May 29th………..“PLEASE SHARE WITH US, GRANDPA, ABOUT SOMETHING YOU DID ON YOUR MINNESOTA FARM THAT BOTH SCARED YOU AND WAS EXCITING AT THE SAME TIME”.

“STOP THE TRACTOR!!!! RUSS, STOP!!! YOU’RE GONNA CRUSH ELLIOTT”!!!! Mom’s dress and apron were like Superman’s cape as she was on a full run towards the shallow ravine near our barn. She was screaming at the top of her lungs while flailing her arms up and down in hopes of catching Dad’s attention on the tractor before he would be fatally too late and crush my toddler body to death!!!!

Being tinier than a bellybutton’s burp, I had such a love for my daddy and for the tractors that he drove. As a blissfully ignorant toddler, I had no qualms of running towards the sound of Dad coming in from the field pulling a full load of haybales on the flat rack behind him. Like any toddler, I was completely oblivious to the life-threatening dangers that could have spelled my early death. All I knew was that that sound of a tractor was like a magnet to me and it meant I could see and be with my daddy. The roar from the muffler of the Farmall “H” engine added to the wildness of the moment, for, like any focused farmer, Dad was busy glancing back and forth to the load of hay behind him and was unaware that down below the narrow front end of his engine, his itty bitty son could have been killed, unawares!!! Thankfully, the good Lord, in His mercy, had other plans for my life, so Mom’s wild, protective antics paid off and our dad hit the brakes JUST in time to have her scoop me up into the air and into her arms away from imminent death.

I completely and joyfully idolized my farmer father and all that he represented in our days there on our family farm northwest of Kiester, Minnesota. From the way my Dad walked and talked, to the way he wore his striped, bib overalls like a knight of old wore his shining metal armor. As a little sun-bleached blonde boy I especially was entranced by Dad’s command of those metal steeds (tractors) that obeyed his every working whim. Those red, Farmall marvels were so gigantic in comparison to my minuscule, mini-manhood that I fell in love with all that they represented. Power unlimited, power in their mufflered roar, to the wonders of gears and hydraulics that lifted and lowered heavy equipment with the touch of a lever……….the list of amazements were unending for this boy who yearned to someday sit on one of Dad’s red metal machines and drive it for my very own. I was barely 3 years old when Mom tenderly placed me on the driver’s seat of our little Farmall “B” tractor one day and took my photograph. I was in kid heaven, for sure!!! 😉

I tenderly recall, on more than one occasion, hearing Dad’s Farmall engine ‘call to me’ from out west of our farm yard. I’d saunter out towards the field and walk up along the evergreen trees that helped populate our treed windbreak there. In between the trees were loads and loads of blackberry and raspberry bushes laden with tasty orbs of delectable delight. I’d pick handfuls of those ruby morsels and sit there in the cooling tall grass to just sit for the longest time as I’d gaze out across the field to see our father and his Farmall silhouetted against the late afternoon’s golden sun while he’d make diagonal passes back and forth across the field to prepare it for planting that year’s crops.

As my wonderful years of farm life came and went, I eventually was given the training and resultant responsibility of driving all of the tractors on our farm in various tasks of daily life there. At the age of 11 years young, which was 1965, Dad had taken our Farmall Super “M” to the International Harvester dealership in Kiester for some repair work to be done to the tractor. The Super “M” was the most powerful tractor in Dad’s lineup of mechanized mounts and so what happened next deeply impressed this growing farmer boy. It would have been just as easy for Dad to have taken our mother, Clarice, with him to the dealership that day and had her drive the pickup truck home and he could have driven the three miles back to our farm, himself. But no, the responsibility of handling that massive tractor on the highway that day would be given to ME!!! To say the least, I was both honored and scared to death!!! 😉

In those formative farm years, Dad had taught me well regarding the rudimental runnings of all our farm tractors, including the Super “M”. With paperwork signed and the bill paid by Dad inside the dealership, I climbed aboard the handsome frame of the “M” and felt my body weight cause the spring-loaded seat to give me a welcoming bounce or two. Once I had brought that powerful tractor’s engine to life, I pushed in the clutch as far as my young legs could reach and settled the gear shift into 1st gear. A slow lift of my foot from the clutch gently set the tractor in motion as I steered out of the IH (International Harvester) holding yard. So far, so good as I rolled down the street towards the bowling alley and West State Street that led out of town towards our farm. Our Super “M” was a model that had a wide front end tire setup. All our other tractors at home were the traditional tricycle-type narrow front wheels set together under the engine frame. Turning the “M” around the bowling alley’s corner, I began going through the gears from 1st, to 2nd to 3rd and now 4th gear. As I emerged from the ‘city limits’, I realized it was now time to shift into 5th gear (or what we termed as ‘road gear’). After only experiencing slow gear travel around our farm yard, this ‘road gear’ feeling was both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. The throttle was wide open now as the engine roared and the large, chevron-treaded tires to each side of me began to sing their song as they whined and slapped the paved highway below. The wind in my face was at a velocity this farm boy had never experienced and I learned quickly to keep my mouth shut to keep out the bugs that now began to pelt my face in the 16 to 20 miles per hour speed that I was flying at.

I felt mighty grown up that day as Dad shadowed me from behind inside of our 1950 Ford F-150 pickup truck. I couldn’t help but ponder, even then, that this tractor trek that he allowed me to experience was quite possibly his way of slowly introducing me to young manhood and going through the rites, so to speak, of showing that I could shoulder more and more responsibility there on our farm.

Our father and son tractor/truck caravan had just passed the Clarence Johnson farm when it was time for me to shift down and gently apply the brakes as we both made the northward banking turn onto the gravel road that would take us north past the Chet Ozmun farm and our own farm that was now seen in the distance. Upon reaching our home place, I throttled down the engine speed and shifted down to a safe gearing as Dad and I made the banking left turn into the south driveway and the beloved farm home of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

May 28th……..“TELL US, GRANDPA, HOW MANY TELEVISIONS DID YOU HAVE ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA DAYS? WERE THEY THE GIANT FLAT SCREENS? HOW MANY HUNDRED CHANNELS”?

Every one of the wooden, old-fashioned, vertical sliding windows our farm home possessed were slid up in their tracks to the open position. A brisk, prairie wind was blowing that evening and we hoped to catch the cooling effects of a crosswind through the window screens as our family sat down to enjoy some television together.

“Hey Daddy!!?, said I in my little boy curiosity, “Marshall Dillon on “Gunsmoke” looks like he’s in a snowstorm. But I can kinda see cactus behind him and the desert sun is shining in the background. How come”? “Well, son,” said our father, Russell, “Looks like it’s time for you run outside around the house to ‘fix it’ for us”!!

What Dad meant by that remark was that, back in those simpler days of the long ago, television sets were in need of something called an antenna to bring in the image, from off of the invisible airwaves, and onto the TV’s “picture tube”. I was about to be the human instrument to make that happen in a fine-tuning sort of way. 😉

Being obedient to Dad’s directive, I stepped out the front door of our farm home and into the twilight of another handsome Minnesota evening. Mourning Doves in our nearby wooded windbreak sang a soothing melody to my ears as I rounded the corner of the house and arrived at, what seemed to be, a MILE HIGH metal pole that, at its crown, rested an aluminum wonder called a television antenna. This foldable metal marvel (which to me looked like something right out of a science fiction movie) somehow magically captured electrical impulses from television stations many miles away from us and transformed them into moving images on our TV inside our house. The invention up on our roof had a central ‘spine’ or trunk with cross-beams of aluminum that went from wide at one end and graduated to little cross-beams at the other. I suppose you could say it resembled a horizontal ‘Christmas tree’ of sorts.

Electronic TV engineering, still being in its infancy in the late 1950’s and early 60’s, was rather primitive in being able to send a strong signal, consistently, to local family television sets. A poor signal, that we called “snow”, often manifested its presence on the TV screen as a mass of black n white ‘confetti’ rampaging across the screen that either hampered the TV show you were trying to see, or totally obliterated it in a ‘blizzard’ of hissing sounds and a zillion black n white dots dancing all over the picture tube. Most times you could hear the actors voices in the background, but good luck on SEEING them on that TV screen!!

The tall metal pole, crowned by the antenna, had the ability to be turned by a type of handle system that would, simultaneously, turn the antenna far above the roofline of our humble home. Through the open screened window, either little sister Candice, or myself would hear our parent’s command to “Turn it (the antenna) farther to the right……..or left”!!! Eventually, our youthful endeavors would find the ‘sweet spot’ in catching the broadcast waves over the air and we’d hear our parents through the window saying, “There ya go!!! That’s great!!! O.K., you can come inside now”!!!

With mission accomplished, my barefoot toes happily dug into the clover-mingled lawn below me and I zipped back around that corner and into the family Living Room once again to see a much more clear image of “Matt Dillion” (the sheriff on the Western TV show, “Gunsmoke”) capturing the bad guys and saving the day for all the good folks of Dodge City, Kansas.

To have even just the one television in our farm family’s life was a very big deal in those days. For one thing, even having a TV, at all, was considered a super fun luxury for any family of that era.

Some time in the early 1950’s is when our parents took a deep breath and made the plunge in buying a single television set for our farm family. Up until then, entertainment was gotten from various story-time radios shows to listen to, or the real old-fashioned entertainment of sitting down and reading a book.

Television industry advertisements of the early 1950’s sold some TV sets for about $300. In 2021 dollars, that would be over $3,000.00………so, you see, having even ONE television in your home was a BIG investment.

It’s likely that our farm parents bought our very first television from “Ralph’s Radio Shop” in Kiester, Minnesota. Ralph Courier was well-respected in our community for selling and servicing all types of radios, televisions, appliances, etc.. Besides buying the PHILCO television itself, Dad & Mom purchased a long cardboard box which housed our fold-out, aluminum antenna for ‘capturing’ the pictures off of those invisible waves in the sky. What was kinda funny was, at first, rather than put the antenna up on the roof, our folks assembled the very large antenna in our sister Rosemary’s bedroom upstairs. Good thing our big sister was a bendable and wiry little girl in those days, cause she had to live life while dodging in, out and under that antenna. Eventually, Dad moved the antenna up onto the roof for a better TV picture reception.

Rather than hundreds of channels that are available in today’s high-tech electronic culture, there were only maybe four basic TV channels that I can recall. Channel 3 (KGLO) in Mason City, Iowa and there was also KTTC (NBC affiliate) out of Rochester, Minnesota. Then there was KAAL (ABC affiliate) out of Austin, Minnesota, and, I think, KEYC (CBS affiliate) out of Mankato, Minnesota.

And, ohhhhh, to my young grandchildren readers…….. I can attest that this first Noorlun television gave this grandpa of yours his first love for poetry. You know how? For one thing, back in our day, TV stations were not a 24 hour a day enterprise. Depending on the part of the USA you lived in, most broadcast companies shut down operations at either 11pm or 12am (Midnight). Some channels said ‘Goodnight’ to their watching audience by playing our great nation’s National Anthem of “The Star Spangled Banner”. Some TV stations had a pastor read a prayer and still some other stations would broadcast an inspirational film footage of an airplane flying in and out of giant white clouds while the following poem was read to the audience.

“High Flight” written by Royal Canadian Air Force Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee Jr. (1922 – 1941). At the tender age of just 19 years old, Officer Magee was killed in a mid-air collision over England during World War II. He was born in China to parents who were Christian missionaries to the Chinese people.

“OH!!! I HAVE SLIPPED THE SURLY BONDS OF EARTH, AND DANCED THE SKIES ON LAUGHTER-SILVERED WINGS; SUNWARD I’VE CLIMBED, AND JOINED THE TUMBLING MIRTH, OF SUN-SPLIT CLOUDS, __ AND DONE A HUNDRED THINGS YOU HAVE NOT DREAMED OF__WHEELED AND SOARED AND SWUNG HIGH IN THE SUNLIT SILENCE. HOVERING THERE, I’VE CHASED THE SHOUTING WIND ALONG, AND FLUNG MY EAGLE CRAFT THROUGH FOOTLESS HALLS OF AIR……..UP, UP THE LONG DELIRIOUS, BURNING BLUE I’VE TOPPED THE WINDSWEPT HEIGHTS WITH EASY GRACE. WHERE NEVER LARK, OR EVEN EAGLE FLEW___AND WHILE WITH SILENT, LIFTING MIND I’VE TROD THE HIGH UNTRESPASSED SANCTITY OF SPACE, ___PUT OUT MY HAND, AND TOUCHED THE FACE OF GOD. ><>

What a gifted young man Officer Magee was to have the maturity to write such elegant prose that was used in so many ways after his young death. In my young boy days, that grand poem was used to sign on and sign off the the business day for many a television station over the years. To have grown up in this era of television and family farm life, I give God thanks every day for being raised in the time of our nation when even television stations cared about families including ours says this grateful Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 27th………..“GRANDPA, DID ANYONE IN YOUR EXTENDED FAMILY OF RELATIVES EVER BECOME A NURSE? HOW DID IT AFFECT THEM AND THEIR SPOUSE BASED ON THEIR EXPERIENCES”?

A woman’s piercing screams ricocheted off the sterile, tiled walls of that 1918 hospital ward. In reaction to the cacophony of noise, there came the fast sounds of solid, low-heeled uniform shoes of many nurses. Their uniformed convergence added to the chaotic clatter of the excitement as they rushed towards and burst through the door that was the source of those screams. Before them lay a sweat-drenched, pregnant woman with her hands clenching feverishly to the linen sheets around her. This young girl was in the throes of an intense childbirth labor and reacting blindly to the immense, painful pressure that hardened her uterus with every rolling contraction.

Being her first child, the poor sweetheart, like many young women of that era, had not been properly educated and prepared for the natural process of becoming a new mother. Writhing in pain, the young woman thrashed from side to side as her resultant fear only made each contraction worse. The sweet girl upon that bed was experiencing what countless millions of women had endured since the beginning of time…and that was….LABOR was a very hard labor, indeed.

Among those 1918 ‘angels of mercy’ was Miss Olga Josephine Rogness. Although born in Thor, Iowa, as a young adult, Olga had temporarily taken up residence in the desert southwest and was one of those dedicated young nurses that invested their lives in trying to assuage the suffering of all patients in her care at that hospital within the hot State of Arizona.

Being the tender soul and kind-spirited young woman that she was, Olga did what she could to attend to this young woman’s needs as best as she was trained for in her nursing school days. Sadly, though, the medical profession, like any other human endeavor, had to go through their own paradigm shift when it came to finding better ways to approach and assist in bringing new life into this world. Many doctors of that era held an elitist attitude that childbirth was beneath them and that “any female of prudence could manage” to assist a woman in labor on her own.

Nursing truly was, and still IS, a ‘work of heart’!!! For young Olga, though, viewing the many recurring scenes of women in anguish during childbirth was doubly exacerbated when a young girl, on occasion, died during childbirth. Statistics for 1918 reveal that 22 or more maternal puerperal deaths occurred in every 100,000 patients. For some, that’s a low statistic, but to Olga, it had driven a searing, eyewitness image into her very psyche that would come back to haunt her later in life.

With her nursing years now behind her, a new chapter blossomed in the young life of Olga Rogness. A quiet, yet fun-filled young man named Andrew Davidson came a-courting and won the heart of this mild-mannered Norwegian maiden. The Davidson and Rogness families came together for a grand celebration on October 15th of 1925 when these two fine Norwegians stood hand in hand at the altar and exchanged wedding rings.

True, Andrew was of a quiet nature, yet he knew how to have fun, too. He sure kept family ‘on their toes’ in anticipation of what smile or prank he’d come up with next. For instance, there is a photo from one of the family ‘rebellions’ (reunions…Hehehe) where there is this strange looking ‘woman’ in the back row of the photo with an over-sized bonnet on and sunglasses. No other male of the families would’ve pulled a prank like that, but, Uncle Andrew sure would, and DID!!! 😉

Andrew sure kept Olga smiling, during their many years of marriage. On another prank, Andrew would team up with Olga’s brother-in-law (Oscar Bidne) to take a pipe and chink it into place underneath an old Ford Model A car so that the owner could get the car to start, but couldn’t figure out why the gas-pedal wouldn’t work when he’d push down for acceleration. Sure enough, Andrew and Oscar would be standing nearby choking with laughter.

The zenith of Andrew’s pranks, though, came when he would hook up a wire from his old car’s battery and run it to the metal door frame of that era’s type of cars. A flip-switch was then connected along the wiring line to actuate this silly system of ‘getting a jolt’ from Andrew. It was just a matter of time before some unsuspecting ‘victim’ would be leaning with his head inside the car window of Andrew’s vehicle and fully engaged in a conversation with this quiet Norwegian. The poor man in question was oblivious and unaware that the ‘spider was about to trap the fly’. During the chat, Andrew would flip his hidden switch and send a JOLT of DC electrical shock that would ignite that door frame AND the ‘victim’ who usually went straight up in shock and slammed his head to the car frame as he was catapulted out and to the ground with the instigator, Andrew, howling with laughter.

Yes, Andrew and Olga were quite the team through life, yet, Olga’s nursing years came back to haunt her in that she was too filled with her own fears (from those nursing years) to give birth to any children of their own. Those years of witnessing many anguished childbirths had put a mark on Olga’s heart that kept her from ever being able to become a mother due to her intense fright from observing so much pain in those nursing years of her youth.

Andrew, in my humble opinion, garnered a place of sainthood, that few husbands attain, as he compassionately chose to accept the fact that the pitter patter of little feet were just not to be for he and his Olga. Instead, they lived a very peaceful existence on their pleasant farm near Lake Mills, Iowa and Andrew sought all kinds of ways to show love to nieces and nephews over their many decades of married life. For instance, Olga’s niece, Beverly, had come over to their farm one day to pick bushels of apples from the Davidson’s orchard to take back to their home in Austin, Minnesota. Poor Beverly was so engaged in pleasant conversation with Olga and Andrew that she had forgotten her car keys INSIDE the trunk when the lid came down KERCLICK!!! No car keys!!!

How was Beverly to get home now!!?? It was loving Andrew that got on the old-fashioned farmhouse phone and called a tow truck to come out to their farm. With Bev and her children in his car, they followed that lovely, towed new Chevrolet all the way to the dealership to have that trunk opened up for his niece and her children.

So, even though children never came, biologically, to Andrew and Olga Davidson, they saw to it that their love FOR children and each other was a hallmark of their long marriage of 53 years. When his beloved Olga went home to Heaven, in September of 1978, Andrew must’ve missed her so much that he joined her in Glory the following year in August of 1979. These two dear ones were so special that, if we would have had another son, I was going to name him “Andrew” in tribute of the fun-loving Great Uncle of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 26th………….“SHARE THE STORY OF HOW YOUR MATERNAL AUNT MET HER HUSBAND”.

There was a mellow, musical magic as the sun was setting across the waters of Fountain Lake in Albert Lea, Minnesota. Spent droplets of water, having arched towards the sky in the lake’s fountain burst, now came cascading down as amber diamonds into the waters below, being assimilated into the rippling water’s entrancement that was about to lead to romance.

It was early fall of 1946 and the late Indian summer was still giving out its warmth in the shadows of this Midwest town’s dance hall located just off of Broadway Avenue in those days next to the lake. Strains of The Tommy Dorsey Band could be heard on the air as the tenor of his gentle trombone lent to the aura of all things quaint, reflective and celebratory for a nation now relaxing in the first full year of peace since the end of World War II.

Seventeen year old Beverly June Sletten was bubbling with excitement of attending this dance with her girlfriends and, as they arrived on the pleasant scene that evening, these lovely young ladies drank in the crowd of young couples enjoying the Big Band music that surrounded them on the dance hall floor that wonderful night.

Bev and her young lady friends had decided that they’d saunter out to the veranda by the lake shore where they could relax on one of the benches there and enjoy the magnificent Minnesota sunset and yet hear the sweet, lilting music that fed the nation’s airwaves in those dear days when a gentler aura of life held sway among that Greatest Generation.

Beverly’s brown, Norwegian eyes began to twinkle with heart-pattering anticipation as her gaze locked onto the manly frame of a classic, tall, dark and handsome young man across the veranda from her.

Mr. Gene Smith had been blessed with a thick mane of dark hair that was naturally curly and wavy in its male splendor. Little did Beverly know at the time, but Gene’s life before this gentle evening’s encounter had been the totally opposite of peaceful.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, by the Japanese (December 7th of 1941), Gene was among the 16 million other young Americans who stepped up to the needs of that current and global World War.

Gene had valiantly volunteered for the war effort in the United States Navy and served aboard one of Uncle Sam’s thousands of sailing vessels. This virile young patriot garnered the rank of “Water Tender 2nd Class” as he performed boiler maintenance duties in the heart of his ship from the year 1943 till peace returned to the world on September 2nd, 1945. Gene then maintained his naval obligations till being honorably discharged from military service in the late summer of 1946. In parental celebration of his son’s survival and homecoming from the war, Gene’s father saw to it that his fine young son was gifted with a handsome new suit, from the Meyer & Wolfe store in Austin, Minnesota. Once again a man of civilian life, Gene was now fitly prepared to look his very best in sporting this new suit to wear to the dance that evening. Little did they all know that that handsome young man in a handsome new suit of clothing was to be the ignition-point of romance between two young people attracted to one another.

Beverly’s inner voice whispered, “Ohhh be still my fluttering heart”!!! as she realized this dreamboat of a man that she had been admiring from across the veranda was now carried by the same magnetic pull as he walked towards her and, in his admiring tone of voice, introduced himself and asked if she would like to dance.

With her feminine smile receiving his greeting, she had a bit a quiver in her voice as she accepted his gentle invitation to the dance floor that awaited them. As if on cue, the crooning voice of Frank Sinatra began the ballad, “All The Things You Are”. With each swaying step of their dance, the words of this song became their own……..“You are the angel glow, That lights the star, The dearest things that I know, Are what you are. Someday, my happy arms will hold you, And, someday, I’ll know that moment divine, When all the things you are, are mine”. Such a serene moment this dance had been for both Beverly and Gene. This young man was worth getting to know better and better, as far as our young Norwegian maiden was concerned.

“May I have the honor of taking you home this evening“?, asked Gene to his new lady acquaintance. “Well, thank you so much, that’d be a pleasure”!! , responded the twitter-pated young woman to her gentleman admirer. Accepting the masculine outreach of his hand to hers, they began, hand in hand, a slow stroll towards the line of cars parked near the dance hall. Beverly assumed that a very handsomely dressed young man, like Gene, would likely be driving the newest car in the parking lot………at least his clothing was indicative of that theory. “Is this one yours”?, Bev would ask as they walked along the line of metal chariots. “No”, came the gentle Gene’s response. “How about this one”?, she’d ask, pointing to a flashy new car. “Nope, not that one either”, Gene would reply. Finally, at the very end of the line of automobiles, there was this old, old car that had been hand-painted green and was NOT what Beverly had expected. “Here we are……this is “The Green Hornet”, said Gene with a wink and a giggle in his eyes! 😉

Gene lived in the city of Austin, Minnesota which was over 20 miles from Albert Lea where Beverly and the dance hall were located. On the days when his old “Green Hornet” was broken down, Gene was determined to be with his sweetheart anyway. So, out to the highway on a trot he went and he’d hitchhike the distance for the joy of being with his new darling. There along the thoroughfare heading west, up came his short digit as he swung that thumb and forearm in the direction towards his honey and Albert Lea. Luckily, many drivers, in those kinder days of American life, were inclined to trust a young person hitchhiking, so Gene was blessed with many a lift to Albert Lea and back to Austin.

A most loving inauguration of romance was nurtured and relished by Beverly and Gene, along with the blessings of their respective families, from that fall of 1946 until their blessed nuptials on July 1st of 1947. From this blessed union of marriage came a lovely family of three daughters and one son. Gene, following in his father’s footsteps, in the coming decades, met his family’s daily needs by working as a shipping administrator with the Milwaukie Railroad system that funneled through their hometown of Austin, Minnesota. Gene’s faithfulness to that employer, over the next 43 years, garnered them the resources in purchasing two new homes, over time, that were fully paid for as they worked together being the great team they were of husband and wife.

The amber diamonds of Fountain Lake, combined with the mellow music and dances in the era of that Greatest Generation, resulted in a most beautiful union of two lives and two hearts that, to this very day, are still a blessing to this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

May 25th…………..POEM – “Powder-Blue Clouds” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Note: The Norwegian words, “Sov Godt” in this poem equals “Sleep Good” in English. 😉

Beneath my Castle, Called “Powder-Blue Clouds”,

Near the Kingdom of “Giggling Creek”,

Lived this tiny farm boy, Who found lots of joy,

In adventures of fun that I’d seek.

From the time I could crawl, From beneath Mother’s shawl,

I entered the County of “Laughs”,

That I plied quite hearty, This munchkin so smarty,

Enjoying each reel from my gaffs.

Injections of hugs, From Mom’s and my snugs,

Were my food far on top of my meal.

With boy energy displayed, I played and I played,

Hunting joy in each giggle n squeal.

In the District of “Squeeze”, I’d crawl on my knees,

To the Precinct of “Raspberry Glen”,

Then I’d eat till I’d bust, Those red gems were a must,

Till my farmer boy tummy’d say WHEN!!

And at the end of each day, In the Country “I Pray”,

Our mother would listen to our prayers,

Another day had been bright, And there in God’s sight,

We’d hear, “Sov Godt” from the base of our stairs.

Whether wearing out socks, In the School of “Hard Knocks”,

I relished the Region of “Joy”,

For each day was a blast, In those sweet joys of past,

And it made for one smiley farm boy!!!

May 24th………..“DID YOU EVER GET ANGRY AND TALK BACK TO A TEACHER DISRESPECTFULLY IN KIESTER, MINNESOTA”?

In the early 1960’s, both of our elder siblings really ‘CLICKED’, literally, in the hallways of Kiester High School there in Kiester, Minnesota. The manly fragrance of “Old Spice” or “Aqua Velva” floated by as High School boys, in those days, ‘clicked’ down the halls of education as they sported nail-on, metal heel protectors. Those simple devices lent a classy, metallic click-sound to each step they took upon those hard-rock floors of their alma mater in our wonderful farming community.

I couldn’t wait to come of age so that I, too, could nail on those metal heel plates and make that distinctive click with my shoes while I nonchalantly sauntered from class to class in my 7th Grade Year there at good old KHS in 1967.

I, for one, felt mighty grown up in 7th Grade there in our school. My classmates, and myself, rolled right over from Sixth Grade Elementary School to Seventh Grade High School……..it was magical!!! Someone can correct me, but there was no mention, to my knowledge, of a Junior High or Middle School in our town’s educational forum at that time. It was, therefore, as far as I could tell, a SIX year High School system and I loved it!! We even elected 7th Grade Class Officers to represent us in the High School Student Council government. Sure, it was a given, and we knew we were the runts in the hallways of those days gone by. We were little ‘Munchkins’ in comparison to our taller upper classmates when we’d be surrounded by the big “Bulldog” lettermen in those handsome, leather blue n white jackets. But, at least we weren’t Elementary Grade Schoolers anymore, that’s for sure!!! 😉

What I should have realized, though, was that the same ornery 6th Grader attitudes of mine would be brought over into my 7th Grade High School classes. And, being that I’ve always been a dreamer of sorts, I found myself daydreaming in my High School classes like I had done in Grade School. 😦

I may have ‘clicked’ with the metal heel protectors on my shoes, but I did NOT ‘click’ with one of my teachers that year. I guess it was inevitable that I was gonna hit a wall somewhere, sometime, and I did………in the form of my English teacher, Mrs. Grace Walle (pronounced WALL eee).

I recall being counseled by our 6th Grade teachers, at the end of the previous school year, that a higher level of discipline would be expected in our upcoming High School years. And sure enough, they were right!!!!

After a half century’s time lapse, I’m not even sure what my tantrum was all about on that fateful day. All I know is that Mrs. Walle said or did something that ‘tripped my trigger’ in class that day and I erupted against her authority in front of my fellow classmates.

Mrs. Walle’s face said it all…………I was now ‘dead meat’ in her eyes and there was no way a little whippersnapper, like me, was going to get away with what I had just pulled. “Follow me, young man”!!! came her terse directive as she had me accompany her out into the expansive hallway next to our English classroom. She being taller than my 7th Grade self, this educator towered over me as she rightly ‘read me the riot act’ for the inappropriate line of ‘guff’ that I had just spewed to her in the classroom.

The rest of that school day was blackly ominous for me in many ways. First off, I couldn’t believe what I had just done!!! I was always taught to respect my educator elders and be obedient to their well-intentioned commands of life for me. And, on another plain of grief, I was now in the proverbial ‘hot water’ with my parents, too, when my English teacher called our farm to share what had transpired that day between herself and yours truly.

As my emotions cooled, and my parent’s displeasure grew intense over what I had done……….I, too, realized that my outburst was childish and IMmature to the utmost.

I owed this educator an apology; BIG TIME!! The following day, I came into my English class and made my way up to Mrs. Walle’s desk. “Excuse me, Mrs. Walle, I was totally wrong in the way I acted yesterday and I am here to apologize and to ask your forgiveness for being disrespectful to you as my teacher. It won’t happen again”!!! It was then that I realized why her given first name was Grace, for her facial countenance morphed to compassion and a smile emerged showing her kindness to me. What she said next has stayed with me for well over 50 years now…………..“Elliott, you’re forgiven. And, I’m glad you found the courage to come to me and apologize, because it takes more of a man to apologize (when he’s wrong) than to hold a grudge and remain angry”!!! That day, Grace showed grace to this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

May 23rd………POEM – “Eternity’s Road” by N. Elliott Noorlun

As I stand here upon, Eternity’s road,

Viewing life’s travels of mine,

I ponder the joys, Of those times in my past,

And treasure those days, So sublime!

Musing upon, My grandparent’s lives,

To see how they lived out their days.

And I’m pondering what, They must’ve endured,

Securing His best for their family’s ways.

And then there’s my own life, Upon this same road,

With my own successes and trials.

The joys of this sweet life, With all of its mirth,

As I’ve traveled this life’s many miles.

As I now approach, My winter of life,

I face a new road and its bends.

With grandchildren growing, And showing us all,

That the glory of life never ends.

I only wish they, Could stand in my stead,

To view what my own eyes have seen.

To appreciate perspective, Of life’s varied seasons,

And to relish each past family scene.

Yet, I gather that someday, They too will take pause,

To look back to the past and ahead,

As they remember their days, And their grandfather’s ways,

For I’ll bet they also, Will find joy in life’s thread.

May 22………..“WHAT IS ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE BIBLE VERSES AND WHY”?

POEM – “Why Do We”? by N. Elliott Noorlun. Well, my children, family and friends, this grandpa has many ‘favorite’ Bible verses. One of my favorites is from the New Testament in the Bible and is located in the Book of Philippians Chapter 4 and Verse 8. This verse speaks to all the GOOD things we should focus our life on each day. Yet, I observe, not only in my own life, but in the life of society around us, most folk tend to dwell on the negatives; whether that’s thinking bad of others or overdosing on the ugly media and their NEWS programs. This poem asks the question then, “Why Do We”?

Why do we share the ugly?

Why do we share the sad?

Why do we share bloody images,

Of pitied lass or lad?

We should not be surprised,

That in this world of woe,

Those horrid things are part of life,

Endured where e’er we go.

“Be ignorant of evil,

And wise unto the good”,

Let’s look to what inspires,

And live life as we should.

Don’t give credence to the bad,

Instead share what is best,

And give God praise, For all His good,

To grant your heart some rest!!!

May 21st…………“DID YOU EVER EXPERIENCE A SERIOUS INFECTION OR POISONING WHILE A LITTLE BOY ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA? WHAT DID YOUR PARENTS DO TO HELP CURE IT”??

This fatuous, frenetic, flying farm fellow leapt from the high, corn elevator window of the old, wooden corncrib. I was thoroughly enjoying some playtime over to the Charlie Heitzeg farm and was having great adventures with his grandson. Dirk and I were way up inside one of the old fashioned wooden corn cribs located back in the treed windbreak of their handsome farm. Being full of spunk, energy and wanderlust extraordinaire …….we two midget adventurers were pretending that the corn crib was our “Fort Courageous” and we were fending off the attacks of a myriad of savages by shooting our imaginary Winchester rifles through the open spaces of the slatted walls.

Me, being the ‘Davey Crockett’ save the day-type of wild man, in my imagination, I was going to leap to the ground from our ‘fort’ and ride my imaginary horse for cavalry reinforcements. While in my ‘flight’ towards the ground, I saw a 2″x 4″ board with the long point of a big old nail reaching skyward at me. With no ‘wings’ to change the trajectory of the gripping gravity that was pulling my body downwards, my right foot made a sharp-sounding “KER-SLAP” right on top of that nail-pierced board. Even though I was wearing my good ol’ “Keds” ankle-high sneakers, the rubber sole was no match for the piercing power of that nail that shot right through the sole and up into the flesh of my foot.

With the noise of my landing, it was as if all the crows in the big woods that day were laughing hysterically at my predicament as they cawed and cawed in the branches above me. By this time, my co-Indian fighter, Dirk, had arrived at the scene of the ‘arrow’ in my foot. As I lifted my skewered right appendage, with the nail embedded in my shoe and foot, the entire 2×4 came up into the air with my injured foot. Dirk freaked, “HOLY COW!, Elliott, look at that”!!!! “You’d better get home to your farm and have your Mom take care of that”!!! Holding the 2×4 to the ground with my good left foot, I yanked my perforated tootsie off of the nail board beneath me. In pain, there I went, hobbling over to my bicycle while I did my best to do a one-footed pedaling back to our farm nearby.

Although I don’t recall it, I’m sure we made a trip to Dr. Hanson’s office for a tetanus shot……just in case, ya? Sweet Mom, our Norwegian ‘queen of the scene’, was the loving first-aid anchor of our farm family. If it wasn’t Dad getting hurt, then it was one of us youngsters coming to her with anything from dog bites, cat scratches or this here little boy who got ‘nailed’, literally!!! 😉

Our beloved family friend, ‘Grandpa’ Harry Bauman was about to bless us again by providing his still relatively new Chevy Impala to transport he and we to Denver, Colorado in the summer of 1963. We were so excited to go see our father’s brothers, sister and families. We all concurred that my punctured podiatry was not about to get in the way of enjoying so much fun on that trip to see our extended family and the majestic Rocky Mountains. Only hitch to this trip was…….Mom noticed that, even though she had doctored my foot at the time of the nail incident, she saw evidence of blood poisoning setting in. At least one vein from my foot showed a dark and lengthening trail of infection crawling upwards. That situation had to be arrested and reversed.

As I’m sure you all know, moms are medical marvels wrapped in folds of mystical mending magic tricks. In this case, our mother, Clarice, decided to use an old-fashioned remedy called a poultice to hopefully draw out the poison that was slowing tracking up my veins. Only the good Lord, Himself, knows the ingredients that mother concocted within that poultice, but, whatever they were, they were smelly, slimy and slathered upon a gauze-like bandage that she wrapped tightly around my infected foot with a tightly tied dish towel.

I looked like a silly, shoeless ‘Sherman’ as we loaded up Harry’s Chevy, with Harry at the wheel, and we launched off to the southwest and Colorado. The positive, puckering power of the poultice seemed to be drawing the poison out of my foot’s wound with each reapplication that Mom made. I guess I should have been nicknamed, ‘Hoppy’, as I hopped around at each stop along the way. It was a small price to pay, though, to be able to drink in the amazing day when we all saw the mighty Rocky Mountains for the very first time!!!

Even with me being a temporary ‘Peter Poultice’, we had so many happy adventures in Colorado!! I got to visit the insides of my Uncle Doren’s tavern that he owned. We also visited with so many cousins that I seldom had the joy of seeing very often from way back yonder on our farm in Minnesota. I even had the pleasantly bewildering exposure to a lady from Oklahoma who had a rich, southern drawl to her speech. At first I could not understand a word she was saying, so I went over to my mother and asked what country that lady was from?? All the adults laughed as Mom told me, “She’s from America”!! To which I replied, “Well, I can’t understand a single word she’s saying”!!! The dear southern belle laughed right along with everyone else in the room……….such a kind spirit she had to not be offended by my little boy ignorance of the various dialects and verbal accents within this great nation of ours.

I was a flatlander from Minnesota, so, even with my puffy poultice in place, I was beyond thrilled as our uncles took us on a drive up, up, up to Lookout Mountain to see the grave of the famous frontiersman, Buffalo Bill!!! I was in awe, even at that young age, to be at this hallowed place of such an amazing person from our nation’s history.

Within that week or two of visiting family and taking in the sights of Colorado, Mom had the happy news to share that the good Lord had taken mercy upon my punctured appendage and that the blood poisoning was abating to the point of being able to once again wear shoes on the right foot of this little Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

May 20th………“WHEN YOU WERE LITTLE ON THE FARM, GRANDPA, DID YOU EVER SAY THINGS THAT MADE PEOPLE LAUGH EVEN THOUGH YOU WERE SERIOUS”??

The velvet voice of lovely Dinah Shore was singing right at Harry Bauman that evening from the television set in our farm house Living Room. Her melodic charms flowed through the Chevrolet advertising jingle that she sang with that marvelous smile……..”Seeeee the USA in a Chevrolet, America is asking you to call, Drive your Chevrolet through the USA, America’s the greatest land of all………”!!!! It appeared that Harry was ‘hooked’ and just HAD to buy a new 1962 Chevrolet!!!! 😉

Harry Bauman was not blood relation to our family, but there was a wonderful kindred spirit between he and our clan that bordered on ‘blood brothers’, so to speak, and endeared him to our hearts in every respect of the word…….LOVE!!! Matter of fact, we Noorlun kids referred to him, very affectionately, as ‘Grandpa’ Harry!

Before being widowed at an early age, Harry and his dear wife passed many a happy evening playing cards with our parents. After Mrs. Bauman’s passing, and with his own children having ‘flown the nest’, it was only natural that that earlier bond of fellowship brought our beloved other grandpa over to our home on many, many happy occasions.

America was still in her full-blown love affair with the car industry in the fall of 1961. Extravagant advertising campaigns, from magazines to television, touted the glorious new features of the coming 1962 models of cars that were ready for purchase and enjoyment even before the first day of that New Year had yet arrived. Dear, sweet Harry must’ve been entranced by Dinah Shore’s entreaty to “see the USA in a Chevrolet”, because, not too long after that night at our home with us, he had landed upon the showroom floor of a local dealer and put his autograph on the dotted line of owning a new Chevy for his very own. I happened to be out on the front lawn of our farm home one day, when, down the gravel road and through the speckled shade of our treed windbreak, came our jovial German ‘knight in shining armor’ riding his new steel steed. Slowing down to make the turn into our farm’s driveway came ‘Grandpa’ Harry with a brand spanking new 1962 white Chevrolet Impala and whoooeee was that ever a purdeee car 😉

As a little, literally-minded boy of seven years old in 1961, I pretty much swallowed everything that the television said was true. Even when that ‘truth’ had to do with commercials that dealt with various tire companies and how their tires were the best of all.

I had a chance to share those ‘truths’ the following spring when Harry offered to use his new car to drive our family to northern Minnesota to visit my mother’s brother and family in Mahnomen, Minnesota.

Now anything that is man-made is bound to fall apart sometime. In this case, the ‘fall apart’ came in the form of a flat tire during our trip. Mom and us youngsters were told to stay in the car while Dad and Harry began the process of replacing that flat tire. I thought it great fun to hear Dad putting together that full-sized car jack and clinking it into position on the right rear passenger side of Harry’s new Chevy Impala. With each “ker-clickety-clank, ker-clickety-clank” of the jack handle, those of us inside the car could feel the inch by inch rising of the vehicle to allow for the tire removal and replacement.

Innocently wanting to contribute my wisdom of tire knowledge, that I had gleaned from all those TV commercials, I rolled down the window and looked down below to Harry and our father, Russell, working diligently to get us back on the road. “Heyyyyy, Harry”!!?? To which he patiently replied, “Yes, Elliott, what is it”? “Welllll, I saw on TV where you can buy some GOOD tires”!!!

Being the kind-hearted soul he was, Harry saw humor, instead of harassment, and loudly busted out in an uproarious fit of laughter that about had him rolling in the ditch next to us!!! For the life of me, in my little boy mind, I couldn’t fathom why he was laughing so much (and Daddy along with him). Some men may have taken offense by this child’s perspective and felt an intrusion to their masculinity in this type of situation……..but not sweet Harry Bauman. It’s no wonder he was so well loved by our family and this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉