April 8th…“MAKE UP A LIMERICK ABOUT YOURSELF.”

POEM – “Once Elliott Was…..” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Once Elliott was, Actually skinny,

You might even say, That he was mini,

But then lots of food, That tasted so gooooood,

Made him fat as a horse, With lard-filled whinny!! 😉

April 7th…“WHO WAS YOUR CHILDHOOD DENTIST AND WHAT WAS HE LIKE?”

Perched on the second floor, above the 1902 building that held the Kiester Food Market, was the office of our village Cavitary Caped Crusader, the honorable Doctor E. F. (Elmer Fred) Pirsig.  Doc Pirsig first opened his Kiester, Minnesota dental practice back in the year 1932 and when it came to being successful in dentulous delights, this dear man was the very essence of a professional that was sought after by farm families for miles around.

Even though Mom dutifully implored me to brush my teeth on a regular basis, it was just a matter of time when an errant tooth would give way to that dastardly, dilemmatic conclusion that I either needed to live with the pain of that tooth, or visit dear Doctor Pirsig.  So, wanting to get relief from the agony, Mom and I would climb into our 1956 Chevy and it would soon pull up in front of the Kiester Food Market building.  Mom and I then entered a stairway door that led up to the doctor’s office.

Our echoing footsteps, up the creaking stairs of that cavernous stairwell, eventually led us into the doctor’s large waiting room.  In between reading comic books, I found myself gazing at the quaint, tin-embossed ceiling high above me that likely had been in existence from when the building was originally constructed back in 1902.

As he took a step or two into the waiting room, Dr. Pirsig summoned me into his treatment parlor that overlooked our village’s Main Street.  I remember being fascinated with all of the medical equipment that he had and especially the massive dentist’s chair with its rope-driven drill that hung over me as I climbed up and settled into this dental ‘throne’.

As gently as he could, Doc Pirsig’s syringe needle invaded my little boy mouth to administer the anesthetic to put my feelings to ‘sleep’ while he worked on my cavities.  As the drug began to take hold, it was a strange realization of having NO sensation in that part of my mouth……no hot, no cold, no pain of any sort….WOW!!  What an intriguing and mysterious experience that was for me.  In the early to mid 1960’s, our dentist’s drilling apparatus was powered by an electric motor that spun pulley wheels linked together at articulated joints on long metal arms.  Along those pulley wheels ran a strong fiber cord that then powered the drill that was used inside a patient’s mouth for removing tooth decay.  Funny and freaky, at the same moment, were the times that Doc Pirsig’s drill bit would ‘bite off more than it could chew’ and became stuck in one of my teeth.  The main drill motor was still supplying full power to the pulley wheels, so they kept on spinning at high speed.  Problem was, the pulley drive cords were not moving, due to the stuck drill bit.  That’s when I’d see smoke start to emanate from those cords and wondered if they’d burst into flame?  😉  The good doctor took it all in stride, though, and just released the power, wiggled the bit loose and resumed his work on my dental behalf.

In between grindings in my mouth, I was given a small cup of water and the doctor asked me to swish a mouthful in my mouth to dislodge material that he had created.  I was then instructed to bend over a small, round sink that was immediately to my left side and spit the remnants down the drain.  That tiny, porcelain sink had a constant, small jet of water shooting in a clockwise whirlpool, of sorts, along the upper rim and eventually down the little drain in its center.   Being the midget comedian, I was amused how that rinse sink resembled a small toilet as it flushed my drool, blood and dental chunks away into the unknown from my kid-sized candy cavern……alias ‘mouth’ 😉

On a side note, since Dr. Pirsig’s profession was a rather sedentary one, therefore, he was well-known for faithfully going out for walks into our local farming countryside for exercise almost daily throughout the years.   One windswept winter’s day, our parents came up on a person walking along the side of the highway during a heavy snowfall.   The parka-clad figure was very well dressed with gloves, scarf, etc. and it turned out to be dear Dr. Pirsig on his daily walk.   Rolling down the window of our car, Dad offered the Doc a ride back into Kiester, yet, in his kind and gentlemanly ways, Dr. Pirsig reassured Russell and Clarice Noorlun that he was just fine and bid them a blessed day and that he’d be safe and well till he got back into town.  That’s one very determined soul of a fine man. 😉

Without the dedicated, dental delicacies of Dr. Pirsig, and others over the years, there would be one more totally toothless twerp in this world…….ME!   I’m so thankful for the few teeth I have remaining is this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 6th…“HAVE YOU EVER GONE HUNTING WITH A MEMBER OF YOUR FAMILY?”

Handsome, Hero, Hot Rodder….and in this case Hunter….those attributes, all rolled into one, made up my big brother, Lowell!!  Being 11 years older than myself, big brother was actually more like a young father to me in my growing up days on our farm in southern Minnesota.  Lowell invested time in my young life and made me to feel special whenever I had any opportunity to be with him.  One of those adventures would be hunting pigeons.

On a sunny Summer afternoon at our farm near Kiester, Minnesota, Lowell came home from shopping at “Gambles Hardware Store” there in our town.  The year was 1964 and I was a mere 10 years of age at the time.  Brother found me upstairs in sister Rosemary’s bedroom.  With one arm behind him, he approached me.  Beneath that dark, wavy hair of his were two eyes that set to twinkling and and below them was a sly smile emerging from his face.  There was something “up his sleeve” and I couldn’t WAIT to find out what it was.  With a swing of his arm, he brought something to the front that he was hiding behind his back.  It was a sparkling, brand new “DAISY” BB air rifle!!!!!   My eyes popped open as wide as saucers and the “Oooooo’s and Ahhhhh’s” started spilling forth from my little boy lips!!

At that moment, for me to muse upon the notion that he thought I was mature enough to now experience the wonder of learning respect for and firing a BB rifle, …….well, the thrill of it was almost more than this little farm boy could stand!!! 😉  Next came a teaching time with brother so he could inculcate within me the safety aspects of properly handling a firearm.  When Lowell felt I had gleaned enough firearm knowledge, he shared a thrilling idea with me.  We two could have some guy-type fun and actually do a service for our area farmers in getting rid of pigeons from their haymows (which is an attic storage above the barn that holds alfalfa to feed the animals and also yellow straw for bedding the animals.)

Brother Lowell enlightened me to the fact that the pigeon population was prolific in our part of the State and that those gazillion pigeons would usually find ways to get into the  haymows of the local barns to roost (make a nest to live).  With their large bodies, the birds would see “daylight” via the glass windows and then fly INTO those barn windows and break them in their vain attempt to get out of the barn.  Not only were those windows costly (and dangerously high) for the farmers to replace, but without windows in place, rainstorms would easily blow its water inside the haymow.   The resulting wet hay would then begin to rot from the moisture.  That rotting process created an internal heat inside the bales and could result in a fire called, spontaneous combustion.  If the farmer wasn’t aware of all this, his barn could burn down and all his animals would be destroyed in the fire.

Once having taken up residence in a barn, those pesky pigeons would then proceed to “make deposits” of bird goo on the hay bales that were used to feed the livestock.  You can surmise that any cow, in her right mind, does NOT want to eat anything with pigeon pucky all over it.  As brother theorized, he felt the local farmers would be thrilled to be rid of those pesky pigeon poopers.

Like any military engagement, my “Brigadier Brother” had a battle plan as to how we’d carry out the hunt of our pooping prey.  Each evening, during that Summer, we’d finish up the chores and milking of our dairy herd.  Now, the rest of the night was ours to go hunting those bottom blasting birds.  A magnetic flashlight was clicked onto the barrel of our “Daisy” BB rifle as we climbed into Lowell’s sleek 1957 Ford Fairlane.  As we rolled along those gravel roads to the next farm, Lowell shared how the magnetic flashlight would allow us to see our prey in the darkness of the barn’s haymow AND how the beam of light would temporarily blind the bird so that it held to it’s perch while we drew a bead on it as a target.

Big brother and I plinked away night after night, farm after farm.  For a couple of country boys, it was a kick in the shorts (slang for “good time”) and also served as some golden bonding moments between brothers, as well.  Each evening, after we two “Heap Big Great White Norwegian Hunters” cleared out a barn of pigeons, we’d gather the “kill” and toss the bodies onto the nearest manure piles which were common on most farms.

But then, one night, we encountered an “Alfred Hitchcock” moment.  Around dusk, that evening, Lowell’s handsome ’57 Ford was cruising past a dark, vacant, abandoned farm place.   The current owner of the property lived just up the gravel road a mile or so, so brother drove us over to the owner’s place to ask permission to shoot the pigeons in that old barn.  The new owner was glad for us to rid the barn of those birds, so we returned to that desolate farm yard as the last rays of sun were fading behind the treed windbreak.  Climbing out of Lowell’s car, we could sense that, in the waning light of dusk, that there was something very eeerie about this particular barn and the whole farmyard in general.  It was a palpable “dead” feeling without the presence of lights in the barn or any sign of life in that ghostly farmhouse, either; it was contrary to the like we’d been used to seeing at other family farms around us.  Even the windbreak of cottonwood trees that surrounded the farmyard seemed to give out a whispering warning as the labored wind filtered through their lonely branches.

Our father’s battery-operated railroad lantern was to be used for basic light in the upper reaches of this spooky structure that once was home to a thriving family of animals.  With the last vestiges of daylight disappearing, we began the ascent of the wooden ladder into the blackened haymow, but we didn’t bother turning the lantern ON till we had reached the level of the haymow itself.  The lantern was cylindrical in nature and had a wire guardrail around the bare bulbs that jutted out from the lantern housing.  With the grasping of each rung of the haymow ladder, we could hear that THIS particular barn attic was “alive” with sounds that denoted something was hidden in that ominous darkness.  We perceived sounds that were unnatural to what we had been used to in other barns of our area.

Within seconds of igniting that lantern light, we now knew full well what those strange sounds were……….we were immediately assaulted by dozens of Starlings and other birds that went completely berserk at the intrusive light that had invaded their dark domain.  Birds were all over that light and all over us as they landed on our shoulders and heads; pecking at us and the lights we were using.  Valiantly, we attempted to ignore them and take rifle aim on the pigeons in the upper rafter level, but the anguishing harassment of this bird population was too over-powering.  With disgust, Lowell hollered, “Let’s get the HECK OUTTA HERE!!!”  Down the ladder we went, in all haste, as the throng of attackers followed our descent.  They were like tiny machine gunners with the “rat a tat a tat” pecking.  When we finally made it outside of the barn and back to Lowell’s car, only then, did the fearless, feathered mini-falcons claim victory and returned to their castle which was that dead haymow, in that dead barn, on that dead farm!!

Other than that haunting occasion, that Summer, all together, this brotherly dynamic duo bagged over 150 pigeons.  And, in the process, made many a local farmer happy to have those pesky pooper pigeons out of his barn so that his cows could once again have clean alfalfa hay to eat and enjoy.  Mange Takk (many thanks) to my dear brother, Lowell, for being a grand adventurer with this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 5th…“DID YOU EVER FEEL A HATRED FOR ANOTHER PERSON?”

Hate is a word imbued with power and fraught with potential negativity if implemented in my life within the context of selfish pride, rather than a holy, righteous indignation.

I readily admit that I have sadly been guilty of hatred for individuals in my life and those occasions have stemmed from my own, self-centered pride.

As Christians, we see that the Holy Scripture is replete with directives from the Lord to love even our enemies and the only time hatred is allowed is when our God, Himself, shows a righteous hatred for sin, such as in Psalms 139:22 which speaks of a “perfect hatred”.  Or, when Jesus chased out the money changers from the Temple.  Those were times of righteous indignation against those who stained the sacred holiness of the Temple with their selfish encroachments and deeds of evil.

From the time of my childhood, I have mused upon those whom I  have chosen to hate, and, as I ponder upon each incident, I have to attribute my hatred to having been based on my rampant immaturity, rather than “turning the other cheek ” and “going the extra mile” to show God’s love as Jesus would have me to do.   Fathom this, Jesus, being the Perfect Lamb and Essence of Innocence, chose to take attacks against His person without retaliation.   So also should I have done so in my own life.

It intrigues me, as I ponder this issue, how that those who intentionally wound me with mean words or deeds are the VERY ONES that I am supposed to love even MORE!!!  It’s so easy to care about and show love to those who are easy to love, such as family and friends.  Again the Spirit of God takes me to His Word and says, in Romans 5:10 (paraphrased) “While we were yet His enemies, Christ showed His love by giving His life on the Cross for us.”  I am consumed in my thoughts how, in my finite fleshly mind, that I would even THINK of allowing myself to be killed so that an enemy of mine could go free and have the best of everything………..yet, that’s exactly what Jesus did for me!!!  This is powerful, convicting and thought provoking as I deal with my feelings about some people.

Those times in my past, when I DID act out my hatred in word or deed, were times that I look back on with deep regret!!  Nothing was gained.  Feelings on both sides were further wounded and I was NOT a better Christian because of those sad episodes.

So, my dear ones, learn to do what is RIGHT in God’s sight and not from the frailties and failures of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 4th…“DID A CHILDHOOD IGNORANCE ALMOST LEAD TO DISASTER?”

POEM – “Beware of Super Can!!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Little did I realize, When I was but a boy,

That aerosol cans with added heat, Were really not a toy.

So when I took out, The trash to burn,

A powerful lesson, I soon would learn.

The chore of burning trash was mine,

So I’d head for the woods, And I THOUGHT would be fine,

To pour it all on, In one big heap,

Then light the match, And watch the flames creep,

Up the paper, wood, And all such junk,

But in there was hiding, A metal hunk.

The fire was going, Well and good,

So I moved away, From where I stood.

When halfway back,  To the house I heard,

An explosion that caused, My blood to curd!!

I cautiously crept, Back to the scene,

And viewed a spray can, Ugly and mean.

The heat from the fire, Caused it to EXPLODE!

His angels had moved me, To safety’s abode.

It’s best to ask questions, Of what you’re to do,

So you don’t become target, Of a giant KERBLEW!!! 😉

April 3rd…“AS A BOY, WHEN A STORM BLEW INTO YOUR AREA, WHAT MEASURES WERE TAKEN TO PROTECT YOUR FAMILY AND FARM BUILDINGS?”

Black, convoluted clouds churned in the angry sky above our cowering farmyard in southern Minnesota.  Indications pointed to the conclusion, in my little boy brain, that we were about to be targeted for the unleashing of another tumultuous thunderstorm.  Like a protective mother’s arms, the treed windbreak that wrapped around our home-place would take the first volleys of wind onslaught, but we, in respect of Heaven’s immense power, waited to see what the sky directly above us would generate.

The bulwark construction of our near century old farm house had withstood the soldier charge of many a storm through the decades and this scene was the precursor to yet another weather battle just ahead.  This particular evening, though, the marvels of God especially captured the absolute awe of this tiny Norwegian lad.

After the milking of our Holstein dairy herd was completed for that evening, our farmer dad made his way to the family kitchen now that our cows, and other livestock, were safely bed down for the night.  Now seemed an appropriate time to inquire of my father as to, “What are those pointy metal spears on top of the barn and our house for, Dad?”  With loud thunder sounding in the background, Dad answered, “Those are lightning rods, Son.  If a bolt of lightning flashes near any of our buildings or house, the rods actually attract the fire bolt and sends its charge of hot, electrical current through a metal cable and down into the ground.  That way, hopefully, the heat of the lightning’s blast won’t set our barn or other buildings on fire.”   YIKES!!!!!  Now my infantile imagination REALLY kicked in!

Later, when darkness had captured all the shadows from our world, God’s cannons in the sky opened up their salvos and began bludgeoning our bastion of home and farmland.  Independence Day fireworks could never hold a candle to the infinite power that detonated above our heads that fateful evening.  Deafening charges of exploding thunder, in lethal decibels, caused concussions that shook our humble domicile relentlessly.  Each blast from Heaven’s artillery resulted in causing the antique window panes of glass in my upstairs window to chatter and clank like the clattering, caliginous clamor of a cowardly knight in his loose suit of armor.  This type of titanic terror was just too much for this timid, tiny tike!

I rocketed down those stairs, from my second story bedroom, like a soldier in retreat and breathlessly entered the sanctuary of my parent’s bedroom.  With petrified earnest, my tiny boy voice begged Mother to allow me to find solace between her and Dad in their bed.  With an understanding heart, Mom lifted my tiny being over herself and placed me within the blanketed fortress of temporary protection between she and our strong progenitor.  Dad, on the other hand, was not as sympathetic of this mini-intruder, who, in his opinion, needed to learn to endure the havoc of Heaven that was a Summer normality for living in Minnesota.  But for me, on that shattering night, being in the sheltered and quilted protection of my mater and pater was thee best place to be for this frightened little Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 2nd…“AS A CHILD, WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?”

The magic may have been in the fecundity of the black onyx soils of Minnesota farmland versus the rocky peaks of our ancestral Norway.  Whatever magnetism it was, farming was in the blood of our father, grandfather and likely even our great grandfather that immigrated to this new land of America in the 1800’s.

Therefore, as a child, I TOO wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps as far as going into agriculture when I came of age.

One of my earliest recollections of baby life on our farm was when Mom would carry me down to the barn and let me down to the floor while she helped our father with the milking.  From my concrete level viewpoint, I could see Mom and Dad in the Milking Parlor working on emptying milk from the Surge Milker machines into milk cans and then cleaning equipment.  As my minuscule members wiggled at straw level, I would look down the long manger aisle in front of where our herd of Holstein dairy cows were eating their meal.  That aisle, in the center of our barn, seemed to be a mile long to this tiny tiker while I saw life from that very low perspective.  I’m guessing I must’ve been a year old or maybe a wee bit older, because I hadn’t yet mastered the art of walking upright.  Being the mini midget that I was, I really didn’t know what a cow was, except for the fact that these beasts nearby loomed ginormously in front of me and seemed to tower to the very rafters of that barn as they munched contentedly on their evening meal of tasty alfalfa.

As any impressionable little son looks to his father for emulation, I wanted to look like, act like and BE like a farmer in every way that I could.  I was always imitating Dad in every way imaginable…..even down to trying to blow my nose with one finger tight up against one nostril.   THAT was a messy life experience that usually brought howls of laughter from Dad as my nose “stuffings” dribbled off of cheek or chin and didn’t fly clear of my face with enough blow power.

I was surely one step closer to being a farmer when I received my very first pair of bib overalls!!!!   Now I even dressed “just like Dad”!  I busted with pride for looking like my patriarchal hero!  There were pockets galore in those bibs and I filled each one with things like Dad would carry, such as tools, pencils, little notebook, etc..

I LOVED to watch our father working the fields with our various Farmall tractors and equipment!  When my parents deemed that I was old enough, it was an extra special treat to be able to actually ride with our Dad on the tractor while he worked our fields!   Dad would pull back the throttle on that Super M Farmall and I’d watch the black exhaust spurt to the sky from the muffler as that powerful engine pulled plow, disc or corn planter up and down our acreage.  When our corn crop was in need of cultivating (getting the weeds out), our father allowed me to watch him hook up the four row cultivator to the tractor.  Standing alongside Dad, on the tractor, I watched those beveled hoe blades slice just below the soil’s surface as weeds were plowed under and the rows were left clean, aerated and dressed up as we rolled along.

Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 Verse 1 says, “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the Heaven.”   Alas, in 1967, our parents had to make a decision regarding farming.  One option was to continue in farming, in hopes that I would want to take over the farm after high school.  Or, sell the farm and start a new life in Washington State.  Dad, in his wisdom, just couldn’t take the gamble of waiting around to see what direction I might go in adulthood.  If I had chosen a different career, and NOT farming, then he and Mom would’ve been burdened with farming on their own into their senior years.  Following his best logic, a decision was made to sell the farm and a sale auction was held on July 22nd, 1967.  Neighbors from miles around came to see us that day and bought up everything from dishes, to screwdrivers, to tractors, to cows.

There’s an old saying, “You can take the boy outta the farm, but you’ll never take the farm outta the boy!”  That is so true!  To this very day, I get a happiness out of seeing a tractor working in a field as I drive down the highway.  There’s also a pleasure to my nostrils as I roll down car windows and imbibe the pungent aroma of a working dairy farm as I pass by.   All these happy “triggers” bring back joyful memories of childhood and the way of life I treasured as a little farm boy.  Overall, it was providential, and part of God’s divine wisdom, that we DID make the move to a new life in Washington State.  Besides, I’m no business-minded man and a bit of a brown thumb when it comes to growing things, so likely I may have failed as a farmer anyway.  Another fine factor in the move to a new life is the fact that, had we stayed in Minnesota, I never would have enjoyed the blessings of meeting a lovely lady and then the two of us bring forth our five wonderful children that were gifted to us with love from God.  I praise the Lord for my cherished years as a country boy……..The Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 1st…“WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY, WERE SOME WORDS MORE DIFFICULT TO SAY THAN OTHERS?”

POEM – “Thertan Werds” by N. Elliott Noorlun

When I wuth jutht, A widdo kid,

I twide to thpeek, Like udders did.

But thertan werds, Jutht nebber came,

Ands when day laffed, I jutht felt lame.

I pwayed a tigar, That hed thixth stwings,

And when it camed, Tew farmin’ tings,

Daddy hauled dat thtuff, From outta dah cow,

Wit big “nur predder”, Peeyoo and how.

Big’um werds, Nebber were my ting,

When me’s was widdo, Upon my thwing!! 😉

March 31st…“TELL ABOUT A FUNNY PRANK THAT WAS PLAYED ON SOMEONE.”

My fellow custodian, Cynthia, was determined to jape the juvenile that day as we worked at getting the summer cleaning done at Glenwood Hts. Elementary School.  This custodian lady was a mischievous little vixen when it came to teasing pranks and practical jokes.   Her double whammy combination sure made those summer cleaning duties stay on the wild side for our High School-aged temporary summer worker named, Scott.   Throughout that fateful day, Cynthia had been hiding around corners or sneaking up on Scott just to see him jump higher and higher from her antics.  As a result, Scott became VERY leery about even being near this high energy co-worker.

Later that afternoon, Scott was wayyyy down at the end of a long hallway doing some cleaning.    He was too far away to hear the conniving that was happening between Cynthia, Big John Maynard and myself.    That little sneak of a lady grabbed a new, black garbage bag and proceeded to tie the seamed end into a knot.  Then, Cynthia sat down on the floor, pulled her knees up against her chest and slid the open end of the trash bag down over her body.  Next, she tucked in the bag around her bottom.  She literally looked JUST like a big bag of garbage needing to taken to the dumpster.  Once settled inside her “trap”, Cynthia poked a hole in the bag towards Scott’s direction, so she could see Scott coming towards her up the long hallway.  At her command, Big John Maynard calls out to Scott, “Heyyyyyy SCOTT!!!!  Ya better come and take this bag of “garbage” out to the dumpster, it’s rreally starting to smell!!!”    Obedient to orders, Scott begins the journey towards us up the hallway.  All the way, Scott is commenting on how he’s wise to Cynthia’s tricks and how she’ll never fool HIM again.  Of course, little does he know, but the “spider” was waiting to catch the “fly”.

When Scott was within inches of picking up that “bag of trash”, Cynthia exploded out of her trap with a blood curdling scream and all mayhem broke loose from that point!  Scott screamed as high as any soprano and fell back against the hall wall grabbing for his chest.

Not sure if Scott made a little “puddle” on the floor, but John, Cynthia and myself BURST out laughing so hard and long, that we started to cry and hyperventilate from these shenanigans!!!  It was one of the most perfect practical jokes ever seen by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

March 30th…“WHAT WAS A FARMING LESSON YOU LEARNED THE HARD WAY?”

POEM – “On The Fence With Dad” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Dad could be a stinker, In our days back on the farm,

Although I’m sure, with good intent, He really meant no harm.

Like the time he asked me to go for a walk, When I was just about four,

If I’d known then, what was gonna happen, I’d have never gone out that door.

Now at that age, For any lad, You’ll gladly do ANYTHING, For your dad,

So as we walked, To get our cows, I soon discovered, The WOW of wows!!

Dad asked me, “Son can you do something for me?”, I wanted to please him best,

“Use this wet blade of grass, And touch that wire, Give that electric fence a test.

This naïve little guy,  With obedient try,  Laid that grass upon the wire,

Voltage shot through, My arm, Then I knew,  What it felt like to feel “on fire”!!!

My dad gave a laugh, While his little calf, Named Elliott started to bawl,

As he walked farther down, The cow lane that day, As if he’d done no wrong at all.

Years rolled by, And this little guy, Is now young buck of 13,

It’s time to learn, The ways of the farm, And from Father’s wisdom glean.

Until we hence, Came up to a fence, With electricity surging through wire,

Screwdriver in palm, My dad with all calm, Said, “I’ll show how to test if there’s fire.”

“NO WAY!!”, said I, “I remember the cry”, “I had when I was four!”

“Whether you’re straight, Or foolin'”, “You’ll not catch ME toolin'”, 

“With electric fences NO MORE!!”

**********************************************

Epilogue:  Dad got real upset with me that day, in 1967, when he truly MEANT to teach me about testing an electric fence.  And, later in life, what he showed me that day DID make sense.  But, even though (back in 1958) he had good intentions regarding the 4 year old shocker incident, I never forgot that sensation of my little muscles “locking up” for a second or two from that electrical shock and I wouldn’t trust Dad ……seeing that he was a BIG practical joker, too.  So went a farming life lesson learned for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.