February 18th…“TELL ABOUT FAMILY REUNIONS IN YOUR CHILDHOOD.”

Insoluble, the union of family; the bulwark of any successful society.  Just as it is from the roots, to the massive trunk of a mighty oak tree, so also a family branches out into generations of ‘leaves’ that provide cooling shade to many that rest within their soft branches of love.

Summer was an ideal time of the year for my mother’s family to return to their roots and enjoy reunions.   It was time, once again, to meet with loved ones that would come from far and wide to reconnect in the oneness that brings identity, purpose and joy within each other’s hearts.

Our black, 1950 Buick Roadmaster rolled up to the curb of the lovely park there in the little village of Scarville, Iowa.  A rich, green canopy of trees draped a cooling shade over the picnic tables soon to be laden with delicious smelling creations from the various family kitchens.

In northern Iowa, at the turn of the century, a dear man named Ole Scar helped to bring this town to life along the new railroad tracks that were pushing across the prairies.  Townsfolk in this new settlement wanted to honor this fellow Norwegian, so they deemed this new plat on the map as SCARville, and thus a town was born.

Also born nearby to this new community, in 1919, was our beloved mother, Clarice.  What an appropriate stage for this particular family reunion to take place.

Our mother, Clarice, and her siblings grew up attending the Scarville School in their little hometown.  There was delight in her eyes for our mother when a number of our family reunions were held in the town and near the school that she held treasured in her memories of youth.

As we Noorlun kids helped unload food from the car for the picnic time, I could hear the happy clanging of horseshoes in my ears from the numerous games being played from the various horseshoe pits.   The game of Horseshoes acted like a magnet for many of the menfolk of our Norwegian clans.  My Uncle Bob Sletten, for instance, got so adept at this game that he could usually get ‘ringers’ (U of shoe connected to stake) in 3 out of 4 throws.   Manly visiting and reminiscing were the staple as teams played each other in the cooling shade of the trees in the park.

My mother shared how someone would ring a bell or wave their arms to call the many families together to a central location in that park.   When the clan was together and quiet, one of our Rogness elders would then open a Bible for the reading of the Holy Scriptures.   That was often followed by singing of one or more of the classic hymns of our Christian faith.  Along with this segment of the family reunion, another of the family elders would have the clan recite the Norwegian Table Prayer.

Here is the translation of what that elder recited in Norwegian…..“Heavenly Father, In Jesus name, To the table we come, To eat and drink according to His Word.  To God the honor, To us the gain, So we have food, In Jesus Name, Amen.”  

Now, with the food blessed, it was a flurry of happy chatter while scrumptious delicacies began flying onto people’s plates and we all began to fill our tummies to the point of joyous, bulbous balloon-sizing!   In order to wash down all this great Norwegian food fare for us kids, there were, seemingly, gallons of Koolaid, milk and ice water.   And, for the adults, there were unending gallons of hot, black coffee held in uncountable thermos jugs around the park.

For the remainder of this special day I witnessed family enjoying laughter, stories of the long ago times and naps being taken in the shade as brisk, warm summer breezes would cool their sweat while young and old napped the afternoon hours away.   We can only wonder what gentle dreams our elders enjoyed during those family reunion nap times.   One can only surmise that, with the distant sound of children playing, our napping elders could see Norwegian family reunions back in the days of their own youth and those golden times they, too, enjoyed.

Even there, in my days of youth, many of the family elders still had a very heavy Norwegian accent to their English.  It was fun for me, as a little boy, to stand at the shoulder of my father, sitting in his lawn chair, and listen to those older folk speak of Norwegian ways in the long ago when THEY were young.

As evening drew near, those family members with farms and dairy herds would round up their brood of children and head home to their farms to milk the cows and feed other livestock.  As our family’s Buick Roadmaster lumbered westward towards our farm and home near Kiester, Minnesota, I pondered on how memories so pleasant as these gave me a happy glow to be a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 17th…“TELL US ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE TELEVISION SHOWS AS A CHILD”

I was just hooking up the last suspender of my bib overalls as I approached the old black and white television set that sat in the corner of our little Living Room on our farm in southern Minnesota.  You young folk might wonder what I mean by the term, “black and white”.  Well, that’s the only two colors that TVs could emit in those days.  Color televisions were still in their infancy and only the rich folk could afford those.

Matter of fact, in my finite childhood mind, I thought life must have been pretty dull in the old days, since I only saw life depicted as just “black & white” on the television’s screen.  Back to the story.  As I turned the knob, in the upper corner, you could hear a click and then a series of electronic groans, zoinks and crackling could be heard inside the appliance as it came to life and eventually would produce a visual image on the screen.  The knob to the left corner was the channel selector.  Even though there were usually about 12 numbers on the dial, I seem to remember that we had only about three television stations in our area to choose from.

Contrary to today’s high technology, the only way we could get a picture to the television set was via a very tall metal pole antenna that stood even higher than our two story farm home.  The pole was attached by metal clamps to the side of the house so that we could use a handle (on the pole) to swing the sky high antenna one direction or another.  There, on the south side of the house, if you turned the pole of the tall roof antenna just to the right direction, you’d be lucky to get a half decent image to come across the television screen there inside the Living Room.  On many occasions, either myself or sister would be sent outside to turn the tall pole antenna while one of our parents would yell instructions from inside the house to turn the antenna “more to the left, or more to the right” till they were satisfied with the television’s picture quality.

It wasn’t just the marvel of electronic wiring inside this appliance box called television that fascinated me, instead, it was the magic of what awaited me on the screen of this device that drew me to adventures of fantasy in my favorite cartoons, other children’s programming and on into the parental favorites of my dad’s Western shows and family variety shows like “The Ed Sullivan Show” or “The Lawrence Welk Show”.

It just wasn’t Saturday night without the family tradition of enjoying “The Lawrence Welk Show” together.  Sometimes, Mom would even bring out the TV trays and we’d all settle into the Living Room so that we could eat our supper and be entertained at the same time by Lawrence and his ‘musical family’.  Wholesome entertainment, at its best, was the music and dancing brought to us each week there in our cozy farm house.   Many years later, when our family lived in Washington State, I’d go over to Mom’s retirement apartment every Saturday evening to have supper, reminisce and watch one of the great reruns of the Welk Show that were then being broadcast over Portland, Oregon’s PBS (Public Broadcasting System) station.

Long before Sesame Street (and other children’s programs) ever aired, there was the fun of “The Captain Kangaroo Show”.   The ‘Captain'(Bob Keeshan) had giant pockets in his suit jacket, so that’s where the ‘kangaroo’ part of his name came into play.  He would pull amazing things from those pockets for either a ‘show and tell’ or to illustrate a story he was about to read to us.  There were puppets to watch, craft projects he’d do, cartoons to see (like “Tom Terrific”).  Of course, Captain’s good friend, “Mr. Green Jeans” was always there to engage in the playtime, as well.  The mythical clubhouse this all occurred in was known as the Captain’s “Treasure House”.  Even the program’s theme music (called “Puffin’ Billy”) still sticks sweetly in my mind to this day.

On another of our father’s favorite TV shows, Marshall Matt Dillon, in all of his tall, male elegance, is seen slowly walking and stalking down the center of a wide street in Dodge City, Kansas.  As the intro music intensifies, the steeled look in his eyes tells the viewers that, at the other end of this street, there is a villainous character threatening the peace of this western town.   At the peak of tension-filled music, Marshall Dillon uses lightning speed to pull his six gun and fires at the evil figure to end this gun fight and start another episode of “Gunsmoke”.   Our dear father, Russell, was transfixed with all that had to do with the Old West.  Therefore, it was another television tradition to watch “Gunsmoke” every Saturday night together as a family.

This list of favorite television shows could go on and on, but I want to take an opportunity to say “THANK YOU” to our local TV man, Mr. Jim Engebretson, for supplying our sweet hometown with televisions and repair services over many of my young years!!!  Whereas, my brother and sister’s generation had enjoyed old time radio, it was my generation that was weaned and preened by the new medium of television and all it held for being the imagination station for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 16th…“TELL ABOUT YOUR FIRST KISS.”

The number 13, for some people, is considered unlucky, but have you ever pondered that that same number, in a person’s first year as a teenager, is also magic when it comes to hormones that begin to flow in a young person’s body and psyche?  It was surely that way for this youngster in July of 1967.  Day, by wondrous day, my childhood boy mindset of ‘girls got germs and probably worms’ morphed into, ‘Hmmm, I’m beginning to think that Miss So n So is pretty cute after all!!’  Twitterpation became rampant whenever a lovely young lady smiled at me more than once.  I was now in her trance and I thought I was ‘in love’ 😉

One chapter of our family’s life was closing (Dad had sold our farm) and another chapter was opening (Dad’s new job would be as a school custodian in Battle Ground, Washington).   As news of this life change spread through our family ranks, my mother’s Aunt Esther Bidne invited us to her home in Emmons, Minnesota for a farewell family gathering.    A girlfriend of my sister Candice was invited to attend the ‘goodbye party’ as part of our family that day.  Her name was Marla Kay Hagedorn.

Dad brought us, in our 1963 Dodge Polara, to the curb right in front of Aunt Esther’s cozy little home there in Emmons.   With her customary hugs n smiles at the door, Aunt Esther showed us kids to the basement while the adults poured themselves some coffee and settled into the Living Room for hours of visiting and memory sharing.

The clans had gathered in mass for this ‘goodbye bash’, so we had lots of other cousins joining us in the basement of our host home.   The music from someone’s little transistor radio, juvenile chatter and board games were the norm of entertainment for us youngin’s in the basement that day.   Over the past few months, Marla and I had grown to be ‘chummy’ friends.  This was definitely a different kind of chummy.   During that summer, Marla had joined her brothers and myself by pullin’ off our shirts and playing baseball with her in her farmyard.  Soooo, that day, when we got bored of the board games, we went across the room of that basement and sat on the couch to chit chat, etc..   What happened next bewildered and perplexed me all at the same time….and, there was a tinge of wowsa mixed in with those feelings.  Marla got up from sitting next to me on that couch and, all of a sudden, without my inviting her, stood up, made a step in front of me and sat down ON my lap.  OH MYYY!  Blushing commenced full force all over my face.

The cousins across the room were oblivious to our cuddling on that sofa and continued on with their board games, ignoring us.  Now I had seen ‘smooching’ in the movies and on television shows, but had never experienced this human phenomenon for myself …..yet.  Was today to be the day?

“Hmmmmm”, I thought to myself, “This gal is now sitting on my lap, why not try this grown up thing called KISSING?!”   Marla’s head was turned towards the game activity across the room.  To get her attention, I called her name, “Marla?” and when she turned her face towards me, I planted the sloppiest excuse for a kiss right on her lips!!!  It was only too obvious that this was the first kiss for both of us little whippersnappers.  Even our very teeth CLANGED together and we about drowned in the ‘car wash’ affect of not knowing what the dickens we two were trying to do.

After we untangled our jawbones, I thought to myself, “If THIS is what kissing is all about, you can count me OUT!”  In retrospective hilarity, from the looks we both gave each other afterwards, we were of the mutual conclusion that this kissing thing was truly overrated!!  At least from the first timer’s experience of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

February 15th…“TELL ABOUT YOUR FIRST ‘DATE’ EXPERIENCE WITH A YOUNG LADY.”

We all can take ownership in the saga of skinned knees.  As tiny toddlers, our first attempt at walking ended up with……..skinned knees.  Our first toddler legs trying to run ended up with …….skinned knees.  Our first attempt at bike riding ended up with ……..major skinned knees!  Thus, in the fall of 1966, I came to my first ever ‘date’ with a girl……….so, symbolically, ‘skinned knees’ were sure to happen.

An unparalleled palette of fall colors showed themselves in the leaves that carpeted the lawns in our handsome village of Kiester, Minnesota.  It was October of 1966 and time, once again, for our school’s annual Homecoming celebrations.

Not only were the scents of fall in the air around us, but there was also the ‘fragrance’, so to speak, of welcoming home former students to our school campus and community.  A coming home, so to speak, also known across the nation as “Homecoming”.  A flurry of activities and a parade were planned each year for entertaining the returning alumni, current students, parents and town folk in general.

Tradition dictated that each year, a Royal Homecoming King and Queen would ‘rule’ (at least symbolically) over the happy affairs of the yearly celebration.   Band concerts, Pep Assemblies, Bonfire, All School Homecoming Parade and other events would gradually culminate in the yearly football match with our rival school from the town of Frost, Minnesota.

Within this gala of celebrations around our village, there was also an internal celebration, of sorts, within myself.  Over the past year or so, I had mystically morphed from a little boy that thought all girls had germs-n-worms, to a young man now noticing that girls were not so bad, after all.  Matter of fact, after observing romantic movies and my older siblings ‘pitching the woo’ with their boy friend or girl friend, I had decided I’d like to try this thing called ‘dating’.

For whatever my reasons were,  I mustered the courage to ask Miss Gloria Carlson (the local banker’s daughter) if she would ‘go out’ with me for the evening of the Homecoming Football Game and Dance.  Amazingly, she said yes, so the wheels were now in motion for my first excursion into the world of boy/girl dating.  What do I wear?  What do I say?  How do I act?  HOW DO YOU DANCE????  Ohhh my!!  I could feel the ‘skinned knees’ syndrome already, cause I felt like I was going to ‘fall on my face’ with social foul ups!

Gloria’s home was just south of our school’s football field, so it was convenient for my parents to drop me off there.  The fancy doorbell on their fancy house brought her parents to the door and initial social greetings ensued.  Talk about the ‘blind leading the blind’.  I felt just like a clumsy episode of the old classic TV show called, “Leave It To Beaver” in the way I was making all the embarrassing choices for words and actions.   Gloria and myself then bid farewell to her parents as we made our way by walking around the corner to the football field where the Homecoming game was about to be played between our Kiester High School “Bulldogs” and the team from Frost, Minnesota.   Our first ‘date’ event was to enjoy the giant bonfire that was about to take place as the Minnesota sun settled into the farmlands that surrounded the football field.  Like any youngsters, we whooped and hollered for our “Bulldogs” as they ‘chewed up’ the competition from Frost, Minnesota that night.  As the roar of the local crowd began to subside, and the fall season temperatures dipped, we pulled our jackets on a little snugger as we meandered the four or so blocks back to our school and the celebration of the annual “Homecoming Dance”.  ‘Mr. Skinned Knees’ here had a tongue as big as a football as I tried to make small talk with Gloria while we listened to the crisp crackling of fall leaves underfoot while we sauntered towards the school gymnasium.

The Kiester High School gymnasium had been regally transformed into a luxurious world of twisted crepe ribbons that hung from the basketball goals that were now raised clear up to the ceiling in the center of the gym.  The resulting effect of this great idea, was a multicolored ‘tent’ look that draped all the way down to the four sides of this place for us youngsters to now ‘dance the night away’.   A local band provided music for us to enjoy and you could see young couples begin to swing and sway to the pulsations of this grand finale of Homecoming Week.

Not only could I NOT dance, but the school custodians (or dance committee) had sprinkled the gymnasium floor with ‘dancing dust’ (a treated sawdust).  Heck, I could barely stand up on that stuff, say nothing about dancing.   For Gloria and myself, our time on the dance floor was a comedy act from the very beginning.  I tried to impress my date with my wiggles n jiggles to the music played, but I’m sure her smiles were likely suppressed, internal howls at the sight of the banker’s daughter and a very clumsy Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

February 14th…“TELL ABOUT HOW VALENTINES DAY WAS CELEBRATED WHEN YOU WERE IN GRADE SCHOOL.”

ACROSTIC POEM – “Valentine’s Love” by N. Elliott Noorlun

V  ery far, In the long ago,

A  little guy, Namely me,

L  ined up with my bag of Valentine cards,

E  xcited for to see.

N  o wonder I liked this holiday,

T  o let my friends all know,

I  liked them all, Just as much,

N  ow they all would know.

E  verybody passed my little desk,

S  lipped loving notes in my bag,

D  elighted was I, With pleasant sigh,

A  s that bag began to sag.

Y  up, even Valentine’s love is shown, To this tiny scalawag.

February 13th…“WHAT EMBARRASSING EVENT TAUGHT YOU A LIFE LESSON THAT HAS STAYED WITH YOU TO THIS VERY DAY?”

My 13 year old butt cheeks quivered, like a wild bowl of “Jello” in an earthquake, as Mr. Parker’s leather belt blank met my gluteus maximus with a sharp sounding “WHACK”!!!  The sting to my rear echelon was not half as bad as the deep embarrassment of what brought me to that public correction.

To the best of my limited knowledge, ours was a six year High School in my beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.   At the end of the sixth year of Grade School, we moved over into the High School side of life. So, as the 1966-67 school year commenced, I was in 7th Grade and considered in High School.   One of my favorite classes, that year, was Industrial Arts class with a great teacher by the name of Mr. Daryl Parker.  I loved every minute of learning how to use hand tools properly and then applying that knowledge to a plethora of various building projects that ranged from creating plastic laminate and dye coloring, to wood work, copper relief art with framing, making leather belts, etc..  We all enjoyed Mr. Parker.  He was usually quite jovial with a ‘barrel-chest’ of muscles, to boot.  Mr. Parker was fair, communicated well and also meant exactly what he said.  He was even a great teaser.

While giving instructions to the class, Mr. Parker sometimes picked up a swat paddle from his desk that had numerous large holes drilled through it.  We asked him, “What are the holes in the paddle for, sir?”  His response?  “That’s so when I swat ya, I can watch the ‘meat’ come through!!!”  The entire class joined our teacher in a roar of laughter!

Mr. Parker’s disciplined ways came into reality one day as we were learning about wood work and the tools needed to see it done properly.  Our wise teacher invested quality time in explaining to us the parts and workings of a wood plane.  We were enlightened about the amount of time he spent in sharpening and honing all of those wood planes to a razor’s edge and how that his students should NEVER lay a wood plane FLAT on the work bench table!  The reason was that the trueness of that clean blade might be damaged or nicked.  Then, when you would push the plane across your wood, that nick in the blade would spoil every pass with a scar into the wood.  Clearly, he warned us, “Boys, NEVER allow a wood plane to set flat on your work bench with the blade down!”  “ALWAYS lay the plane on its SIDE when you’re not using it!” “It’s an automatic swat for anyone breaking this rule.”

Like all my classmates, I had every good-hearted intention to obey and please Mr. Parker.  Yet, as I became ‘lost’ in my concentration to my wood project that day, I did exactly what I was NOT supposed to do.  Without thinking, I had laid the wood plane FLAT, with the blade down, upon my work bench.

Now, as a consequence of NOT obeying Mr. Parker’s directives, he had clearly explained that the price to pay for laying a wood plane flat on a bench would be an automatic swat.  So, there I am working away, when I get a tap on the shoulder and it’s my respected teacher pointing down at the poor wood plane laying there flat on the work bench with blade down.  I had broken the rules, no matter how innocently….I was guilty.  My eyes popped open like saucers!! “I’m so sorry, Mr. Parker, I didn’t mean to lay the plane flat, HONEST!!”  All to no avail as he crooked his pointer finger as if to say, “Follow me”.  Up to the front of the Shop Class we walked.  All of the other boys ceased their noisy work as their eyes were following me to my doom.  Mr. Parker stops me right next to a tall work stool and has me bend over it to tighten my pants for what was coming next.

He stepped into his office and comes back out to the classroom area with a brand new leather belt blank that someone would use later on in the year to handcraft a belt project.  Mr. Parker folds the belt in half, creating an even more impressive imprint on my ‘rear echelon’ in a few moments.  Having the entire class in rapt attention, Mr. Parker then reminded them all of his earlier teaching on caring for hand tools and why I was about to suffer the consequences for NOT taking care of my wood plane.  I’m now facing away from the class, and bent over that stool, as our teacher winds up and CRRRACK!!! goes the belt across my ‘hind thoughts’!   What hurt me, even more than the swat, was the public embarrassment that I had been the subject of because THAT was what correction was all about.

Now in today’s hyper-sensitive, politically correct world, corporal discipline (notice I did NOT use the word “punishment”) is seen as a bad thing.  But, you know what?  I am STILL a staunch admirer of Mr. Parker!  Oh sure, for a day or two, my feelings were wounded, but to this very day I respect the tools I use as I gladly honor Mr. Parker’s memory for being a fine educator, wrestling coach and, overall, great man!   And, for well over a half century, I can say that I have NEVER, EVER laid a wood plane flat on a workbench SINCE!!! 😉

Yep, that was a ‘plane’ good lesson for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

February 12th…“HOW DID YOU GET VARIOUS MEATS FOR YOUR MEALS WHEN YOU LIVED ON THE FARM?”

When consumers want meat to eat, the grand majority of Americans today will go to a grocery store and pay the man behind the counter for fancily wrapped meats to take home and feed their families.  It seems all rather stylish and fancy, in a way, yet it is a rather sterile experience to just have that pork chop magically appear and not realize the whole story of how it got there in the first place.    Not so for those of us blessed to live in the country on farms.  On our 120 acre farm, we raised our own meat, on the hoof (so to speak), and when it came time to fill our freezer with tasty steaks, hamburger, etc., we called our local butcher to bring his boom-crane truck to ‘put down’ (kill) either a hog or cow to feed our family.

One thing that I will always be thankful for, growing up on our farm in southern Minnesota, is that I was granted the privilege to see the full spectrum and cycle of the life of our various animals, both big and small.   I was able to witness the birth of little kitties as well as piglets and calves, and then, to see them grow to maturity and live among us there on that rich land.  And yes, I was even there to witness the ending of our animal’s lives…..whether it was the sad incident of a dog run over by a neighbor’s tractor, or sickness/old age, or, in this case of the animal becoming food for our family table.

Our beloved mother, Clarice, always spoke so respectfully of the kindness and gentle nature of Axel Challgren and his family who ran “Challgren’s Lockers” in our hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.   I remember Mr. Challgren as a quiet man with a shy smile as he would arrive with his boom-crane truck on our farmyard.  Mom talked of Axel having a very tender heart towards children and how he wanted to spare little ones from the stark reality of what his job entailed.  In light of that mindset, Mr. Challgren always asked of our parents that children be sent away from the immediate area, so as not to have to witness the actual death of the animal and the necessary gutting and cutting procedures of the butchering process.

I vividly recall, that day, how Dad put a halter over the head of the cow selected for butchering and led her out of the NE corner door of our big red barn.  About 20 yards from the barn, Dad and the cow stopped near the butcher’s truck while Axel pulled his 22 caliber rifle from the front seat of his work vehicle.  Axel then inserted a bullet into the chamber of the rifle and ‘closed the action’; he was now ready to do what had to be done.  Dad, wanting to honor Mr. Challgren’s wishes (regarding children not being nearby during butchering), bade me to “go in to the house, Elliott”.  Reluctantly, I obeyed, but there was a wrestling inside of me because I had really wanted to stay and see what butchering was all about.

Being the sly little guy that I was, I reasoned, in my scheming mini-mind that Dad had said to “go in to the house”, he did NOT say that I couldn’t look through the kitchen windows OF the house to see what was going on down there near the barn.  So, as I watched from our kitchen window, that dear and quiet Mr. Challgren gently walked up to the front of the cow and placed the muzzle of that rifle right between the cow’s eyes and pulled the trigger……POW!!!!  The cow’s end was quick as a merciful blink as all four legs simultaneously buckled and down she went to the ground.  Now that the animal was dead, Axel went to the work doing what a butcher does in creating various meats for our family, and extended family, to enjoy for months to come.

Having spent my first thirteen years of life on that farm, I came away with a deep respect for life, in general, and a gratefulness for God’s provision for us there on the farm.  We all knew the monetary price in feeding, raising, cleaning, nurturing and enjoying the life of all of our animals.  And, yes, we then had a solemn understanding of the ‘life price’ of needing to take an animal’s life when it came to our family’s need for food.  As Ecclesiastes 3:2 says…..”There’s a time to be born, and a time to die”.   Thank you, Lord, for the farm life lessons learned by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 11th…“WHO WAS YOUR VERY FIRST GIRLFRIEND?”

POEM – “Through These Grade School Doors” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Through these Grade School doors, And down the hall, I found my First Grade class.

I also found my feminine pal, A friendly little lass.

Marietta Lacher was her name, I still remember well,

True, girls had germs, And maybe worms, But I still liked her, Can’t ya tell?

Though when I rode home, On our old bus, It was no easy task,

The High School boys, Made lots of noise, In the questions they would ask!

“Are you in love?”, “Is she your gal?”, They’d tease me without ending,

But worst of all, They’d recite with gall, A verse that had me bending.

“Marietta n Elliott, Sittin’ in a tree,  K I S S I N G!”,

“First comes love, Then comes marriage,

Then comes babes in a baby carriage!”

T’weren’t no fun bein’ friendly, When little in First Grade,

When mean young men, Towards me their tortures laid! :o(

February 10th...”WHEN IT CAME TO BIG PROJECTS ON YOUR FARM, HOW DID YOUR FATHER MAKE THE BEST USE OF DOLLARS OR RESOURCES?”

The nails screamed out in agony, or so it seemed, by the sounds they were making as Dad’s sinewy muscles maneuvered the claw bar to remove them from the wall he was tearing out.  In this now decrepit old house, it was as if the nails were pleading to stay in the walls of what had once housed a family and its life.  Yet, as a kernel of corn ‘dies’ in the soil to bring a new crop, so also was it a manifest destiny for this old house to give up its lumber to live again in the form of a new garage on our farm just 3 miles to the northwest from our village of Kiester, Minnesota.

Our beloved, hardworking parents came from what is often called “The Greatest Generation”.  They were hardened by “The Great Depression” lean times of the 1930’s with it’s economic severity and then, as the global conflict of war came upon the scene, had to sacrifice for our soldiers, sailors and Marines during World War II.  That mind set of “use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without” was a staple of how they lived out the rest of their lives; especially when it came to ‘stretching the dollar’ to make our farm as successful as they could.

Being just a youngster, in those days of the mid 1960’s, I wasn’t keenly aware and questioned why Dad would even want to take on the task of building a new, two car garage and shop structure.  I can only assume that a likely Reason #1 was, that he may have wanted to escape the rigors of scraping ice and snow from our car and truck each winter whenever he’d want to go someplace.  Reason #2, in my personal opinion, could have been that Dad wanted a shop with extra space to be able to pull in large welding and/or repair projects there on the farm.  His original shop building was pretty small, with just enough room to house his large array of tools, welders, acetylene torches, etc..  As a resort, Dad had to do most of his repair work on large items while exposed to the outdoor elements.

Whatever the composite reasons were, as a whole, our father’s decision was to create a new building to grace our farmyard that would incorporate at least some used lumber.  The dollar savings of building with used, FREE lumber would greatly reduce the cost factor in getting the garage/shop completed within budget for our parents and family.

It was roughly the summer of 1965 when our dad heard about an old, abandoned home in our village of Kiester, Minnesota that was available for local folks to glean any usable lumber for their own use.   Sometimes, Dad and I would load up our 1950 Ford F-100 pickup with tools and head into town to take apart and bring home various components of wall framing or other wood that he could use in his own building adventure.

Sometimes, after the cows were milked for the evening, we’d hook up a flat rack wagon to our Farmall H or Super M tractor and go ‘harvest’ some long lumber from the old house to add to the progress of our new structure.

I was always raised to respect other people’s homes.  It was inculcated within my psyche that any private family dwelling was to be viewed as if someone’s home was sacred ground and you showed respect by not entering it until you were invited by the family to actually enter into their home, which was their personal domain.  Well, even though there was no longer a family in that dilapidated old house, I felt uneasy stepping inside the front door the first few times.  The late afternoon sun would often flood through the rippled glass windows and illuminate golden rays of light through the floating dust in the air from our hammering and sawing.  Being the little adventurer that I was, I’d slowly climb up the creaking stairs to the second story and explore what used to be the family bedrooms.  From that vantage point, I’d see the view around town from those cracked and lonely looking upper windows.  To the best of my knowledge, I would assess this old house could have been as much as a century old at the time we began making it yield up its wood to us for our new project.  Even as a young boy of 11 or 12, at the time, I couldn’t help but wonder how many families had called this place home with all their laughter and holidays together, etc..

After the investment of our sweat, splinters, blood and blisters, our family watched Dad work day after day on the shop/garage until we eventually saw a brand new domicile for our car and truck to stay dry in winter and a shop (with a stove for warmth) for Dad to fix, fashion and create within his new shop surroundings.  T’was a feeling of pride to have been a small part of our family success for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

February 9th…”DID YOUR MOTHER EVER SAY OR DO SOMETHING THAT MADE THE WHOLE FAMILY LAUGH?”

Friday afternoon’s last bell rang at Battle Ground Junior High School and freedom was ours for another weekend.  Freedom from school, that is, but it was the night our family (Mom, sister Candi, and myself) rallied to the aide of our father at Glenwood Heights Elementary School where he was the new Head Custodian.  When us kids arrived at the house from school, we changed into our work clothes and jumped into our brand new 1967 Dodge Coronet 500, with Mom at the wheel.

Life, here in the Pacific Northwest, was still new to us after having left our farming culture back in Minnesota.  Therefore, not only was it a way of showing family unity in helping our Dad, but it was also just plain fun to be part of his new career as a school custodian.  Like all schools of the late 1960’s, Glenwood Heights Elementary School had the classic chalkboards on the classroom walls.  And, yes, they used actual chalk to write on those boards as the teachers educated the youngsters about readin’, writin’ and ‘rithmetic.  As a result, at the end of each week, those chalkboards, erasers and chalkboard trays were messy from white chalk residue.

Someone had created a large cardboard box, out of an empty, heavy-cardboard egg case, that was divided in two by a wooden centerpiece that also had a carrying handle built in.  One side of the box held clean erasers and the other side was empty, waiting for dirty ones.  Sister Candi and I went through all 20 classrooms and cleaned all those chalkboards, wiped out the chalk trays and replaced clean erasers for the upcoming school week on Monday.

After the 20 classrooms had clean chalkboards for the coming week, it was now time to have some ‘fun’……well, at least I thought it was fun, in cleaning all those dirty erasers.  We’d plug in and turn on a special machine that had a spinning brush and powerful vacuum motor.  As you slid the eraser across the blur of the brush, the vacuum would suck off the chalk dust and shoot it into a heavy cloth bag that inflated to a balloon from the power of that vacuum motor.   When finished, there’d be a clean batch of erasers for the next week’s chalkboard job.

As a ‘payment’ for working each Friday night, Dad would treat Candi and I to a delicious ice cream bar called a “Double Delight” that had a fudge center surrounded by vanilla ice cream and the customary hard shell chocolate coating;  all of which was on the handy wooden stick.  Our job completed, we’d cherish some teen sports fun in the school gymnasium while Dad and Mom finished up the last of the custodial chores at that wonderful school.

Now the Pacific Northwest is well known for its very wet fall and winter seasons.  Along with that wetness is the tendency for heavy fog to accumulate, especially in the evening hours.  Matter of fact, it is SO WET in the Northwest, that there’s even bumper stickers that say, “We Don’t Suntan, We Rust!”.   On this particular Friday night, as we climbed into our handsome Dodge for the ride home, the fog was so thick ‘you could cut it with a knife’.   Dad took the driver’s seat while the rest of us climbed in for the ride home.   The going was slow, in the darkness and thick fog, as we wound our way northward towards our new hometown of Battle Ground, Washington.   We had just come up out of the Salmon Creek valley from the village of Brush Prairie and were engaged in small talk/chit chat when all of a sudden………..

………Mom hollers out, “COW, COW, COW, COW!!!!”   Dad slams on those new car brakes without a second to lose as the car screeches to a halt within just a few feet of that bovine who acts completely oblivious the fact that she was almost made into hamburger there on the spot.  The cow was completely hidden in the deep thickness of that nights’ fog until we were ‘right on top of her’.   Dad laid on the horn to get the lazy beast off that highway.  She just looked at us as if WE were bothering her as she slowly lumbered off the highway and into the ditch.

After our hearts settled back into our chests from that high adrenaline rush, we all began laughing out loud at Mom’s explosive burst to warn Dad!!  For years, as a family, we would get in a silly mood and someone would bring up this funny incident and remind Mom about “COW, COW, COW, COW!!!”  

We could sure ‘chalk’ one up for fun that night for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.