July 24th…“SHARE A STORY OF A TORNADO OR DESTRUCTIVE WIND STORM.”

The barn, in the photo I saw, had literally exploded into match sticks, yet there, in the very center of that mass of shredded wood, stood a horse in its stall…..still alive and untouched by the massive power of the tornado that plowed through south central Minnesota on April 30th of 1967.  Actually, there were a number of tornadoes that had hit the area that fateful day and one even did damage to my Uncle Del Sletten’s home in Albert Lea, Minnesota.   My family had been visiting our grandparents in Albert Lea earlier on that powerful day and had to head home for the evening milking of our dairy herd.   I recall our father, Russell, taking a different route home that day…..and it’s a good thing we did.   Southwards we drove from Albert Lea and then turned to the west heading for our hometown of Kiester.   Maybe Dad, in his wisdom, foresaw the potential peril of following our regular highway home that day.  The puffing winds buffeted my face from the rear window of our car being rolled down.  As I batted my eyes from the effects of the wind, I was seized in dreaded awe of the menacing look of the clouds that were to the north of us in the area of Albert Lea, Minnesota where we had just been minutes before.   Those boiling cauldrons of convoluted clouds looked menacing and maniacal in their strange coloring and billows.  Within a day or so after that, I later heard, that all pandemonium had broken loose on farms and communities along a path of massive destruction and death for man and animal alike.  So much so, that a half century later, locals of that area still call that day ……..BLACK SUNDAY.

Nothing struck a deeper terror in my thirteen-year-old heart than the word TORNADO!!!  These super powerful windstorms were prevalent in the humid summers across the farmlands of the Midwest.  Coming from the Latin word, “tornare” and the Spanish word, “tornar” (which both mean “to turn”) we get the transliterated word “tornado”……a turning, spinning and very powerful wind storm.

In the days long before fancy satellites and radar technology, meteorologists did the best they could to warn the population of these potentially killer storms by either issuing a “watch” (conditions MAY generate a tornado) or a “warning” (a tornado is imminent soon in your area and take action to protect your family).   These alerts would interrupt regular programming and were broadcast across local television and radio stations repeatedly until all danger had passed from our vicinity.

On a lighter tornado related vein, I smilingly relay what had happened the previous evening at our farm.  Even as a teenager, who enjoyed getting dirty on the farm, it was not an easy task for my mother to get me into the tub for a bath.  Since this was Saturday night and there’d be worship at church the next morning, I relented and climbed into that porcelain puddle play place to get clean AND to get cooled off from the oppressive summer’s sticky and muggy heat.  Being a wild child of the 1960’s, I took along a clean pair of shocking yellow and blue plaid slacks to put on after I was squeaky clean.  The skies around our farm, on that late afternoon, had taken on an aura of blackness and a foreboding power of what was looming above us as we tiny humans, down below, could only cower and hope that we would escape the illimitable power of a tornado coming down upon us and obliterating our entire farm AND our family.

Well, there I was, playing in the tub after a cursory attempt at washing, when all of a sudden Mom pounds on the bathroom door and yells, “GET OUT OF THAT TUB RIGHT NOW!!  THERE’S A TORNADO COMING!!!!”  Within a nanosecond, and completely soaked with bath water, I jumped over the edge of that tub and began trying to yank on my plaid slacks over my soaking-wet teenage carcass.  Haste makes waste, because the slacks had clung to my dripping wet legs like glue.  What was worse yet was, in my terrified haste, I had neglected to put on underpants first.   This blunder caused a painful situation as I almost ‘zipped up’ any future family possibilities!!! 😉  YEEEOUCH!!!  Once I was somewhat publicly presentable, I ripped open that bathroom door and raced with Mom out the southwest porch door of our house to see where this monolithic funnel cloud of death was coming from.

Mom pointed to the south of our farm and to the hill just to the west of our dear neighbors,

Chet and Violet Ozmun.  Chet had a contract with a local road maintenance company to dig and crush rock from his tall hillsides to provide gravel for maintaining the many gravel roads of our farming country.  The crater, from all their digging, looked like a mini-Grand Canyon.

In reality, Mom’s ‘tornado’ was nothing more than a giant ‘dust devil’ that had been stirred up from the loose gravel at the bottom of that gravel pit by the crazy winds of that evening.  Oh true, the funnel cloud of the ‘dust devil’ WAS sky high, but that was all……….no tornado.  I couldn’t help but tease our sweet mother for her version of what she THOUGHT was a tornado.  I had a good laugh when the alleged danger was past.  This had been a close call, both for the ‘zippered zinger’ that I endured and for the imaginary tornado witnessed by this now relaxed Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 23rd…“SHARE A MEMORY INVOLVING A MAJOR DELUGE WITH THUNDER & LIGHTNING.”

The majestic farmlands of Minnesota stretched for untold miles around us on that lovely summer’s evening.   To the horizon, one could see the leafy- green bulwark of “windbreaks” that denoted family farms being granted shelter by those “treed arms” of protection.  Windbreaks consisted of a thick canopy of deciduous and evergreen trees.  Pioneers, who first “broke sod” here, generations ago, realized the prevailing wind patterns and would then plant row upon row of trees to the west and north of their home and farm buildings in order to give them some refuge from the onslaught of sometimes wild prairie weather.  Yet, even with this emerald fortress in place, those mighty windbreaks could not completely protect south central Minnesota from what was about to hit us that night.

Late June of 1998 brought us, as a family, back home to where I had enjoyed my early years of farm life near my beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.  This was to be the first time our children could see and experience where their Norwegian daddy had grown up.  We were delighted to be the guests, that day, at the quaint home of Mr. & Mrs. Evert Meyer who lived on Minnesota State Highway 22 about 2 miles, or so, north of town.

As the gentle rays of a Minnesota summer sun started to settle beneath the horizon of croplands, this old daddy and our four lovely daughters were helping our hostess by picking large, delicious raspberries from the Meyer’s impressive garden.  Towards the end of that loving task, in the dimming shadows of nightfall, we started to see Fireflies “sparking” in the dusk around us.  Remembering my childhood joys on our former farm near here, I had one of our daughters race inside the Meyer home to ask for a glass canning jar.  Together, we captured quite a number of Lightning Bug “performers” in that jar and they colorfully put on a show for us, within the glass “stage”, as nighttime surrounded us with its curtain of shadows.

While our daughters hunted with glee for more of those flashy blinker bugs,  I could hear and see flashes from the distant rumbling of thunder to the southwest of the Meyer’s property.  A massive mountain of dark and foreboding clouds were migrating their curling hordes in our direction as the rumbles within them began to be more frequent and ominous.  Remembering back to these ferocious storms as a child, I felt it best to escort our darlings back into the Meyer’s sturdy farm home rather than being exposed outdoors to what was likely to take place right over our heads.

Sure enough, shortly after reaching refuge inside their quaint little abode, the good Lord above unleashed what had been stored up in those celestial treasures above us.  It is said that when you see a lightning flash in the sky, you should count “1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, etc.” until you hear the thunder.  Then, that last number you counted is the approximate miles that the actual storm is from your location.  Well, on THAT night, the flash and boom sequence quickly escalated to a knee-jerk FLASH-BANG!! right over our hostess home’s roof.   And then came the rain!  Not JUST rain, but it appeared that the very floodgates of Heaven had been opened up and a liquid pounding commenced upon the Meyer’s home and surrounding land.  Ohhh myyy goodness, for the deluge that had been triggered over us!!!  We all sat visiting in the Meyer family Living Room that evening, but we had to turn up the decibel level of our conversations in order to be heard above the colossal flashes and explosions happening just outside their Living Room’s picture window.

Once we settled our shaken and somewhat fearful children into bed, my wife and I climbed into the guest room bed to listen to Heaven’s rendition of Independence Day fireworks in the sky.  For at least a few hours, our bedroom walls were bedazzled with the terrific flashes of intense light from each explosive volley in the sky above us.  Our windows quaked in their frames with resonant harmony to the sound waves that catapulted themselves against this little fortress of a home.

“Is this EVER going to stop!!??”, asked my very unnerved wife.  Even though she had been raised in the excitable weathers of Montana, this electrical storm experience brought a convulsive shudder with every aerial explosion that night.

Morning’s light seemed to have shooed this monster storm away from our locale.  As we vacationers emerged from our bedrooms, we were greeted cheerily by our loving hosts as Oda and Evert sat us down around their bright kitchen table for a tasty breakfast and further visiting.  The Meyers shared with us that local news reports enlightened us all to the fact that in just ONE NIGHT, Faribault County had endured over FOUR INCHES of rain!!!!  That was one very memorable cloudburst for himself and the family of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 22nd…“WAS THERE A FARMING LESSON THAT YOUR FATHER TRIED TO TEACH YOU THAT BECAME A LAUGHING MATTER?”

POEM – “Daddy Made Me Blush” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Our daddy was a stinker,

He loved to tease and joke,

Especially if someone else received,

His well-intentioned poke.

Little gullible me, Dense I could be,

At that tender, innocent age,

I was no match, For what soon would hatch,

From my Norwegian farmer sage.

That dad of mine, He made me blush,

While walking through, Our cow-yard mush,

A brand new calf, Had just been born,

Upon that late spring, sparkling morn.

As I was admiring, That new little one,

My silly dad, That son of a gun,

Asked me to walk, ‘Round calf’s behind,

He said the little one, Wouldn’t mind.

Dumb as a stump, I did his bidding,

Not knowing I’d be, The target of kidding.

“Lift up the tail!”, Said daddy dear,

As I came around, Tiny animal’s rear.

Tail lifted up, I looked over to Dad,

And here’s what he said, To this little lad.

“Tell me son, One barrel or two?”

As I stood in cow-yard’s, Ankle deep goo.

By this time, Dad’s roaring,

With laughter galore,

As he stands over near,

Our barn’s Dutch door.

I look at him puzzled,

No way did I know,

The question’s right answer,

That made him laugh so!!!

That six year old quizzical,

Look on my face,

Just made Dad laugh harder,

And quicken his pace.

Later in life, When maturity came,

I finally realized, Our farmer dad’s aim.

“Ignorance is bliss”, When’s all said and done,

And such was the case,

For clueless farmer’s son.  😉

July 21st…“DURING YOUR YOUNG DAYS IN MINNESOTA, DID YOUR LOCAL DOCTOR GIVE YOU VACCINATIONS TO PROTECT YOU FROM DISEASE?”

There he stood, in all his doctorial glory; our hometown’s vanguard against disease, sickness and injury.  Doctor C. D. Snyder (along with his counterpart, Dr. Lewis Hanson in Frost, Minnesota) served our farming communities for many years in various medical capacities.  Their talents ranged from sewing up farm-related injuries, to the event that was about to occur on this special day at the entrance foyer of our public school system there in Kiester, Minnesota.

Even though our region was a thriving family farm culture, in those days, our school’s enrollment was not as gigantic as you’d see in a big city environment.   Therefore, an immunization day was set aside at our school to vaccinate the entire educational populace in one fell swoop.  As I recall, student “runners” would announce times for various grade levels to queue up for a needled syringe injection.  As a tiny guy, I was in a quandary as to what the title “doctor” even meant.  In my limited experiences, a doctor only stuck needles in your arm (as would happen on that day), but later in life, I found out that the etymology (from the Greek language) of this word actually denotes one who is the “ultimate teacher, adviser and scholar on any topic…….such as medicine, law or even theology”.  In this case, our Dr. Snyder was “teaching” us all how to stay away from disease with these prickly inoculations.

Now to adults, what was about to transpire was a necessary and wonderfully-intentioned ritual to rid our society of diseases that crippled and even killed uncountable thousands in times past.  To us little tiny ones, though, who took life very literally, and couldn’t see past the nose on our face, we saw this upcoming ordeal to be fraught with fear, anxiety and a distinct “OUCH!!!” in the arm (or elsewhere).

Not only did we kids not look forward to this necessary part of living healthy, we also had to deal with the drama of the anxiety in knowing, in advance, that this painful day was coming.  That way, we could fret about the whole issue for a week or more and blow this minuscule moment clear out of proportion in our little child minds.  To add to this prolonged process of perceived painful poking, there was the fact that our beloved school building was fully enclosed, in our winter-prone Midwest town, and was constructed with very long hallways.  So, there we were, a hundred and more scared little whippersnappers in a “mile long” line that went way past the high school gymnasium and down the ramp towards the old school gymnasium.

In jest, a temporary title for our dear town doctor that day could’ve been, “Doctor Sticker Quicker” as he waited to jab us in the arms at least once 😉   For those of us ‘stickees’ waiting in line that day, there was a morbid sense of humor as we’d watch our schoolmate predecessors returning back down the hall (to our classroom) from getting their shots.   Most of the boys tried to “man up” to the occasion and would just walk past us with a look that said, “Yah, it hurt, but I ain’t gonna let YOU see me show it”!   Other fellow students were outright bawling as they came back down the hallway past us.  We who remained, were trepidatious in waiting for our own painful prick of the doctor’s needle.  What really grabbed our attention, were times when a boy or girl would actually faint from the stress of the injection.  With two teachers, supporting each arm of the ‘faintee’,  as they were escorting them back to class……..that REALLY got our attention!

In all seriousness, though, I was thankful for parents who knew of the terrible suffering that could occur if we little ones caught such a dread disease such as Small Pox.  Such a love brought my mother, Clarice, and I to Dr. Snyder’s office one day for a Small Pox Inoculation (also known as a Variolation).

Dr. Snyder brought out a small fork-like instrument called a Bifurcated Needle.  A drop of Small Pox vaccine was suspended between the fork of this device.   The doctor took hold of my upper left arm and began to scratch the skin surface in a circular motion as he broke through and into my arm’s flesh.  With the bifurcated needle entering the wound, so also did the Small Pox serum (or vaccine).   That rather painful procedure would now make my body immune (protected) against that scary disease.  Yes, to be honest, the penetration of that device into my arm that day hurt……A LOT!!!  In a couple of weeks, my mother brought me back to Dr. Snyder to have my “variolation” checked.

The good doctor said my arm was reacting normally to the vaccine and that all was well.  Now, it was just a matter of waiting for another two weeks, or so, for the scab to heal fully, dry, and then fall off.   From that day, till now, I have a scar on my upper left arm where I received the “protection” to guard me from ever catching that dreaded disease of Small Pox.  As I look back to those days, I have SUCH a thankful heart for the doctors and nurses who served the greater cause of keeping our community as healthy as humanly possible.  And, like my Norwegian elders would say to Dr. Snyder, Dr. Hanson and others……MANGE TUSEN TAKK (Many Thousand Thanks) for your love and care for us all.   Such were some of the medical adventures of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 20th...”SHARE A BIRTHDAY PARTY MEMORY OR PHILOSOPHY.”

POEM – “They All Came And Went”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

When I ponder my birthdays, They all came and went,

Faster than bucks, In my pocket are spent.

I often muse on when I was young,

How parties n presents, My direction were flung.

There’d be cake n candles, Gram n Gramps would be there,

Celebrating with me, In my fine blondish hair.

Later, games with friends, Sometimes overnighters,

We’d watch scary movies, Those real nail biters.

It was all great fun, Come each January,

When I’d get sister hugs, From our dear Rosemary.

Over time, those years of life would fly,

As candles on top of cake’d multiply.

And soon it would take, One heck of a blow,

To “poof” candles out, And start the show.

Yet another observance, Did come to my mind,

That with passing of years, I was soon to find,

Fewer and fewer, Family and friends,

They’d gotten too busy, To make the bends,

Of coming or phoning, Or sharing a card,

Life just gets so busy, It’s really quite hard.

“Besides, he’s so grown up”, “He doesn’t need us”,

“To buy him a present”,  “Or show a big fuss”.

T’was then my philosophy, Of birthdays was born,

No matter how old, No matter how worn.

My first day of life, Only thing that I did,

Was lay around, eat, And sleep under lid,

Of blanket so cozy, By my momma’s care,

I felt so good, And comforted there.

So now when my “day”, Comes around each year,

I buy all the goodies, I love and hold dear.

I lay around, sleep, And eat till I bust,

At least this boy, Remembers the gust,

Of being happy, And thankful for,

Every year of life, This side of Heaven’s Shore.

July 19th…“DURING YOUR CHILDHOOD IN MINNESOTA, WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE HOLIDAY AND WHY?”

Wrapped in the gentle folds of dream-kissed snowflakes, Christmas, by far, was my most beloved holiday of the entire year as I grew up on our farm near Kiester, Minnesota.  Even the very word “holiday” is special!  And you know why?  It is formed from two words, “HOLY” and “DAY”.  To be holy is to be separate from sin, to be special before God.  Without a doubt, Christmas was so very special to this little farm boy during our wonderful holiday season.

Even before the Sears Christmas catalog went ‘kerplop’ on our farm kitchen table, I was already entranced with all the elements that made this grand season begin to percolate happiness in my little boy heart and soul.

My ‘Cheshire Cat’ grin was only too evident on our family photo Christmas card that year.   Likely, I was musing on how I could be the first one to grab that Sears catalog when our family got back home from the photographer’s studio.  That way, I could soak in more joy of the season and the toys that I dreamed about having for my very own.   That dear ‘wish book’ had been drooled over so many times that the pages were ‘dog-eared’ (folded over) and worn from hours of happy hoping that we’d get something new to play with when Christmas Eve finally arrived.

Be it the innate immaturity that accompanies childhood, or the virile imagination station that permeates each child’s mind; either way, it was hard for me to feign happiness when our family elders (with good heart, of course) would tantalize me with a Christmas package of splashy paper and bows.  My momentary thrill to receive that present was chilled when I’d rip open that fancy wrapped gift only to find a practical gift of socks, handkerchief…..or worse yet……UNDERWEAR for Christmas.  Goodness gracious, how my little boy shock would set in!!  😉

I guess the good Lord used these practical gift moments as a form of spiritual calisthenics to strengthen my childish heart in maturing towards adulthood and learning the lesson that it’s not WHAT one receives for Christmas, but appreciating the love inside someone’s heart that caused them to WANT to give you a loving (and practical) gift in the first place.

The rich pine fragrance of our family Christmas tree each year saturated our humble farm house with the perfume of a seasonal evergreen cologne.   Out came boxes of sparkling, colored Christmas ornaments that soon bedazzled us as they hung from those scented evergreen branches.  Each lovely ornament was nestled among the ‘silver rain’ of dainty strands of aluminum tinsel hanging from each evergreen bough.  Lighter than air, it was a pleasure to see that tinsel as it floated with the slightest breeze when someone walked by the tree.

Unlike the frenetic and staccato-crazed Christmas lights of today’s world, my childhood Christmas tree was bedecked with the most gently placid colored orbs in a spectra of peaceful hues.  These tapered glass cones of primary colors not only set off the beauty of the hanging decorations, but also spoke to my little boy heart, as if saying, “Be at peace little one.  Enjoy the tenderness and tranquility of this holy season”.

With our dairy herd of Holstein cows milked for the evening, our father, brother Lowell and yours truly would douse the barn lights and head towards the house for supper.  Along the way, we’d glance down to watch our winter rubber boots ‘plow’ their way through new, fluffy snow.   With each step we made, the amber glow coming across the snow from the windows of our home bid us a ‘welcome in’ feeling.  After peeling off layers of winter jackets and boots, we’d wash hands and gather around our warm kitchen table for supper.  With Mom’s tasty meal warmly in our tummies, our family would disperse into evening activities of television, listening to radio, reading or schoolwork.  With Christmas nearing, day by day,  I would often saunter into our nighttime Living Room and enjoy this Christmas season and our wondrous Christmas tree from a ‘new angle’.

Seeing myself as an elf, I decided to pass away the evening by laying down on my back, with my head near the periphery of the Christmas tree’s branches.  Then, with my body barely fitting under the bottom branches, I used my feet to push my little boy body under the tree while my shoulder blades ‘walked’ me till I was fully under the Juletre (pronounced “yoolehtreh”….the Norwegian word for Christmas Tree).   The Living Room lights had been turned off so that only the Christmas tree’s luminaire were setting the room aglow in all their quiet glory.   Now, from my lowboy perspective, I looked upward into the heart of that Christmas tree and became lost in my new world of primary colors shining through the frosted glass of these string lights.  Each item, that was hung on that tree, possessed a placid, mystical wonderment all its own as I gazed on the loveliness that paralleled the loveliness of what Christmas was all about in the first place………..our world was heralding the yearly anniversary of our Lord and Savior’s birth.

For those of us blessed to grow up on the farmlands of Minnesota, Christmas joys were accentuated each year by a pristine blanket of snow across our part of the world.  Bundled against the chill of that snow, we climbed into our family car and would drive across the frozen roads to our maternal grandparent’s home in Albert Lea, Minnesota.  The cottage of our Norwegian elders was tiny in construction, but within resided a giant warmth that exuded from our ‘parents who were grand’.  With layers of winter jackets and boots removed, our Scandinavian family exchanged hugs and greetings and would then settle into Grandpa and Grandma Sletten’s Living Room to watch the evening snowfall outside their large multi-paned window.   Our beloved Grandma Amanda always saw that we were amply fed with a tasty meal and her delightful delicacies of Lefse and Kringla.  Lefse is a soft flatbread made from potatoes that is most often buttered, sugared, then rolled up and eaten with delight.   Kringla is a type of sweet cookie with a flat bottom that was also often slathered with sweet creamery butter and/or jam n jelly.

Evening shadows soon became darkness as the pleasant drone of adult conversations emanated from our grandparent’s cozy little Living Room.  I would quietly step into the darkened entry of that happy abode and step up on a chair to gaze into the glow of a tiny, plastic, illuminated church that resided upon my grandparent’s windowsill.  Tiny as those stained-glass church windows were, I could imagine an even tinier congregation of saints inside singing Christmas carols and praising God for the greatest gift of His Son to us here at this holy season of the year.  Yes, no matter what we received from gifts that were wrapped with brightly colored paper and bows, the greatest gift each Christmas was the gift of the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ to this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 18th…“WHAT DO YOU THINK OF TODAY’S MODERN TECHNOLOGY SUCH AS CELL PHONES, KINDLE NOTEBOOKS, E-BOOKS, ETC.?”

POEM – “I Think I’ll Return” by N. Elliott Noorlun

I think I’ll return, To the days of my youth,

When telephones hung from the wall,

When talk was the key, To teenager’s glee,

Be you short-n-stubby or tall.

If a call was from “her”, You started to purr,

And wanted to be all alone,

So a long cord you’d fetch, And would make it stretch,

Outside you’d go with the phone.

At the length of that cord, Choice moments you’d horde,

As you talked with darling fair,

Though miles away, You’d take time to say,

How you’d love to be close cause you care.

I’ll also return, To a time when I’d yearn,

To feel in my hand a real book,

And settle to nook, As I’d delve in that book,

For adventures of Old Captain Hook.

There’s magic in books, That cannot compare,

To beeps, bells n whistles on phone,

In library’s quiet, There’s no cell phone riot,

Just the joys of reading alone.

There’s solitude there, Living under your hair,

As you turn each old-fashioned page,

And whatever you glean, Be it boring or keen,

Will stay with you and “pay” a good wage.

Even at my age, This ancient old sage,

Would benefit from much greater powers,

Instead of the wasting, With skin color pasting,

As I zombie on cell phone for hours.

If I took that same time, Kept muscles in line,

I know that this tummy’d be flatter,

So I’ll huff n I’ll puff, Till my heart yells “Enough!”,

Good health is a serious matter.

All this to say, That someday we’ll pay,

Much more than a cell phone bill,

If we fail to be human, We will not illumine,

To love others and share His good will.

July 17th…“WHAT WAS THE WEATHER LIKE WHEN YOUR FAMILY ARRIVED IN YOUR NEW HOME OF WASHINGTON STATE?”

“Hey! Hey! Elliott! Wake up!!  Ya don’t wanna miss this!!” said my mother to this 13 year old kid as she shook me awake from napping as we neared the I-5 Interstate Bridge that spanned the mighty Columbia River from Portland, Oregon.  We were rolling over that span and into our new Home State of Washington and the county known as Clark County.  It was August of 1967.  The late afternoon sun caused shadows from the multiple steel bridge transoms above us to flicker through the truck windshield as if they were railroad ties in the sky.  After a number of days on the road, my family was approaching our new life and home in the southwest corner of Washington State.

We had traveled over 1,700 miles in our new, ebony black 1967 Chevrolet 3/4 ton pickup truck.  Mom and Dad had bought it with some of the proceeds from selling our beloved farm back in our grand Home State of Minnesota.  The hard-shell metal canopy over the truck’s cargo area was jam-packed with everything that we felt were basic necessities to set up housekeeping in our new home.  Seemingly, a million other items, back home in Minnesota, were either sold, given away or burned.

Even as a young teenager of just 13 years, I was already a big fan of American History and especially The Lewis and Clark Expedition who explored a similar journey as ours back in 1803 to 1806.  As their modern counterpart, I too felt like a pioneer (of sorts) as our family ventured into country that we had never seen before.  Thankfully, in our modern time of discovery, there were now paved freeways, maps and road signs to guide our family along.

Our mother’s brother had inspired us to come live in Washington State.  For the past three years, he and his family had been living south of a little berg known as Brush Prairie and had purchased a blueberry farm there.  Since 1964,  my uncle and his wife would come visit us in Minnesota and he’d bring slide shows of the lovely Pacific Northwest.  As his slide projector shot those richly colored images on his large, free-standing movie screen, he’d entice us with scenes of gorgeous country, mild weather and majestic mountains.  There was even the prospect that we could even drive out to see the mighty Pacific Ocean along the Washington or Oregon Coast.  None of us “flatlanders” had ever seen the ocean before.

Our parents just HAD to see this magic land that our uncle spoke of!  Our big brother, Lowell, was able to make that dream become a reality.   Since brother worked for the airlines, at that time, our parents could fly for free (only had to play the airfare tax).   With a farm to take care of, Dad could only afford to have someone milk the cows for two days, but with that arranged, away they flew to Washington State.  Within those two days, and by God’s amazing provision, our parents were able to enjoy the spectacular scenery and Dad was able to secure a new job with the Battle Ground School District as a custodian.  AND, if Dad were able to sell the farm and move the family between May and September 1st of 1967, the District would hold the job open for our father.  The decision was made.  Sell the farm and move our family to a new life out West.

Little did we know that we were arriving to our new country in the middle of one of the worst droughts and heat waves that locals had seen in many, many years.  Scorching daily temperatures of over 100 degrees were persistent for the first three weeks, or more, after our arrival to this new Home State.  As former Midwesterners, we were fascinated, though, by how COOL it would get in the evenings and nighttime!  Back home in Minnesota, if it were 95 degrees (with 95% humidity) during the day, it would also be the same at night.  Soybeans and corn loved that kind of weather for growing, but not us poor human beings who would swelter in that nighttime muggy heat up in our bedrooms with no fans or air conditioning to cool us.  When bedtime came, you could hardly bear to even have a thin bed sheet over you, due to the fabric sticking to your sweaty body.

Happily, our parents were able to pay cash for this new home there on (what was then known as) Hawthorne Street in Battle Ground, Washington.  Dad’s signature on the bottom of that check (for roughly $16,900) was written in the name of our contractor who had just completed constructing this home shortly before we arrived in town.  That contractor’s name was Mr. Richard Dunning.  Richard and his family lived right next to us and they became quick friends to us all.

With a smile and a wink, one day our new neighbor knocked on our door and invited me to come along with he and his sons to go fishing at Lacamas Lake near the town of Camas, Washington.  With my parent’s permission, I happily accepted their kind offer and away we went for a day outing of fun.  Late that afternoon, after a grand day of exploring the lake shoreline and fishing, my host took us all on a scenic, back-country route that would eventually get us back to my new hometown of Battle Ground.

As Richard was driving past the farm of his brother, Elmer, he noticed a dark pall of smoke rising up from the woodlands at the back of their property.  Into the driveway we rolled and came to a stop in the farm yard as Richard announced to us guys, “Well, boys, looks like we’re gonna do some firefightin’ today”!!!  So, as we all piled out of his car, we grabbed shovels nearby and soaked some burlap bags to be used for slapping down the flames of that fire.  Other local neighbors were also arriving on site and, eventually, a local fire truck responded as well.  Putting out that fire, that day, was truly a team effort.

What a life!!!   Only a few days into our new era, there in the Pacific Northwest, and I was already into adventures I had never experienced before.  This teenager’s life couldn’t wait for the next new chapter of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 16th…“WHAT ARE SOME PERSONALITY TRAITS YOU ADMIRED ABOUT YOUR NORWEGIAN FARMER FATHER?”

POEM – “Our Delightful Dynamo Daddy”  by N. Elliott Noorlun.

When Daddy entered, Into this life,

At the end of World War I,

His wavy hair, With style and flair,

Showed his folks this boy would be fun!

In the Northern State, Minnesota was great,

Though times and goings were tough,

On Chippewa land, He grew strong and grand,

Cause his Indian friends played rough.

For whatever reason, There came a season,

Eighth Grade to be exact,

Though he was no fool, It was time to leave school,

Life called and he had to act.

For “room and board”, He trusted the Lord,

As he worked from farm to farm.

Fifty cents a day, Is what they would pay,

Picking “tators” with strong young arm.

Our dad was a charmer, Just like the farmer,

Who had loved and brought him life,

Grandfather was stern, And helped our dad learn,

How to deal with struggles n strife.

The years rolled by, And our handsome guy,

Worked hard and played hard, too.

To a dance they would go, To wiggle the toe,

Dressed fancy with well-combed “doo”.

Dad’s car back then, Was a Chevrolet,

Made in 1929.

What a pair they made, In his corduroy suede,

Bell-bottomed slacks so fine.

When love ensued, Our father then viewed,

Young family of daughter and son.

As a man of the land, By the work of his hand,

The blessings of God had been won.

Though never rich, In those things of which,

The world acclaims success,

Our father possessed, The gold that is best,

That of honesty and nothing less.

Up before dawn, With a cough and a yawn,

Our daddy began his farm work.

Whether well, or ill, Our father’s strong will,

Finished tasks he would not shirk.

There were times when his confident, Self-willed ways,

Could fluster our mother for worrisome days.

As into town he’d go, Muddy boots still in tow,

Cared he not to be fancy, Tis hard work that pays.

Our father loved truth, And hated a liar,

And with traits like that, You can’t get much higher.

Sure, he had his human failings,

But when cancer struck with all its ailings,

Our dad persevered, And fought the good fight,

Hoping to see, Another day’s light.

As the cancer progressed, Our hearts they did wail,

As we saw his strong body, Become very frail.

Only a few more days, When his end had begun,

As Heaven then welcomed, A Norwegian Son.

July 15th…“IN YOUR MINNESOTA DAYS, TELL ABOUT A SCHOOL PICNIC THAT WAS SPECIAL”

Sunlight winked at us through the shaded canopy of Elm and Cottonwood trees as we bounded out of our school bus and drank in the fragrant breezes that floated off of Rice Lake there in south central Minnesota.

A rite of passage was about to be celebrated by myself and the entire 6th Grade of our school there in our beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.  June of 1966 welcomed in a perfect Midwest day and brought to an end the era of my Grade School experience, encompassing Kindergarten through 6th Grade.  In the fall, my classmates and I were to begin our 7th Grade year in our six year High School.  True, it was technically a Junior High of Seventh and Eighth Grade, but our Grade levels and that of the Ninth through Twelfth Grades, shared the same building.  It, therefore, felt, in all regards as if we were locked arm and arm with our upper classmates in our local educational school system.

With our antsy little bodies still sitting in the bus seats, our teachers (Mrs. Barton & Mrs. Scofield) had given us 6th Graders the expected parameters of proper behavior, for this off-campus excursion, we were then released to explore the joyful wonders of Pihl’s (sounds like “peels”) Park.  That lovely rural park setting was named after Mr. Joseph Pihl who donated his personal retreat to the community for all to enjoy……and THAT we did!!

While a gluttonous gala of picnic foods were being prepared, a number of us guys explored the shores of lovely Rice Lake.  The shimmering waters were inviting as they reflected the sapphire blue of that Minnesota sky above.   I wish I had brought along our family’s bamboo fishing pole that day.  From past experience, I knew there were plenty of Bullheads (a Midwest name for Catfish) just awaitin’ off shore for me to toss in a tasty worm on a hook 😉

Knowing well our proclivity to having tons of energy at that age, our teachers provided an array of activities and races to help us make this celebration day festive.  Foot races, potato sack races, tug of war and a myriad of other events exercised not only our bodies, but also our smile muscles to the very limits.  Of course, in addition to the racing games, there were swing sets and other equipment to pass this glorious day away in activities to make for tired bodies and marvelous memories.

A gentle phenomenon also permeated the sweet joy of that special picnic day.  It was the genesis and palpitating pangs of what the world knows as “Puppy Love”.  The magical wonders of our young lives were entering a maturing phase that was both fun and fearful as we guys began to notice our classmates of the opposite gender in a more personal and “new chapter” way.  I recall a couple young ladies of my class whom I had twitterpations for as we sat side by side on the swings that day and chatted.  One young lady even came and snuggled onto my lap on the same swing……..ohhh myyy goodness……be still my pounding heart!!! 😉   Warm summer breezes off of the lake caused the long hair of this fresh feminine fair maid to float, as if in a dream, as we shyly talked of how very special this whole day had been.

This picnic was not only the culmination of an educational chapter of life, but, by the returning feminine smiles I received that afternoon, I saw the ushering in of a new and even more exciting love-life adventure for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.