting to the moon.

While growing up in Minnesota days, I had heard of and seen pictures of this limitless expanse of salt water that encompassed most of our planet.  Yet, the closest I could ever experience that marvel was through books and movies that depicted various adventurers that dared to cross those blue horizons of liquid wonder.

Then came September of 1967.  A couple of months previous to this, our parents had sold our family farm in Kiester, Minnesota and had moved us out to Washington State to start a new chapter of life.   Our father had been used to working our farm seven days a week, back home.  But now, thanks to his new job, he had Saturdays and Sundays off to enjoy as he pleased.  On one of those grand weekends, we received an invitation to go with Uncle Robert Sletten (and extended family) to see this marvel called The Pacific Ocean.  Uncle Bob’s sister-in-law owned a cabin that was right on the sandy shores of Rockaway Beach, Oregon.  On a Friday, after Dad finished work, we joined a three car caravan that followed the winding roads that spiraled their way through the Oregon Coast Range Mountains on our way to Rockaway, Oregon.

As one of the teenagers in the backseat, we kids had fun chatting and watching lovely scenery pass by on this maiden voyage of seeing the “big water”.  Over time, though, as the car droned along, I became groggy as late afternoon faded into the evening while we made our way westward.  Having fallen sound asleep in that backseat, my car-mates jostled me awake when the car rolled up and parked at our cabin destination.

Popping open the back door of the car, I groggily stepped outside to yawn and stretch myself awake.   It was at that very moment that my lungs drew in their very first ‘taste’ of that distinct salt water fragrance!  It was permeating everything in the air from the magical Pacific Ocean that was now masqueraded in the black velvet of the night.  This maritime ambrosia was pure delight to the virgin, nasal senses of this former farm boy.   It became my new ‘perfume’ of West Coast life.   The next echelon of wonderment that night was the wondrous, and almost eerie, sound of the thunderous pounding of waves that were rolling in to barrage the coastline with their power; just as a salvo from a battleship assails an enemy’s fortress.

The adults in our entourage had no plans of exploring the beach in the dark, so we teenagers were obedient to the directive to help haul supplies inside the cabin and be ready for a tasty supper.  Later that evening, as the older generation headed for their bedrooms, we youngin’s unrolled our sleeping bags on the cabin floor of the Living Room and settled in for the happily anxious night……..for me, at least.  What delicious thoughts rambled through my mind that night as I lay in great anticipation to capture my first sighting of the majestic ocean that was calling me, yet concealed in the cloak of darkness.

During that last year of Minnesota schooling, I had become a big fan of The Lewis & Clark Expedition (who had explored the uncharted Louisiana Territory from 1804 to 1806).   In my own prolific imagination, there was an envisioning that I, too, was a modern type of Lewis & Clark in that I also had come from the Midwest on a journey I had never taken to a land I had never seen.

With the first glow of dawn, I jumped up from my sleeping bag to gaze out of that wide picture window………THERE IT WAS!!!!  The Pacific Ocean!!!!  I was giddy with excitement and just had to get outside and get down to that sandy thing called a “beach” to explore, get my toes wet in the surf  and breath in that magnificent salt-encrusted air!!   The whole marvelous experience was like a happy drug that made me high as a kite as I sailed higher and higher in giddy wonder!   I could only imagine the thrill Lewis & Clark must’ve felt in seeing the same wondrous ocean as was seen by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 29th…“SHARE THE MOST UNPLEASANT VACATION EXPERIENCE YOU CAN RECALL DURING YOUR YOUNG DAYS.”

POEM – “Once Upon A Snail Mail”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

The year was 1967, I was two years past eleven.

The age when girls, Just have to smile, To send boys heart, A country mile!

Her hair was blonde, As it could be, And known to all, As Rosalie.

She’d tweaked my interest, With her charm, Just days before, We left the farm.

“Please write to me!”, Was her soft plea,  For me, a duty happily,

Fulfilled as soon, As we moved out West,  I put pen and paper, To the test.

I’d generously elaborate, ‘Bout attributes n skill,

I figured this, In innocence,  Could really do no ill,

Until came 1974, Vacation for me, So out the door,

To see this cutie, Face to face,  Letters are past, Now it’s time for the chase,

To see if I, Can live up to my notes,  Fulfill what I said, Live up to my quotes.

It didn’t take long, To realize,  I had painted persona, Beyond my size.

For Rosalie, Was cute n smarty,  And really liked, To party hearty!

Wall flower was I, Amongst her crowd,  Shy, reclusive, Alone and kowed.

Off she went, With another young buck,  “This is great!”, Thought I, “Now I’m stuck!!!”

Over 25 years, Since that sad night,  I was raking leaves, In evening’s light,

When our house phone rings, I received a call,  While drinking in, The scent of Fall.

It’s Rosalie apologizing, For her ways so long ago,

“Can you please forgive me, For my choice,  At the party I chose to go?”

“Of course!”, said I, “The slate is clean!”,  “Now share with me, That I may glean!”,

We shared about, Each other’s life,  How each had seen, Both happy and strife.

All this to say, That if you play, With email, chatroom or letter,

It may be fun, But till they’re won,  Face to face is always better!!!

July 28th…“DID YOU EVER CRY HAPPY TEARS FROM RECEIVING MIRACLE GIFTS GIVEN TO YOU THAT WERE TOTALLY UNEXPECTED?”

“Home is where the heart is”.   The home of my heart saw its foundations, that were built with love, emanate from the peaceful village of Kiester, Minnesota.  From January of 1954, until late July of 1967, I was profoundly blessed to be a part of, not only my immediate family, but I was also intrinsically connected to the life enriching marrow of this sweet community nestled in the rich, black-soiled farmlands of south central Minnesota.

Fast forward the Time Machine to the year 1998 and this former farm boy was now living in Washington State.  Financial obligations required my working a full time job plus a custodial cleaning business that I ran in the evenings.  I was clocking between 70 and 80 hours a week.

While working as a Head Custodian of a Grade School in our town of Battle Ground, Washington, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting one of the many parents who volunteered for her child’s classroom.  Mrs. Teresa Petker was her name and we became fast friends.  My custodian desk space was in the teacher’s work room and Teresa and I enjoyed almost daily fellowship as she’d work on projects across the expansive table top located in that room.  Our many conversations eventually touched on the fact that I had not been home to Minnesota for about 25 years, and that, as a father, I had always wanted to share the places of my beginnings with our five children.

Although my school district job provided a paid vacation to me each year, my cleaning business did not.  “No workee, no getee payee!”  If we took a three week vacation, I would lose $700.00 PLUS of desperately needed money to keep bills current.   Add to this equation, our “Geezer Mobile” (family car) would never have made the long journey to Minnesota and back.   And, if this were not enough, our son could not accompany us due to a job he had gotten unloading new cars from the freight  trains in Vancouver, WA.   He would have to miss out on the family adventure IF we even went on one.

Teresa Petker had been so empathetic to my times of “dreaming out loud” of taking a ‘dream trip’.   I knew that, faced with limited resources, I could not achieve such a joy under life’s current conditions.  About a week or so went by and I had allowed my ‘pipe dream’ to slip back into its scabbard in the land of ‘Woulda Shoulda Coulda’.    Then one day, Teresa waved me down there at school and asked if she could talk with me a moment.

Here’s what she said, (paraphrased) “My husband and I have been praying about you.  We feel led to reach out to you and provide a means for you to have a vacation back home to Minnesota.  We felt that you deserve a real vacation with your family to show them your childhood farm and hometown.  Here is our check for $700.00 (that would be $1,300 in 2023) to make up for the weeks you can’t work your business.  We also want you and your family to enjoy our new Dodge Caravan to make the journey with since your old car can’t make the trip safely.  AND, we want you to take along our video recorder to capture the memories on film and be able to share them when you get home with your son who can’t come along.”  Needless to say, I began to cry happy buckets of tears and gave her such a big hug for the amazing generosity of this precious family who, just weeks before, were total strangers to me!!   I offered up my profuse thanks for their miracle to us that was now going to bless my wife, our daughters and myself…….and our son, too, of course.   Plans were made, friends and relatives were telephoned soooo…..Minnesota, here we come!!!

This daddy and mommy and our four daughters were on “Cloud 9” as we piled into that gorgeous, brand new Dodge Caravan and began our family adventures on June 17th, 1998.  For about 3 weeks, we visited family along the 1,717 mile route towards Minnesota.  When we arrived in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, we met up with my eldest sibling, Lowell, and he took us to the gigantic Mall Of America there in the “Twin Cities”.  Of course, the Petker’s video camera was rolling a lot of the time, capturing memory moments to show to our son when we returned.

As our vacation chariot rolled into the tree-lined streets of my boyhood hometown, I was one elated daddy!!  Father’s Day had transpired on our way towards Minnesota, and here this father now could put actual locations to the stories I had told our children over the years.  Stories such as…….to the north of my Grade School building was the red Future Farmer’s Of America building.  While playing the game of kickball (just like baseball, but kick a rubber ball, instead), one of the “pop-flys” landed on a little flat roof part of the FFA building.  Being the little monkey I was, I shinnied up the rain gutter downspout to access the roof and toss the ball down.  Problem was, as I was climbing down the same way, I sliced the palm of my hand open (on some sheet metal stripping) so deeply, that you could lay back the flesh.  YOWSA!!!

We had the sweet pleasure of being guests at the home of Archie and Denise Kluender (Grade School classmates) while visiting Kiester and Archie saw to it that I was escorted around town and nearby farms to be reacquainted with other Grade School buddies.  Each day, there on that vacation, it was truly a dream come true, thanks to the Lord and the Petker family.

I was beyond elated as I took our daughters, and their mother, on a tour of what was left of our family farm there northwest of Kiester, Minnesota.   Before pointing the van to the west again, we took one last leisurely drive down Main Street of this little town that I loved so well……. and I still do.   Now, it was westward and new adventures on the way home to Washington State.

In a sense, we had two families in one.  Our son and first daughter, then six years later began the joy of three more daughters.  As a result, this happy daddy gladly read the entire “Little House On The Prairie” series of books through TWICE.  Once for Nathan and Christa, and again for Rachel, Johanna and Rose.  We all became giant fans of everything to do with “Little House”, so this vacation was the ideal time to stop off at DeSmet, South Dakota see the “Little Town On The Prairie”.  From there we stopped at Mount Rushmore and took in the grandeur of Gutzon Borglum’s mighty stone carvings of our four Presidents.  Being a fan of Western History, we also stopped at Custer’s Last Stand Memorial and took in the solemnity of what the Indians had called “The Battle Of The Greasy Grass”.

While passing through Custer, South Dakota, our attention was attracted to “The Flintstone’s Bedrock Village” Amusement Park.  Here was another place to enjoy some family time that even appealed to the big kids………Dad and Mom.

Needless to say, when we got back home to Washington State, we first sat down with our son to share our videos with him of the joys of our recent vacation adventures.  Then, a few days down the road, we invited the entire Petker family over for refreshments and a re-showing of the miracle vacation that they had blessed us with.   Easily, it was the very best vacation ever for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.!!!!

July 27th…“WHAT MADE A FAMILY VACATION SPECIAL TO YOU AS A CHILD IN YOUR MINNESOTA DAYS?”

In the placid darkness of early morn, the fragrant aroma of Dad’s “Old Spice” cologne was emanating from his clean-shaven face as his sinewy arms reached around and under my little sleeping body.  He gathered me and all my blankets in one loving lift as my toddler head now rested on his shoulder.  Even though still blissfully in the holds of Dreamland, I could feel my flaccid body float as it became airborne while Dad bore me to our family’s black, 1950 Buick Super Fastback that sat outside the back door of our humble farm home.  The Buick’s Fireball engine was already purring and the car’s heater sent that warmth inside to the back seat where Dad gently poured me into my spot and closed the car door while he went back upstairs to gather my little sister, Candi, in the same tender manner.

Our loving parents had already loaded the backseat of our car with some of our favorite toys, coloring books, crayons, etc..  As sweet little sister, Candice, was cuddled into the backseat with me, we both drifted peacefully back to sleep in the o’dark thirty hour that it was.  The pleasant drone of our parent’s voices joined us as they slipped into the front seat and our vacation chariot rolled out of our gravel driveway and pointed north.

Vacations were SO SPECIAL in our Minnesota days because, as a farmer, our hard working father had to milk our 15 head of Holstein dairy cows twice each day, 7 days a week for 365 days of each year.   In order to take any type of vacation, it was not only going to cost our parents the price of gas and food on our journey, but it would also cost them the money to hire someone to come in to milk our dairy herd and take care of the other animals on our farm while we would be gone.   Those types of expenditures usually made vacations few and far between.  This is totally opposite to what today’s vacation culture is like.   Most employers today provide an employee with two, three or more weeks of a PAID vacation to enjoy each year.  Not so for our farming family.  That made this vacation extra special………among other things 😉

On this joyous vacation, our family car followed the compass needle that always points north.  In this case, that northward pull would take us to the northern reaches of our Home State and our father’s childhood hometown of Mahnomen, Minnesota.   The word, Mahnomen, is from the Chippewa Indian language and it means “wild rice”.   The town is actually located within the boundaries of the White Earth Indian Reservation.

Dad guided our shiny black metal chariot over the local country gravel roads and then we eventually caught the paved highways that drew us northward towards our vacation destination of Dad’s hometown.  The golden rays of dawn sprang up from the eastern horizon as if to “catch up to us” as we rolled along.   Those fingers of sunlight tickled awake the sleepy eyelids of sister and myself.  As we lifted our heads to the backseat window level, we saw open farm country whizzing by.   The arrow-straight rows of corn and soybean fields flew by so fast, in their rippling visual effect, that it was almost dizzying to watch.

Two or three hours farther into our journey, I happened to look up from the book I was reading and looked out the backseat window to see how the landscape had changed dramatically from our home area in the south central regions of this “Land Of 10,000 Lakes”.   Birch and Pine forests now encroached themselves right up to the ditches of the highway itself.   I began to feel a sense of claustrophobia from the looming trees that hovered over the roadways like wooden behemoths waiting to fall upon us.

As that reliable Buick of ours rolled into Mahnomen, I could only conjecture what our father may have been musing in his mind.  Recognizing landmarks and memories, he may have said to himself, “Sure is good to be back home again in my old stomping grounds!”  This is where our dad had his beginnings.  Born near this berg in 1918, he suited up in bib overalls, like his fellow schoolmates, and had to walk three miles to and from school.  Even through the snows of Minnesota winters, he still had to trudge those three miles round trip each day to get his education.  I recall him sharing how scared he’d be in the evenings on his trek home when he’d hear timber wolves howling in those Birch-treed forests.

We soon arrived at the family farm of my mother’s brother, Robert Sletten.   Farming life had a flavor all its own here in the northcountry woods of Minnesota.  For one thing, Uncle Bob used Oliver tractors instead of the Farmall tractors that were common in our region near Kiester.    This farmer boy enjoyed the Oliver tractors for their bold color contrast of red wheel rims, green body and yellow grill work.  Another difference on uncle’s farm was the kind of truck he drove.  We used a Ford truck on our farm and yet, here, Uncle Bob favored a late 1940’s model Dodge.

When it came time to scrub off the dirt n grime of farming, there was another difference of this farm family we were visiting.   Uncle Bob, and his family, favored using “Lava Soap”.   I loved the rough, gritty feel of the lava pumice that was incorporated into this cleansing bar.   The pleasant fragrance of that bar soap was an experience I looked forward to each time we came for a visit.

Our northern kin were always so happy to see us arrive at their farm that was tucked into the those wooded lands.  Quiet Uncle Bob and his gregarious, outspoken wife, Doris, treated us like royalty.  Meals were so delicious and plentiful.  After the meals, with cups of hot coffee in hand, the adults of our two clans then spent many an evening reminiscing about dear days gone by.  Oh for the pleasure of listening to all those family stories that would be rehashed in those times of visiting.  Laughter would peal from that quaint farm house like celebrating bells from a cathedral.  Auntie Doris, taking in all this joviality, was renowned for her raucous belly laugh that capped every happy vacation evening like whip cream on a dessert.  How delightful this all was on this special vacation time of a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 26th…“DID YOU LEARN TO WHISTLE?  IF SO, RELATE A STORY ABOUT YOUR WHISTLING.”

POEM – “Playful Pucker Power Person” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Our farmer father, Could warble like a bird,

The sweetest lip music, You’ve ever heard.

He could whistle more songs, Than this lil’ nerd,

His talents, I thought, Made the birds absurd.

Month in, month out, I’d watch him pucker,

Emulation of Dad, Was a goal for this sucker.

I noticed his tongue, Inside his mouth,

Would move up and down, Like north and south.

And if he closed, His mouth a little,

It would sharpen sound higher, Just like knife to whittle.

Over time, I could really give a show,

As I’d wet my lips, To pucker n blow.

First some of my tunes, I learned at school,

And then I learned, What was really cool.

I could whistle so loud, T’wood pierce yer ear,

Especially if, You stood too near.

Until one day, Down at my work,

When I made a room, Of co-workers jerk,

With laughter as they, Reacted to,

A song that I whistled, That they all knew.

I said, “Ain’t ya’ll heard a whistle before?”,

As I entered through, Their lunch room door.

“Sure enough”, said they, “But the name of your tune”,

“Was what made us howl, And almost swoon!”

Without a thought, I was whistling a strain,

Of “If I Only, Had A Brain!”

Retorting, I said, “Oh you guys!!” and roared,

Along with my buddies, Whose spirits now soared.

No matter how, I tried to stress,

Other points of that song, I had to confess,

That the title was true, humble pie I did gain,

For whistling “If I Only Had A Brain”!!! 😉

July 25th…“WAS YOUR VERY FIRST CHILDHOOD OVER NIGHT STAY FANTASTIC?  OR A FAILURE?  WHY?”

The rootin’ tootinest, high falootinest, wild n wooliest, rip snortinest that there ever was!!!!  That describes both my Uncle Doren Noorlun AND the electrically-charged explosions in the sky that wreaked havoc in a tender little heart in 1959 when I was five years old.  I was about to experience my very first “overnighter” with my paternal uncle and his family.  Up until that point in my very young life, I had never been away from home and my parents.

My uncle was quite the colorful character.  I seem to recall that my father’s younger brother owned an auto body shop there in Kiester, at the time, and the Doren Noorlun family lived in a modest home, within the city limits, that sat alongside Highway 22 as one drove north out of our beloved hometown.

Fear is a powerful emotion in our lives.  It can freeze a grown man in his tracks or, within minutes, can turn a happy little five year old into a screaming banshee, hollering for his mommy at the top of his lungs.   In his usual flair of gregarious shenanigans, Uncle Doren and his sweet wife, Bonnie, had been visiting our farm earlier that day and had extended an invitation for me to come stay the night with them in town.  Excited for sure, but I was also a bit wary of this garrulous guy who could sneak up on me and wrassle me into a headlock with his arm around my neck.  As his wrestling prisoner, he’d then give me a knuckle burn on my scalp for good teasing measure.  Or, that prankster uncle of mine would see when I wasn’t lookin’ and give me a strong finger snap to the skull or shoulder (we called it a schmik).  Yikes, would those hurt!!!

During his service in Europe during World War 2, our outgoing uncle was a motorcycle messenger while in the Army as a member of the 91st Infantry Division.   After the War, that talented guy also learned to fly an airplane.  I was naturally attracted to this uncle who enjoyed living on the “wild side”, so it was a treat when he and our dear Aunt Bonnie invited me to their home in town for my very first “overnighter”.

After arriving at their house, it was all fun and games as I enjoyed my cousins, Doreen (we all called her “Reenie”) and Barb, who were more the age of my elder brother and sister.  As can happen quickly across the flat, Midwest farmlands, a summer thunderstorm had rolled in and morphed that beautiful afternoon into a rumbling monster of blackness that hovered over the top of uncle’s home and began to cast its thunderbolts to the ground in our direction.  With the celestial goings on outside, I was totally out of my comfort zone and realized my safe sanctuary of home was at least three miles away.   I began to whimper as fear built up inside of me with every successive volley of lightning and thunder above us.  Blessings to her memory, my Aunt Bonnie did her best to try to quell this little panicky person, but when the next pyrotechnic dynamite lit up the sky…….it lit ME up, as well.  I lost it as I began howling and shrieking, “I WANNA GO HOME!!!” and “I WANT MY MOMMY!!!” and “PLEASE TAKE ME HOME NOW UNCLE DOREN!!!”

Exhibiting his utter exasperation and having given up on consoling this terror-struck child, Uncle Doren (using very colorful language that is best left to history) hustled my fear-filled frame out into the wild night’s weather and into his car.  Three miles later, we arrived at my farm and I rocketed into the house and my mother’s protective arms.  As my flabbergasted uncle “kicked me to the curb” that night, I recall his grumbled growl as he made it very clear that this was the first AND LAST time I would stay at HIS house ever again.  Such were the trials of a child dwarfed by God’s immeasurable power in His sky.  A humble moment for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.