February 28th…“TELL ABOUT OTHER PETS YOU HAD ON YOUR FARM.”

POEM – “The Pet Called Puddles” by N. Elliott Noorlun

There was “Cheetah” the sheep, And “Angel” the cow,

But then came the pet, That went bow wow.

“Puddles”, Our only indoor pet,

For to get his name, It was easy to bet.

Cause every time, We turned around,

His bladder would burst, And yes, we found,

PUDDLES, you guessed it, T’was our yellow mess,

So THAT was his name, I now confess!!  😉

February 27th…“TELL ABOUT THE BEST PET YOU EVER HAD.”

“Spotty” was my buddy, my BEST buddy!!  That dear dog and I were inseparable.  No matter how much trouble I was in with parents, teachers or whoever; my pal “Spotty” was always thrilled to see me.  Energetically he would ‘lick my face off’ because he was my devoted friend no matter what anyone else said about me.

There would be times I’d be crying from a scolding by teacher or parents.  There I sat, in a lap full of tears, as “Spotty” would see me from a distance and run to my side.  That pooch literally would ‘kiss’ my tears away with that happy tongue of his, leaving me slathered and slobbered all over, yet glad for this sincere camaraderie between that Terrier and myself.  Oftentimes, we’d play fight with each other.  I’d have my leather gloves on and that aggressive lil stinker would bite and gnaw on my clenched fist.  It was his roughhouse way of saying, “I love this human chew toy!!”

In the Bible, Ecclesiastes Chapter 3 Verse 2 says, “There’s a time to be born, And a time to die…..”.  Sadly, in early August of 1967, it was the moment to be “Spotty’s” time to die.  Our parents had sold the family farm and Dad had decided that “Spotty” would not be making the trip with us to our new home in Washington State.  Although our farmer father loved all of our animals, including “Spotty”, he had to face the reality of a time crunch and moving our family to a whole new life on the West Coast.  There just would not be the luxury of space in the vehicles in trying to take “Spotty” along for the journey.  It would have also consumed precious time to try to find a new home for the family dog.  Poor Dad, he was obviously overloaded with so much to do in packing and getting ready for the 1,720 mile journey ahead of us all.  As far as our little Terrier……..what had to be done, had to be done! 😦

My brother-in-law was given the task of killing our dog.  My job, on that fateful day, was to jump in the bed of our 1950 Ford pickup and call “Spotty” to jump in there with me.  Happily obedient, my four legged friend jumped up and inside the truck box with me for what was to be his last ride on this earth.  As usual, his tail was wagging with joy for taking this ride and he was exuding his usual trademark energy for life.  As the truck bumped along the alfalfa field and towards the ‘thicket’ (back woods) of our property, the tears flowed from my eyes like a faucet as I petted and hugged this dear dog as my brother-in-law approached the ‘thicket’ at the far SW corner of our 120 acre farm.

I just couldn’t bear the pain of actually seeing my canine cutie being shot, so, after “Spotty” and I jumped down from the truck bed, I had him follow my brother-in-law while I climbed into the pickup’s cab.  I tightly rolled up both windows to keep out the sound of what I knew would happen shortly.  I watched “Spotty” obediently follow that man with the rifle towards the thick brush and then disappear around a corner.

I clasped my hands tightly over my ears in the hopes of not hearing the crack of that rifle shot, but…...KAPOWWW!!!.….I still heard the awful shot that ended my “Spotty’s” life.  Even though I was a young man of 13 years, it was a very lonely rest of the day and full of tears for this country boy who no longer would enjoy the company of that little white Terrier who had shown me his heart to be full of love and licks for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 26th…“TELL ABOUT A FAVORITE HANGOUT PLACE FOR YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS IN YOUR DAYS AT KIESTER, MINNESOTA”

In the crisp chill of fall in 1966, my buddies and I had just finished watching our Kiester High School “Bulldogs” beat the pants off of a local rival school.  With the thrill of the game still fresh in our minds, we pondered what we should do to continue our victory celebrations.  Amongst me and my ‘buds’, it was unanimous that we should continue this mode of celebration at our Kiester Lanes Bowling Alley.  This relatively new business was located on West State Street that traveled east/west through the southern part of our hamlet.

Swishing our feet through thick layers of fall leaves, we meandered through neighborhood sidewalks on our way to the bowling alley.  We were normal, rowdy preteens as we walked along in the evening shadows with our puffing breath appearing in chilly vapors on the frosty night air.  Like young stallions in pasture, we rough-housed with each other in forms of jovial pushes, elbow jabs and the like.  Some of the guys would run ahead to hide behind trees and then jump out to scare us from their secluded darkness.  These fun shenanigans kept us all edgy and on our toes as we traversed the rest of the chilly way until we could reach our destination for bowling and tasty treats from the snack bar or grill.

When our gang arrived at Kiester Lanes, it was obvious that every other kid and adult in town had conjured up the same idea.  That bowling alley was packed like sardines with bodies from wall to wall!  As my ears were filled with the din of conversations and sound of bowling balls rumbling, I began to negotiate my young body through this mass of townspeople.  Suddenly, I felt two hands on my waistline.  Thinking, in a blink, that it was one of my buddies that had come over with me from the football field, I figured this was a continuation of that rough-housing we’d enjoyed in the neighborhood.  Yes?  NO!!!  Without looking back to confirm who it was that touched me, I cocked my elbow and drove it backwards with a quick thrust!!  What I heard next was a lady’s yelp of shock and loss of air as I had literally nailed her in the gut and she was knocked against others in that crowd.

That poor local lady was just trying to get through that tight crowd as I had been trying to do.  I was in shock about what I had just done!!!  I was ALWAYS taught by my parents to give honor and respect to any elder in all situations.  This was NOT my normal ‘modus operandi’!!!  When that poor lady regained her composure, she turned on all her burners and gave me one HORRENDOUS ‘tongue lashing’ about how terrible and disrespectful I was to an adult and especially to a grown woman!!  No matter how much I tried to apologize to her in saying this had been an honest accident, in her eyes I was ‘dead meat’.   Her ‘dagger eyes’ burned holes right through my 12 year old conscience that night.  That experience changed the entire evening as the only thing on the bowling alley’s menu from that episode was ‘humble pie’ and ‘dead chicken’ for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 25th…“TELL OF A PLACE THAT YOU DISCOVERED OR BUILT FOR YOUR GANG.”

Only in my dreams could I have ever built a clubhouse for any gang (of which there was only ONE in the gang…..ME).  So, to have a fun twist on this entry, I created a poem to describe my talents in woodworking…….or maybe I should say, ‘Wood Butchering’ 😉

POEM – “Wood Butcher” by N. Elliott Noorlun

When I was a kid, And picked up a saw,

I tried to follow the line,

Upon the wood, If only I could,

Make a straight cut, On any old pine.

A wood butcher was, The closest thing,

That would kinda describe my craft,

I’d bend the nails, And cry my wails,

My clubhouse was bad fore and aft.

So the only clubhouse, That I had,

Was within my imagination,

All cool n sublime,  At any old time,

A little boy happenin’ station.

February 24th…“DESCRIBE A PLACE YOU LIKED TO GO TO BE ALONE.”

Solitude was easy to achieve on our farm there in southern Minnesota.  Our folks owned 120 acres of rich, black farmland and a giant ‘thicket’ (large woods) that was located on both sides of Brush Creek.  On top of that, Dad rented and farmed another 120 acres that were adjacent to our land.

I ascertained, from an early age, that I could be just as easily pleased in the quiet joys of aloneness, as well as being in the company of family or friends.  I was never one who followed the crowd in school days.  I preferred being secure in my singular quietness, if necessary, rather than trying to find my worth in shadowing or following along with some one person or group.   This attribute of entertaining myself was likely brought about because my elder siblings were 8 years and 11 years older than myself so they already had friends of their own generation to enjoy.   And, as far as my younger sister was concerned, ……well, she was, after all, a GIRL!  😉

On many a brilliant Minnesota morning, I’d sometimes take a bandanna containing yummies like crackers, cheese, etc. and head off for Brush Creek that ran from east to west across the south border of our pasture land.  I’d spend the whole day exploring the water’s edges up one side and down that cool little river as mud squirted between my toes.  With my blue jeans rolled up past my knees, I’d drink in the beauty of Nature’s ways as that little creek meandered it’s way, eventually, towards the mighty Mississippi River far to our east.

There were times  that I’d find myself hidden in the bends of the creek, so I’d peel off those human layers (called clothes) and bask in the ‘flesh of my birthday suit’ while the swift prairie winds funneled their way down the creek beds for my cooling enjoyment. 🙂  If I heard the grinding of gravel under a car or tractor tires, I’d launch my nakedness under the nearest shady clump of grass or cliff of the creek bed for momentary shelter.

One of the tiny warriors living in Brush Creek were the crawdads.  Like itty-bitty lobsters, they were fascinating and WOWSA, could they ever move fast!  To catch ’em, you’d have to aim your hand just right for your fingers to grasp them behind their front pinchers.  If you missed……..they, instead, became the pincher and YOU became the PINCHEE!!!   Within seconds, it was now you who were the subject of their tiny wrath for having disturbed their day.

One of my favorite little ‘wild things’ were the baby frogs called “Tadpoles” (although some also label them as polliwogs).   There were abundant ‘schools’ of them in Brush Creek as they’d create a ribbon effect while their tiny tails whipped and plied the waters looking for shade and food.  I’d scoop up loads of them in a large Mason jar from Mom’s kitchen and then take them home for a day or so to enjoy in my bedroom.  Then, I’d hike back down to the creek to release them so they could continue life to their own mature ‘frog-hood’ 😉

Along those joyous creek banks of my playland, I could see the mud slides cut into the embankments that were created by the mink and muskrat that lived and played in these same waters I was enjoying.  They would climb up from the creek level to the flat pasture land to bask in the sun or play with their buddies.  At their whim, being playful creatures that they are, they’d then greasily slip down their muddy slide and back into the creek waters below.  Later, in my youth, a gentle farmer named Clarence Johnson, taught me how to set traps for these creatures and we skinned their hides for market to furriers in the town of Faribault, Minnesota.  In those days, I was more interested in making some money for myself; but in the retrospect of age and wisdom, I would have been the wiser to have allowed these little creatures of the creek land to live to a ripe old age, rather than killing them for their fur.

One of the annoyances of creek life, was the usual danger of getting leeches (also known as ‘blood suckers’) stuck to your legs.  After hours of adventures in the water, I’d sometimes come out to the dry land of the surrounding pasture and realize I had as many as four or more ‘blood suckers’ stuck to the skin of my legs.  Their tiny mouth had opened and with itty-bitty teeth had latched into my skin as they began to suck out my blood from the wound they inflicted on me.  Our parents counseled us that it was NOT wise to just yank them off, because their ‘teeth’ may still be attached to my skin.  Dad would usually light a match, blow it out, and then touch the HOT head of the match to the sucking creature, which would make them let go and come off.  Other times, I remember putting salt on the leech (which burnt the creature to where their mouth would open) and then rubbing it off my leg.  All these methods of removal were precautions for preventing any disease the ‘blood sucker’ may have with it and transferring it to you.

I vividly remember how hours and hours would pass while I’d be in a little boy’s wonderland that allowed me to just lay on the banks of Brush Creek while watching the glistening waters ebbing and flowing by for the peaceful enjoyment of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 23rd…“WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU REMEMBER HAVING IN SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL?”

POEM – “Lack Of Having Focus” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Dollars went to scholars, But not to guys like me,

The only way to find them, Was on my bended knee.

In High School days, I found some ways, To put dollars in my pocket,

I carried bags, At the grocery store,  And ran just like a rocket.

My first real job, In High School days, Had its ups and down,

No longer could I play my sports, Or run around the town.

The coach said, “Either you are here, At practice EVERY day”,

“Or don’t bother even coming, There is no other way.”

So, even though I made some bucks, My last two years of school,

I missed out on some memories, That may have been real cool.

I felt the biggest problem, though, Was lack of having focus,

Upon the future, And its goals, There was no “hocus pocus”.

So take my counsel, young one, Find your passion and “take aim”,

Then focus on your life long quest, Don’t wander….it’s so lame.

February 22nd…“WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU REMEMBER HAVING IN JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL?”

It was a hot mid-August afternoon in the summer of 1967 and our family had just moved into a new home on the north side of Battle Ground, Washington.   Quivering with fear in my ‘Beatle Boots’, I had to face the reality of enrolling in a brand new school.   So, with a roll of the steering wheel, my mother brought our 1963 Dodge 330 off of Parkway Avenue into the driveway of the Battle Ground School District Main Campus for the first time.  Just weeks before, our family had left our beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota and had driven 1,720 miles to begin a new life in Washington State.

My problem, other than being a pimpled-faced teenager with enough skin oil to grease a frying pan, was that I felt totally lost and overwhelmed by the gigantic layout of this new school campus compared to our much smaller school back home in Minnesota.  Another problem I had was a massive inferiority complex accentuated by a silver-crowned tooth that ‘sparkled’ right in the front of my mouth.  It appeared like I had caught the “Lone Ranger’s” silver bullet in my mouth and was showing it to the world every time I smiled.  I had received this embarrassing ‘trophy’ when I crashed my bike on a gravel road on the last day of 6th Grade back in Minnesota.  My facial accident happened while trying to ride across ‘ice boil’ wash-boarding as I flew down the hill on the gravel road near our farm.  The handle bars ‘jack-knifed’ and threw me forward off of the bike.   I landed on that gravel road directly on my face and broke off that front tooth at a glaring three quarter slant.   Dr. Pirsig, our kind dentist back home, said the best fix would be to cover the broken tooth with a silver crown.  So now, here in this new town and culture, I was super concerned about being made fun of by all these strangers I’d be going to school with now in this new alma mater for education.

The East Junior High Building stood there as a regal classic.  It was a two story brick monument to education and had been constructed in the 1920’s.  At that time, it had been the original High School edifice until the new High School was built nearby in 1953, or so.   Over the years, an impressive growth of ivy vines had crept up the entire brick surface of the east face of the school; giving it an aura of the traditional ‘ivy league halls of education’.  As Mom and I stepped into those massively long hallways, they talked back to our footsteps with corresponding echoes off the walls.  As we approached the door, graced with multi-paned glass windows, of the school’s Main Office, I gave it a pull to open.  The old, dry hinges on that antiquated door needed oiling badly, so the resultant creaking gave the announcement of our presence into the Administration Office.

Looking up from her desk, the brilliant smile of Mrs. Pat Smith (Junior High School Secretary) gave both Mom and I a sense of a warming welcome into this new world of education that would become my alma mater for the next five years.  With a maternal sweetness, Pat Smith, that dear soul of godly womanhood, made us both feel ‘at home’ already as she began to get me registered for the fall season 8th Grade classes of the 1967-68 school year.  Comfort flooded this scared young teenager’s spirit because now I knew that there was going to be a refuge in this dear person that I could go to for answers anytime I needed.  All I had to do was pull open that squeaky office door and find that kindred spirit in the smiling kindness of our Junior High School Secretary, Mrs. Smith.  I felt then, and still do today, that our loving Lord had placed one of His ‘angels’ to greet, set at ease and encourage my soul in the bodily form of this precious lady whom I still count as a dearest friend of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 21st...”WHAT WAS THE BIGGEST PROBLEM YOU REMEMBER HAVING IN GRADE SCHOOL?”

My school grades were similar to the ‘grade’ of the local gravel roads in our area…….low and rough!   School was never easy for me.  One of the reasons, besides my own failures as a person, was the inconsistency of teacher modeling and the mode in which they each chose to educate by.  For some school years, I’d get a darling lady who was so kind, gentle and inspirational in her teaching methods.  I was very eager to please her because of my admiration and respect for her as that year’s adult role model.

Sadly, though, the next year would advance me to another teacher with an entirely different spectrum of personality, traits and expectations.  That type of scene often resulted in nine months of hell for me being under her heel and derogatory accusations.

I’d like to present the analogy of education being a LOT like fishing.   An angler wants to ATTRACT fish to his fishing spot and onto his hook via methods that are colorful, intriguing and even ‘tasty’ for the fish to nibble on.  The same thing goes for a child in the educational setting.  Thankfully, I DID have some educators that emulated the great fishing skills of getting my attention in the vibrant and desirable scope of education.  For those fine educators, I was ‘hooked’ on wanting to learn from their colorful style of teaching.  Alas, though, other teachers used the ‘club’ method of fishing for my attention and ‘bashed’ me over the head with uncaring facts and figures without any inkling of passion or compassion.

After prayer and consensus within our hearts, the mother of my children and I decided that we were going to make a change for OUR children’s education needs.  Therefore, we decided to teach our children within our home……..also known as “Home Schooling”.   We felt that within the walls of our home, the grand lady who gave these children birth and love would be a consistent teaching model for our little ones, year after year.   We saw parallels of education from the Bible as God’s Word says in Deuteronomy 6: 6 & 7….“And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart;  And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.”  Education, for our family, would happen throughout every day and in every way as we lived out our lives and love for God and the children He bestowed upon our lives.

True, no mother is perfect, but, at least in our children’s younger years we wanted to “see their roots established before we set them out in the world to grow”(a quote from another Home Schooling family we know).   Life is always a learning experience, especially for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 20th…“WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER AS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE SCHOOL SUBJECT?”

POEM – “M. A. T. H. = Mental Abuse To Humans” by N. Elliott Noorlun

To this very day, I still quiver in my boots,

To even think of trying, To find them square roots.

And even in, My teenage eye, I’d shudder to think, Of finding Pi.

In my math frustration, Of me oh my why!!??

There never was ever, A simple equation,

That didn’t send me, To a drink libation.

I’d pull my hair, And chew my nails,

Fret for hours, And make up tales.

I’m glad for those folks, The gifted few,

Who can easily add, Past two plus two.

I’ll just keep counting, Fingers and toes,

Cause beyond that, Oh who the heck knows????

February 19th…“WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER AS YOUR FAVORITE SUBJECT IN HIGH SCHOOL?”

From the time I was a toddler listening to my mother sing hymns in church, I have always had a love for music and singing.   As I matured through my young years, I became especially impressed with the power and majestic expression of the human voice through excellent choral music.  As I settled into my new life in southwest Washington State, I entered my High School years there at Battle Ground High School in Battle Ground, Washington.  I was keen to observe their wonderful choral department and paid attention to the man who directed them so well.

Mr. Orrell Peru had an aura about him that quietly commanded respect and allegiance.  Like a magnet, his very life drew me to his persona and integrity.  In my Freshman year, I could not muster the courage to attempt an audition to try to be a part of Mr. Peru’s fine choral department.  Instead, as a member of the audience, I would look forward to observing how he led his choir performances.   He conducted these young voices with a regal, yet humble manner that you could tell was reciprocated by the young members of his entourage.   As a choir, they sensed his loving authority and responded to his direction in an obedient joy of song.

When I finally gained the courage to ask for an audition from this great musical educator, I wanted to impress him.  In my dreams, I envisioned myself as a low-voiced bass singer, so, as he had me do singing scales next to his piano, I tried to make my voice sound basso profundis magnifico……(translated: deep and low magnificence).  In his gentle and honest kindness, Mr. Peru accepted me into his Concert Choir, but gave me some very sage advice, “Elliott, you need to face the fact that you’ll never be a bass singer(lowest range), not even a baritone(the next range up from a low bass).  YOU, young man, are a First Tenor.  Be proud of that fact and be happy with the voice God gave you.  Let your voice be naturally bright and bring the clarity of each note you sing to be enunciated right up front by your teeth.”

To inspire me as a tenor, Mr. Peru encouraged me to listen to and study the singing style of the famous tenor, Mario Lanza (who lived between 1921 till 1959).   I bought many of Lanza’s records and saw many of his movies.  I not only was inspired by Mr. Lanza’s singing, but was captured by the zest for life that this young man had.

Easily, the highlight of my years with the Battle Ground High School Concert Choir was when we staged the Broadway musical, “Camelot”.  It was a lot of hard work and practice, but what sweet memories transpired as we all stepped back into time and fantasy as we told the story, through song, of King Arthur, Queen Guinevere, Prince Lancelot and others.  What a marvelous time of song it was for this stage of life for a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.