May 15th…“WERE ONE OF YOUR SIBLINGS IN THE MILITARY?  SHARE WHAT YOU FELT AND WHAT YOU KNEW ABOUT THEIR SERVING OUR NATION.”

Adulation for my big brother, Lowell, came easily for me.  Being eleven years my senior, he was my automatic hero and I shadowed him adoringly as I watched big brother’s every move in my growing up years.

After his 1961 Kiester High School graduation, The United States Air Force captured Lowell’s attention and my hero left our family and farm and aimed his sights towards the Air Force’s Basic Training Camp to learn the ways of that “sky high” branch of military service.  I had been so used to having brother near me in those little boy days, that I was left agog without him being nearby anymore.  Up until his departure, all  I  had to do was step outside our farm house and listen to where work was happening and BINGO, there big brother would be.  But now, as the days lengthened into weeks and months, I missed my young father figure very deeply.  At that time, in my young life of about 7 years of age, I’ll admit that I was more focused on the cool, kid-impressing amenities that came along with Lowell’s life in The Air Force.  Yet, due to childhood ignorance, his daily duties and life, under the tutelage of Uncle Sam, were a complete mystery to me.

For a time, during his military service, our handsome sibling was stationed in Alaska at Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks.  Down in the “Lower 48”, we were happy for his assignment at that base, because it put him just a day’s journey from our father’s sister and family that lived in Palmer.  Having extended family like that, relatively nearby, made brother’s stay in the frozen north more bearable, I’m sure.

Lowell has always held that he’s not much of a letter writer.  In the wake of that statement, though, brother found another way to keep in touch with our family back in Minnesota.  One day, our country mailman had rolled down our gravel road and delivered a pretty good sized box for us.  The return address was from all the way up north in Alaska.  It was from our wonderful brother, Lowell!!!  Inside we found, what was known in those days as, a reel to reel tape recorder.   There were two round reels inside.  An empty plastic reel and another plastic reel that had what’s known as “magnetic tape” on it.  The reel full of tape was threaded through the recorder “heads” of the machine itself, and onto the empty take-up reel.  When we pushed the PLAY button, we could hear big brother’s voice that had come all the way down from Alaska for us to enjoy!!   After we’d enjoy hearing his stories a few times, then we, in turn, would talk into and record our voices to be sent back to Alaska for him to enjoy hearing from us “back home”.

That magic contraption was the very first tape recorder that I had ever laid my little boy eyes on.  To me, it was amazing how my dear brother’s voice was “captured” inside that magnetic tape all the way from Alaska and played so I could hear him as if he were in the same room with us!!!  The occasion, around the Dining Room table, of our family recording messages to Lowell, was the first time I had ever heard my own voice from outside my body, so to speak.  When our parents played back the tape of what we had just recorded, I asked, “WHO’S THAT???”  With simultaneous giggles n smiles, Mom and Dad responded, “That’s YOU!”  I was absolutely incredulous as I protested, “Unh Uhhhh, no way, THAT’s not me!!”  Mom and Dad confirmed, once again, that that was how my voice sounded to them and that what I had heard truly WAS my voice.   I remember vividly being appalled at the nasally drivel that came out of my mouth that was called my voice!!!

Another blessing to us, from our brother’s time in The Air Force, was when he sent me and my sister our very own ‘Dog Tags’ on a chain.  You see, ‘Dog Tags’, in those days were worn by every serviceman to easily identify him to his superior officers or medical staff.  When I opened that gift, I felt like I was ‘king of the hill’ and, in my childish ways, now considered myself a tiny military man, of sorts.  Lowell had the custom-made metal tags stamped with our name, address (Kiester, Minn), phone number (Axtel 4-3415), our relationship to him (Brother) and his title for me at the bottom (The Big Man)!!!  Now, over a half century later, I still have that gift in my collection and treasure it dearly.

Whenever our handsome brother was granted leave, he’d come home for a well-deserved rest and recuperation with family.   We were all so deeply impressed with that sharp-looking blue Air Force uniform that he wore so proudly.  I was especially impressed by the gleaming, sparkling dress shoes Lowell would wear with that uniform!!  Brother talked about spending hours and hours doing what was called a ‘spit polish’ on those shoes to make them resemble black mirrors on his feet that caught reflections of the people passing by as they admired them.   I was ‘hooked’ and began to try to emulate Lowell’s shine on all my shoes.  To this day, although it’s kinda cheating, I enjoy wearing patent leather dress shoes when I can.   They always remind me of those youthful days and my adoration, coupled with emulation, for my big brother’s life experience back then.

To this day, our wonderful brother sings the praises of his time in Uncle Sam’s United States Air Force.   On numerous occasions, Lowell has shared with me the following, “Heyyy, I enjoyed the whole experience of the Air Force!  They gave me food, clothes, a roof over my head and money in my pocket, AND, I enjoyed being able to travel as I was assigned from base to base.  Heck!, what more could a guy ask for??!!” 

Yet, as the Bible says in Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Our father had sustained some farm-related injuries that necessitated asking the military for a family hardship discharge for big brother so that he could come home to assist Dad with running our farm until he could heal up from his injuries.  After returning home from the service, Lowell met a young lady and married, thus started a new chapter of a civilian life for him.  I know, from our many conversations, that if big brother had life dealt differently with him, would have enjoyed staying in the Air Force for his 20 year career choice.  Thank you Lord, for the Air Force hero of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 14th...”TELL ABOUT YOUR HIGH SCHOOL PROM AND FORMAL DANCE NIGHT.”

A delicious effervescence exudes from the aura of one’s first love in our High School days.  And even though life may take each of us down our own separate and destined paths, those romantic memories are delectably imprinted within our hearts.  Cherished are those times that I enjoyed with a lovely young lady as we experienced those magical moments at the Battle Ground High School Junior/Senior Prom.

As is tenderly common among you couples “in love”, I, and my girlfriend, Derra Abernathy, had gifted each other with loving nicknames.  Derra bequeathed me with the cognomen of “Dimples” from the fleshly divots in my cheeks as I smiled.  I, in turn, gleefully tagged Derra with the sobriquet of “Pinky” because one Summer, while we were picking strawberries at Tsugawa Farms, I teasingly had smashed a juicy strawberry all over her chin, which stained it PINK for the rest of that day. 😉

Since 8th Grade, the two of us had dated and gotten to know each other deeply.  So, by the time of our Battle Ground High School Junior year and 1971 rolled around, I had become totally twitterpated by this lovely young soul known as Derra Joan Abernathy.

We were both in our Junior year, as the Spring of 1971 came waltzing by, and it was time for the annual Junior/Senior Prom.   For the benefit of young readers here, the word “Prom” comes from the full word of “Promenade”, which is from the French language and has the meaning “to lead out, or take for a walk”.   You see, it was tradition at these dances, to show the finery that you were wearing for that special evening.  Couples would present themselves to the chaperones of the dance and queue up two by two.  At the beginning of a song, columns of handsome couples would then walk around the perimeter of the dance floor so all in attendance could gaze upon and applaud the lovely clothing that these fine young people were adorned with.  Some schools would then enhance the moment by having the promenading couples link elbows in a side by side arrangement for now a four abreast promenade.  When all in attendance had enjoyed a stroll or two around the dance floor, the promenade was completed and individual couples would then enjoy dancing and fellowship with other students around them.

Unlike the generation of today, who somehow manage to afford limousines and tuxedos for a Prom, we two lovebirds were determined to dress as elegantly as we could within the reality of our cash on hand.  Derra’s mother either made her gown for the evening, or saw to it that it was modestly priced when purchased locally (but I think it was home sewn).

Rather than spend an exorbitant amount of precious dollars on a limousine, my parents had a better idea.  Knowing their love-struck buck was in need of a car for this gala evening, they allowed me to use our family ‘chariot’ (a Dodge Coronet 500) which was bought brand new by Dad n Mom in 1967.  For this illustrious occasion, I scrubbed, sparkled and waxed that princely coach to a royal sheen for my queen to ride in.

‘Prince ZITalot’ (alias ME) after donning my suit and tie, slipped inside that turbine-bronze Dodge coach and turned the ignition key to rev up those 318 ‘horses’ under the hood.  With the ‘reins’ of the steering wheel in my hands, I was off like a flash to the ‘castle’ of my ‘princess’.  Having arrived at the ‘castle’ of my teenage ‘princess’, I dismounted my metal steed and ventured inside to greet my lady and her family.  My breath was stolen from me, as if a tempest had just blown by, when I saw how lovely Derra was in her Prom gown!!  Her hair being done to perfection, coupled with that floor length gown made her a delight to the eyes.  Such a gentle feminine frame she possessed, and, with her bare-backed gown, her beauty was sweetly accentuated.

As the Coronet “coach” pulled up to the High School bearing “Prince” Elliott and “Princess” Derra, our ears could already hear the music of our era throbbing from inside the school cafeteria where the dance was held.  Once inside, we enjoyed the live band on stage that was playing a nice mixture of happy dance tunes, as well as slow, romantic songs so that couples could cuddle close on the dance floor when the lighting dropped to suit the mood of the music.

Cuddling, of course, was limited to what our teacher chaperones would allow.  To be safe, we decided we’d enjoy mingling with the other couples there that night and enjoyed the overall ambiance of the wonderful evening.

Even though I’m no dancer, I devoted as many wiggles and moves as I could to make the evening as fun as possible for my lovely lady.  It was one of those warm moments of joy for a boy and a girl caught up in making sweet memories that are still there to this day for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 13th…“TELL ABOUT THE FIRST DANCE YOU EVER ATTENDED AND HOW DID IT GO?”

The crispness of fall had descended upon our southern Minnesota farmlands like a frost encrusted blanket.  Farmers, with all the zeal of conquering heroes, were busy in the harvesting of their fields in the hope of getting their crops safely into storage or sale barn before the first snows enveloped the earth once again.

School life for this farm boy, at the age of 12 in 1966, was about to entail an exciting event that would soon transpire in our village.  That event was known as “Homecoming”.  Many Kiester High School Bulldog Alumni would once again come home to their “alma mater” (which comes from Latin for: dear mother…..referring to their school as a mother figure when it came to education).  Once again, as in their own school days, these honored guests could traverse the school hallways and enjoy memories of their youth in this quaint farming community of ours.

As was typical of Homecomings across the nation, the traditions of this fun-filled week were a faceted festival of frolic.  Activities usually included big cheerleading sessions at school, wearing of extra blue and white school colors, the “mile high” bonfire with rally led by our cheerleaders, a big all-out marching band parading through town and, of course, the traditional football game against our archrival football team from Frost, Minnesota.

For a small farming community, our town had a great spirit for taking part in these fun festivities.  It was a joy for this boy to witness the gamut of ages that took part in the annual Homecoming Parade; from us little ones in Grade School all the way through the High School classes.  Each Grade echelon made, or at least sponsored, a parade “float” that was usually comprised and created upon some farmer’s “flat rack” wagon and decorated with a theme of how we were going to be the victors over the rival town’s football team on the Big Game Day.

The “Royal Court” of Homecoming usually would ride through the town’s parade route in regal style.  Some generous community member would loan their new convertible and have the top down, so “King & Queen” could be best shown in their handsome royal crowns and robes spread across the trunk of that luxurious car.  Parade “floats”, themselves, were customarily towed through the parade route by sparkling tractors, a handsome car or pickup and even a team of horses, now and then.

I fondly recall, way back in 1966, that our 6th Grade Class chose the idea of creating BIG pencils that we would carry as props as we joined all the other Grade Levels in marching through the parade route.  The theme behind those giant tube pencils, with imitation erasers and points, was that our football team was going to “Rub ‘Em Out” on the gridiron that night.  Classmates John Steven and Vicky Estebo (if I remember her name right) even carried a banner in front of our marching class saying, “RUB ‘EM OUT!!!!”.

Once the football game had been won by our Bulldogs, it was now time to culminate the wonderful week by attending the annual Homecoming Dance.  One can only begin to imagine the hours that went into transforming the Bulldog gymnasium from a sweat-soaked athletic arena to an auditorium fit for the Homecoming royal court with their King & Queen.  Blue and white twisted crepe streamers were attached to the basketball backstops, those backstops were then cranked up high and towards the center of the gym ceiling creating a tent effect that was magnificent in its dimension, color and overall theme enhancement.

The gymnasium’s wooden floor  was to become a dancing haven for “tripping the light fantastic”.  In order to enhance the dancer’s movements, a concoction of sawdust with either oil or wax was applied over the wooden floor to allow for easier shoe movement as the Bulldog ladies and gentlemen danced the evening away.  For this prepubescent boy, though, that “powder” just increased the comedy factor in making it nearly impossible for me to stay standing; say nothing of trying to at least PRETEND to dance ……..which I could not do anyway.

There I was, an impressionable young man, trying to “make points” in dancing with my young lady who accompanied me that evening (who happened to be the local banker’s daughter).

Instead of being another Fred Astaire (famous dancer of long ago), you’d think I had contracted a neuromuscular disease that forced my wannabe dancing body into strange, irregular convulsions as the music pulsated around us from the live band on stage that night.  It’s a good thing that, in 1966, the in-fashion dances were so weird then, that I figured if my girlfriend asked, “What the heck are you trying to do?”, I’d just respond that I had just invented a new Norwegian Noogie Ooogie Woogie Dance!! 😉

Gloria Carlson, my date that evening, seemed to shrug off my antics and took this clumsy-footed oaf in stride as we wiggled and giggled that Homecoming Dance night away.

Donald O’Connor, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly would never have to worry about ME taking their jobs from them, but, overall, that Homecoming event was a memorable day and culminated in the first ever attempt at dancing for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

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.

May 11th…“TELL OF A FAVORITE SINGER AND THE SONG THAT HE, OR SHE, MADE FAMOUS WHEN YOU LIVED ON YOUR FARM.”

“Angel” was in love with the singer, Andy Williams.  Well, o.k., she didn’t exactly tell me that in her own bovine tongue, but it was too obvious when one of his songs played on our barn radio.  You see, “Angel” was my favorite Holstein dairy, cuddly cow cutie and resided at Stanchion #15 in our barn there on our farm in southern Minnesota.  Her stanchion may have been at the “end of the line” in our herd lineup, but she was #1 in my book for gentleness.  There were horizontal pipe railings that bordered her last stall and “Angel” didn’t mind at all when I’d climb on those railings then up onto her back while Dad milked her and the rest of our herd of bovine beauties.

One would naturally think that a barn and music would be the antithesis of each other; polar opposites that would be repellent of each other, right?  Yet, as any working person can tell you, we all spend a lion’s share of each day “at the office”.  Well, our farmer father’s “office” was the barn where he milked and cared for fifteen Holstein dairy cows (and other young livestock) twice a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.  So, in city life, as many offices have music playing to sooth the stress of business transactions, our farmer father had music playing to sooth the cows.

As I’ve shared in earlier stories, centered in the barn and resting on a dust covered shelf, above the cow’s heads, sat our old, yellowed plastic barn radio.  Dad believed that, not only were the radio broadcasts entertainment for him as he passed the long hours working in that bovine domicile; he also held that the music also tended to relax the cows and therefore they’d “let down” their milk for a higher yield of gallons to be sold at the local creamery.

As the winds blew across our farmlands, they blew dandelion seeds past our barn.  At the same time, within those wooden barn walls, that dear old plastic radio blew the “seeds of music” past our ears and minds.  I have found that, secreted in the mundane blandness of everyday life are moments of elevated wonder just waiting to happen.  For me, that wonder was in the wistful song that came across the barn radio one evening while I was laying forward and resting on the bony back of my favorite cow, “Angel”.

The famous singer, Andy Williams, debuted a new song in March of 1963 called, “Can’t Get Used To Losing You”.   There I was that evening, laying forward upon the back of “Angel”, as that magical melody filled the barn.  I was transfixed by the unique syncopated prelude of the song.  Then, that unmistakable voice of Andy Williams wove the words together in that signature sound that was all his own.  With my ear resting against “Angel’s” back , I thought I heard a gentle lowing (soft moo) from her, as if she’d heard the tune also and appreciated that human voice coming into her bovine ears, just like I enjoyed it in my human ears.  I suppose a realist would say, “Well, heck, she’s just enjoying her meal in front of her!”……be that as it may, the romanticist in me says she liked what she heard across that human radio 😉

Even after “Angel”, and the rest of our farm animals, left us in the farm sale of 1967, I found that, from that magic moment, I enjoyed “Can’t Get Used To Losing You” more and more each time it played on a radio over the years.  In 1963, when it first hit the airwaves, that great song climbed to the Number 2 position on the national popular music charts both here in America AND in England, as well.  Ahhhhhh, yes, the mesmerizing magic of music for a young nine year old boy known as the Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 10th…“WHO WAS YOUR FAVORITE SINGING GROUP OR BAND WHEN YOU WERE A YOUNGSTER ON THE FARM?

I could only speak “Minnesotan” at the tender age of 10 years old in 1964.  And even THAT was a challenge sometimes when I got twitterpated in front of a girl classmate that I had a crush on.  Living there on our farm, surrounded by other Norwegian, German and similar Nordic families, we pretty much rendered language in the everyday American way.   Then came……….. “The Beatles”!!

Now we all know that music can make magic happen, and at the impressionable age of 10, I was “captured” by the mystique of the “British Invasion” of these strange speaking Liverpudlians who were the Rock n Roll band called, “The Beatles”.    I’m sure part of the intrigue came from their British accents that flavored their English words in a way I’d never heard before.  Then, another magnetic pull, was their fast, funny and quick-witted ways of speaking to their audience and especially the way they “handled” reporters who were always prying into their lives with cameras and questions.

The American music scene was in a major paradigm shift from the “doowop” of the 1950’s that morphed into the folk singer times of the early 1960’s.   And, although
“The Beatles” had their influences from American music of the times mentioned, they brought an entire new sound into the ears and hearts of teenagers world wide…….almost overnight.

All the radio stations in southern Minnesota were heralding the exciting news that this new and sensational rock band was going to perform for the first time on American soil on the very popular television variety show called, “The Ed Sullivan Show”.   (I’ve alluded to this story earlier in my blog, but share it here again.)  I just HAD to see The Fab Four with my own two eyes, as well as hear more of their tremendous new songs that permeated the airwaves of the nation.

Our dear Mom and Dad were from the generation of Swing and Big Band music, so there was no way they were going to have any intention of watching some shaggy-headed gaggle of guys jumping around a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans.  With that stark fact in mind, how in the world would I make my dream come true to see these new famous musicians??? That night was to be their performance and I had only minutes to make something happen.   “Ahaaaaa!”, thought I!!  “I’ll just sneak upstairs into big sister Rosemary’s bedroom and watch those British Boy Wonders on that new little black & white portable television her fiancé had bought for her.”

I slithered up those stairs like a spy in a movie and, with a gentle turn of the knob on the front of Rosie’s TV, I heard it click “on” and the picture tube came crackling to life in front of my eyes.  YES!, there was old Ed Sullivan himself just ending his introduction as he threw his arms in their direction and proclaimed……..“Here they are, THE BEATLES!!”  Of course, the entire audience of mainly young ladies erupted in screams of unbridled delight as their British “boyfriends” launched into “She Loves You!”   Little did I realize, that my rock n roll joy was to only last for a couple minutes, at best.

My Beatles bliss was shattered by something called a vent grate in the floor of sister’s bedroom that basically covered an opening in the floor that looked down to the Living Room below us.  Old homes, in those days, made use of heat rising and had venting grates that would allow that heat to rise to the upstairs bedrooms and heat those areas, as well.   In MY case, the sound of the loud, “SHE LOVES YOU, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!!!!” filtered right downstairs to Rosemary’s horrified ears.  How DARE her little brother even TOUCH her precious television set; say nothing about using it without her permission!!  Next thing I heard was the stairway door being ripped off its hinges as my furious sister launched herself up those stairs, like a storm trooper to blow me out of my Beatles Bunker!!   I received one SERIOUS tongue lashing for having invaded HER domain and HER television.  With a vicious twist of her wrist on the power knob………OFF went the TV and “The Beatles”.  I was one vanquished little fan……..and in trouble, too!

Later that same year, “The Beatles” made their first movie called, “A Hard Day’s Night”.  I saw that, and their other movies, too, and enjoyed them all.  Even after “The Beatles” disbanded, I still found myself returning to and enjoying the musical genius of those great young artists.  Makes ya wonder if they wrote “Norwegian Wood” for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

May 9th…“NAME SOME OF THE POPULAR HIT SONGS FROM THE DAYS OF YOUR YOUTH.”

One of the most intriguing songs of my young days grabbed my attention in 1963 (when I was 9 years old).  I was listening to the radio that Dad always had playing in the barn on our farm just northwest of Kiester, Minnesota.  Our farmer father had that dust-covered radio always playing during his milking times because he said the music relaxed the cows and enabled them to let down more milk from their udders (milk bags).  More milk meant more money for our family when Dad sold that “white gold” to the local creamery.

I can still picture myself down in the barn that evening and leaning over the bottom half of our ‘Dutch’ barn door.  I was gazing out past the cow-yard and over to our neighbor’s corn and soybean fields.  The waning evening sunshine had cast its golden blanket of light over those crops, and our agricultural world, before bidding goodnight beyond the horizon.  The unique lilting music I heard that evening was not even sung in English.  It was a Japanese tune that had an “Americanized” title of “Sukiyaki”.  The melancholy musical creation was sung by Kyu Sakamoto and was delivered quite soulfully by his voice while our cows softly lowed as they were being milked by my dad.

Strangely enough, the song “Sukiyaki” (which is actually a Japanese hot food dish and has nothing to do with the song) got its name from an American radio host who could not pronounce the Japanese title, so he just grabbed an oriental sounding name “out of the air” in order to promote this catchy new tune to an American audience.  The true Japanese title of this song is, “Ue o Muite Aruko” (translated = I Look Up As I Walk) and was actually written as a student protest song for a social cause that had failed there in Japan.  The author felt a sense of loss, on the evening that he wrote this, because nothing was going to happen from the efforts of his student-led organization that protested the continued presence of the United States Army in Japan during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s.  As the song caught on, many new admirers felt that it could also be seen as a song of suffering the loss of young, romantic love, as well.

Yes, music, in all its wondrous spectra, has been a sweet and addictive elixir of life to my soul from the earliest years that I can remember.  Like culinary courses in a fine meal, my tastes in music have been eclectic, depending on circumstances of a particular moment and what moves my heart emotionally.

There are a plethora of songs I could list here that made my feet go to tapping or move my eyes to tears in their power of lyrics and musical notations that brought to me the pinnacle of artistry for my ears to relish and enjoy.

As my music-loving heart encountered High School days, I continued to drink in the top tunes of my generation, as well as appreciate other genres of great music, too.  That love of music drew me to gain acceptance into our school’s Concert Choir.  I regret not following the inspiration of my beloved Concert Choir teacher, Mr. Orrell Peru.  He encouraged me, repeatedly, to aim my sights at attending Central Washington University because he felt I would be a good music teacher.  If only I would’ve heeded his challenge.  I could have been getting “paid to play” as I then could immerse myself daily in doing that which I have always loved……music!

In lieu of having that “sheep skin” (diploma) from a university, I have filled my years with a passion for singing, a little bit of studio recording (with a dear friend), composing lyrics, writing poetry, teaching guitar and singing in church choirs.  Thanks to the top tunes of my young days, there will always be music to enjoy for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 8th…“DID YOU EVER LOSE YOUR TEMPER?”

Never acquiesce to society’s verbiage without questioning and seeking a deeper understanding of the proper employment of words in every day life.  Take today’s question, as an example.  “Temper” is not a bad thing; it’s actually a VERY GOOD thing, for the word “temper” is synonymous with the word “strength”.

Muse with me upon this scenario………metal tools, gun barrels, metal knife blades and even windshield glass, etc. …….they all have wonderful uses in our daily lives because they have “temper”.  Or, to put it another way, they “have been tempered” with strength added, so to speak.

I’m sure all of us, over the years, whether in school or daily life, have heard someone described as having a “bad” temper or a “short” temper or even having a “short fuse”.   It’s very easy to assume that temper must be something bad, right?  Not at all.  What actually is being communicated is that that person has a bad “strength” or a short “strength”.   The conveyance here is stressing that the person in question truly has what is easily seen as an anger problem in showing that they have not the strength to control their anger and it bursts out against any and all that are sadly within the explosion range of their rage.

I gleaned some wise insight about today’s topic from our hard working farmer father, Russell Conrad Noorlun.   Dad’s young years were spent in the 1920’s and during America’s Great Depression of the 1930’s.  His large farming family had to make do with simple means of life offered to them from working the farmlands of northern Minnesota.  My Grandfather, Edwin A. Noorlun, being the loving patriarch of his handsome family, I’m sure was faced with the reality (brought on by those hard times) of not being able to afford to buy gifts for his eight children on a regular basis.  One day, though, a moment arose that allowed Grandpa Ed to present my father with a tiling spade as a gift.  That loving gesture meant the world to my Dad and he treasured that shovel as if it were made of gold, since it was his beloved father that had bequeathed it to him out of his fatherly love.

I observed that, without fail, EVERY TIME our dad used that shovel (or any of his shovels and equipment), he would hose off the mud, scrub it down and then coated the shovel with a heavy oil that was rubbed all over the metal and wooden parts of the tool.   Being the child that I was, and curious, I asked him one day why he performed this ritual on the shovel (and his other implements or tools).  Here was his reply, “Son, first off, if you take care of your tools, your tools will take care of you!   And, most importantly, by cleaning and oiling this shovel, it will never lose its temper.   Because, IF it loses its temper, it will rust and fall apart when you need it the most and try to use it!!”

At first, my little boy brain couldn’t quite grasp the totality of what Dad had just shared; but as time moved on, I began to  realize the correlation between what Dad told me and life as it happened right in front of me.

For instance, have you ever observed the scene of someone who is losing their strength (temper) and becoming angry?  Many people appear to be “falling apart” in shaking fits as they lose their strength (temper) and give in to tirades of anger or even rage.

Or, like Dad’s shovel analogy, have you ever tried to use an old shovel that has lost its temper?  I have.  The shovel could not stand the strain of the work it was expected to do because it had lost its strength (temper) by being allowed to rust from lack of care.    Therefore on that day, as I rammed that shovel blade into the ground and pulled back to lift a load of soil, it bent and snapped in half…….just when I NEEDED it most.

So, to answer the initial question…….yes, I have “lost my strength” from time to time in life and have lived to regret every single instance.  Why?  Because almost 100% of those anger incidents were based upon selfish reasons that could have been avoided if I had “cleaned and oiled” my spirit with God’s Holy Word and then acted accordingly.  It says in the Bible, “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city”….Proverbs Chapter 16 and Verse 32. (King James Version)

I still have that shovel that Grandfather Edwin gave to our father, Russell.  It now has been handed down to our son, Nathan.  I cleaned and oiled that family “treasure” and then laid it in a lovely bed of Periwinkle flowers.  I felt it to be symbolic of the fact that temper is beautiful, in its strength, and the flowers around this family heirloom complimented the beauty of God’s strength that is available for each of our lives.   So are the heart thoughts of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 7th…“DID YOU EVER SNEAK A TREAT FROM YOUR MOTHER’S KITCHEN?”

POEM – “A Cheery Cherry Chiseler” by N. Elliott Noorlun

I’m the cheery cherry chiseler,

A slinking through farm house,

In hopes I’d steal a cherry or two,

If quiet as a mouse.

With Ma out feeding chickens,

And Pa out in the field,

T’was time for a spy, This little guy,

To see what frig would yield.

Just like “James Bond, I’d check to see,

Of when “the coast was clear”,

If Mom or any family,

Was close enough to hear,

Me sleuthing through the kitchen,

White “vault” just full of stash,

Those Maraschino Cherries,

On my taste buds I would mash!

Once found, I’d sample two or three,

Round orbs of red delight,

Then with a wink, Screw on the lid,

And dash clear out of sight.

Mom must’ve wondered, At baking time,

How cherries were close to none,

They’d happily stolen, Into the gut,

Of her Norwegian Farmer’s Son!! 😉

May 6th…“WHAT COUNTRY DID OUR ANCESTORS COME FROM AND WHAT ARE SOME INTERESTING FAMILY FACTS?”

“Ja vi elsker dette landet” (translation = Yes, we love this land) …..I can just envision the musical refrains of “A Song For Norway” echoing off the crevassed walls of the glacial fjords of my ancestral homeland.   Likely, my paternal  Great Grandfather heard or sang that song in his youth before emigrating to this new land of America and settling into the State of Wisconsin.  My paternal Grandfather, Edwin Noorlun, there in Wisconsin, was the first generation to be born here in the United States in the year 1888.  His father, Arne (pronounced either ARnee or ARnuh), saw life start in the mother country of Norway.

Our beloved mother, Clarice, also had Norwegian roots in her family heritage.  Her paternal Great Grandfather, Ole Sletten, was born in 1825 within the south central village of Aurdal, Norway.  My Great Great Grandfather Ole Sletten so loved his newly adopted country of America, that he served with the Union Army during the Civil War between the States in the 1860’s.

In their former homeland, our Norwegian ancestors could enjoy the peaceful, lake-filled valleys of the fjords or the wind-swept wildness of the mountains and Troll’s Tongue.

For benefit of the young ones in our family, the motherland of our clan is nestled into the northwest coastline of the European Continent.  It must’ve taken some hardy souls to glean a living from that chilled and rugged part of the world.  For all we know, those aforementioned conditions may have been some of the very reasons that brought a change of mind and heart to our forefathers.  They then had to make the life-changing decision to make the trek of a lifetime as they boarded ships and emigrated to the new land of The United States of America.

To this day, and especially on festive occasions, Norwegians will bring out their fashion finery to share the elegance in attire that is worn by both old and young.

The new American saga of our two families continued as they set up new lives in this grand land of opportunity called The United States.

Maybe it was the wide-open spaces, versus the confined quarters of the motherland of Norway, but a great majority of Norwegian immigrants tended to settle their families into the Midwest heartland regions.

My Dad was born and raised in northern Minnesota before eventually migrating to northern Iowa to look for work on farms in that area.  His parents and siblings eventually followed their son by also moving to northern Iowa and finishing out their lives in a town called, Lake Mills.

My maternal grandfather, Clarence Sletten, like many other Norwegian sons, was born in the Midwestern State of South Dakota, but life drew him and his young family to the northern Iowa town of Scarville, where our mother and her siblings were born on a farm just north of that tiny village.  Farming, being an arduous way of life and susceptible to hard times, was going to come to an end for our maternal grandfather as they lost the family farm during the Great Depression of the 1930’s.  Clarence had to feed his young family, so he began work as a drayman (delivered supplies on flatbed horse-drawn wagon or truck) in the nearby village of Scarville and also worked for the grain elevator there.  As years went by, our Grandfather Sletten, and his lovely wife Amanda, took their family to the southern Minnesota city of Albert Lea and went to work for Rilco Laminated Products as a laminate worker who glued giant wooden construction beams together.

Spices in a kitchen cabinet are used to flavor the food on your table.  The spice in my Norwegian elder’s lives was the “flavor” of the way they spoke their English.  Even after moving to America, the generations born to our elders were bilingually fluent in Norwegian and English.  Yet, the Norwegian tongue was still dominant in the ways they tried to pronounce English words.

The Norwegian language was still dominant, even in my father’s generation starting in 1918.  There is a photo in our collection that shows our young daddy and his three other brothers.  The brothers are dressed nicely in their Sunday School best of clothing.  Yet all showed sour and serious scowls on their faces.  When I asked our mother why such faces, she responded, “You’d be a sour-faced grump, too, if you had to sit through TWO church services each Sunday.  One in Norwegian and the other a repeat in English!!”  My Dad used to talk about the commonality of speaking to one parent in Norwegian and then spinning around to chat with his second parent in English.  That’s how common the Norwegian language had survived in the families since coming over from Norway.

A fun Norwegian treat, when I was a child, was the eating of Lefse.  They look like the Mexican tortilla, but are actually a potato flatbread that is grilled, then buttered, sugared, rolled up and eaten with great delight whenever family would gather for holidays or just a good old Norski fun time.  There was another culinary favorite of Norwegian families called, Kringla.  That delicacy was a soft cookie made to look like a pretzel.  It would be lathered on its flat bottom with rich creamery butter and relished with each succulent bite.

My generation picked up a scattering of Norwegian words as we grew up, but what was fascinating was watching our parents interact with their parents when we were all together for family gatherings.  Since our parents and the elders were fluent in the Norwegian language, they’d use a tactic that I called, “shifting gears” when we little kids were around.  If there were sensitive family issues to be discussed by the grown ups, they would “shift gears” from speaking in English to each other and, instead, would begin to speak only in Norwegian.  We little ones were now “in the dark” as to what they were talking about.  Over time though, I began to discern that if the subject matter was “hush hush”, the adults form of voice tones were usually low, dark and serious.  I’d think to myself, “Yup, something bad or naughty has likely happened and they don’t want us kids to know about it!”   Yet, on the other hand, if our parents and elders wanted to share a risque family incident or “off color” joke, again they’d “shift gears” into Norwegian………only THIS time, their voices were light and bright and with smiles on their faces until the “punch line” was delivered and then all the adults would roar with laughter!!!!  Even as children, we got to where we could “read between the lines” and at least knew what MAY have been happening in the language of our ancestors.

To keep our family’s history alive and well, some dear souls have done research and have websites to share stories, photos and information of our history here in America and back to the mother country of Norway.  One of those websites is called,  http://www.sletten.name.   Another website is called, http://www.rogness.com.

Such is a taste of the historical origins of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.