October 12th…“WHAT WISDOM DID YOU GLEAN FROM AN EXTENDED FAMILY MEMBER?  LIKE AN UNCLE OR SOMEONE.”

Spectacular, undulating Northern Lights in the frigid, ebony night sky.  Snowmobiling at midnight with a full moon so bright that its reflection off the pristine white of the snow made the joy of the moment feel like daytime.  Moose coming out of the forest to run alongside the car…….these, and other scenarios, are just an inkling of the wonder of the life that was lived by my Uncle Barney Hollembaek.

Even as children, our lives intersect with those whose persona and life-force manifesto sets them in a class of a ‘folk hero’ type of being.  That was exactly what I perceived in the life of my Uncle Byron J. “Barney” Hollembaek.  Not only was he a tall, strapping man in his physical stature, but he carried himself in a tall way, also, by how he walked and talked and did business, as well.  Without a doubt, he was a special man that I found to be very impressionable and fascinating in my young life.  My father’s lovely sister, Ileen, married Barney either during, or shortly after World War II and they saw life together in the wild 49th State of Alaska.

The pleasant city of Palmer, Alaska was hometown to the Hollembaek family when I had the great adventure to travel there in 1972.  Barney owned and operated an agricultural supply store in town.  If my memory serves me right, it was called “Knik Farm Supply”.   That thriving farming community was nestled up against the Chugach Mountain Range.  That jagged mass of mountains had been launched straight into the sky by Almighty God Himself with majestic Pioneer Peak looking down from its lofty 6,000 foot perch.

Alaska was, and still is a growing State in our grand nation.  As agricultural needs in that area of Alaska arose, Uncle Barney would make trips down to the “Lower 48” (States) to purchase machinery, supplies and even animals that his clients needed for their Alaskan farms and businesses to flourish.  On one such buying trip, that brought our uncle through southern Minnesota, we found that Barney had purchased a number of cows called “Brown Swiss”.   Something in his schedule necessitated that the “Brown Swiss” had to be kept safe and secure for a short while until Barney could arrange for them to complete their journey to the “North Star State”.   Our beloved farmer friend, Harry Bauman, had some barn space and offered to bed those bovines for whatever time was needed before shipping could happen.   That evening, after our dairy herd had been milked, we followed Uncle Barney’s monstrously large cattle truck up to Harry’s farm.  There I stood, bathed in a single yard light and in complete awe of the immense size of these gentle giants of the bovine family as they were unloaded from Barney’s big cattle truck and into Harry’s barn.   In later years, I researched and found out that this sturdy breed of animal was first bred in Switzerland and, therefore, could survive the numbing cold of Alaskan winters just as their ancestors did on the mountain slopes that were shadowed by the mighty Matterhorn Mountains.

In the Spring of 1972, I was a young buck of 18 years when my folk hero, Uncle Barney, flew into the nearby airport of Portland, Oregon.  We were thrilled to pick him up at the airport and give him a heapin’ helpin’ of our hospitality at our home across the State Line in Battle Ground, Washington.   Besides busying himself with business nearby, Barney had come to our home to retrieve and personally drive a 1969 Ford Mustang all the way back to Alaska.  We had been keeping the car safe for Barney’s son, Scott, who had dropped it off with us and flown to Hawaii for a construction job.  As visiting went back and forth that evening, Uncle Barney turned to me and said, “Hey Elliott!  Would you like to ride along with me back up to Palmer and keep me company on the journey?”   OHHHH BOYYY!!! Would I???!!  Hot dog!!

What a chance for adventure!  As a Senior in school that year, my high school was out on Spring Break anyway, so I had those days open for fun.  And, as far as my Box Boy employment at Al & Ernie’s Grocery Store, my manager gave me his blessings to take the opportunity and gave me at least a week off, too!  I was STOKED!!!

The Old Testament Book of Proverbs 19:20 plays a role in each Christian’s life as we have the opportunity to learn wisdom from, not only our parents but, other elders who have experienced so much more in this journey of life than we have.  In this case, my dear uncle taught me so many things on that adventure-filled drive that we shared together.  Just one of those nuggets of knowledge had to do with winter season driving techniques.  Early in our journey, as we crossed the Canadian border from Washington State, Barney said that he’d rather drive a car when the temperature is 30 degrees BELOW zero rather than 30 degrees ABOVE zero.  The logic behind that preference was that super cold temperatures help to make the tires literally “stick” to the road for better traction.  One morning, as we exited our motel room, I was about to find out, first hand, how that sharing of his wisdom was going to be applied.   With breakfast in our tummies, we saw that the temperature was right at the freezing mark of 32 degrees…..a rather jeopardizing omen.  The morning sun was going to be adding its warmth to road conditions…..which was another key for trouble.   As far as our chariot, my Cousin, Scott Hollembaek, had fine-tuned the engine of that ’69 Mustang to the zenith of performance perfection.   So, needless to say, Uncle Barney and I were climbing into a blue powerhouse of pulsating pistons just yearning to have us ‘put the pedal to the metal!!’…..but, hopefully, not over a cliff.  Barney, like a kid in a candy shop, punched that Mustang through her gears and away we went down the Alaska/Canadian (AlCan) Highway.

I’m so thankful to the Lord, that Uncle Barney was at the wheel that slippery morning and not this ignorant kid.  I wouldn’t be here writing this, if I had been driving.  As we rounded a corner of that snow-packed gravel road, we saw about a 1,000 foot drop-off into a canyon to our left.  The combination of higher temperatures and warming sunshine had ‘set a trap’ for us.  In a blink, that Ford began to ‘fish tail’ (which is the back end of the car slipping from side to side, like a fish’s tail does in swimming) on the partially melting, ice-packed road.  My eyes were as big as a dinner plate in fear, but my hero, Uncle Barney, automatically put his decades of Alaska driving skills to use that day.  He knew exactly how to spin that steering wheel to bring the car back from the canyon’s precipice and keep the ‘Stang on the road.  When the ‘powerhouse of pistons’ would buck the vehicle the other way, Barney, once again, reined it into control.  All the while this was going on, Barney was literally talking to the car, as if it were a wild woman personified……..“Come on Honey!!  You can do it!!  Stay on the straight, Dearie!!  Smooth out and fly right, Kid!”  As our side to side, fish-tailing necessitated, my uncle was spinning that steering wheel one direction, and then the other to make that 3,000 pound metal marvel obey his commands and resume a straight line of driving along that ice-encrusted highway towards Alaska with a very grateful Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 11th…“TELL US A ‘YARN’ FROM YOUR BARN IN YOUR YOUNG MINNESOTA DAYS.  TRUE STORY, YA?”

The 1892 birth certificate said, “Not a peep from this one!”.  Well, at least that’s what the record should have said, because Morten Ingvald Holstad was about the quietest baby to be born in Iowa State that year.  Even being as young as I was, in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s,  I was able to discern that Morten was the most word-conservative man I’ve ever known.  Pleasant in his ways, and with nary a spoken decibel, Morten went about farming the rich soil his wife inherited, northwest of Kiester, Minnesota, until he heard of a young family looking for a chance to work a farm of their own.

Around the year 1945, Morten was now 53 years old and looking to slow down and and take a rest from the rigorous life of farming.   I’m told, he, along with his wife (Tina), hoped to find a more relaxed change of pace from the strenuous ways of farm life and ‘retire to town’ in Kiester.   Our sweet parents, Russell and Clarice, had been working as ‘hired hands’ for our ‘other grandparents’, Wally and Genevieve Mutschler.  The Mutschler’s beautiful farm lay just to the north of the Holstad acreage.  Unaware of the availability of the Holstad farm, just down the gravel road, our parents left the employ of the Mutschlers and moved just south of the Iowa State Line to an area known as Vinje, Iowa to rent and work a farm in that area.  Mom and Dad named that property, “Cocklebur Hill” for the extensive, football-shaped prickly weed that grew in that area.

It so happened, that while our father, Russell, had gone uptown to Kiester, Minnesota for some shopping,  he ‘ran into’ Morten Holstad and had a nice visit.  Morten then informed Dad that he heard from Wally Mutschler that our parents were looking for a long-term farm to rent.  If he had known earlier, our parents could’ve moved a full year earlier to HIS place, less than a mile from the Mutschler’s home, without having to have made the move down into Iowa.  Dad and Mom gladly accepted Morten and Tina’s offer to rent their farm and another move was made ‘back home’ to the dear acreage that became the Noorlun farm from 1946 until 1967 when Dad sold the farm to move to Washington State.

From here, I relate a true story (shared to me) that transpired in our barn sometime before I came on the world’s scene in 1954.

Some of you may have heard the term of a ‘mouse in the house’?  Well, get ready for a twist of that phrase.

In later years, our parents actually signed papers to begin purchasing the farm from the Holstads, but for now, even being semi-retired, we often had Morten and Tina (as landlords) stop by for visits and helping on our farm.  Our dear neighbors, the Mutschlers, were also frequent visitors to our farm.  It was on one of those occasions that one of the Mutschler family’s handsome young sons, Darrel, came along with his daddy, Wally.

Like any lil’ whippersnapper, Darrel had the energy of a fireball and to occupy his time, this little guy had come across a mouse in our barn and was in hot pursuit of that tiny creature who was literally running for his minuscule life!  As a reference point for the location of this adventure; between the very tall, cement silo (which stored our chopped green corn called silage) and the main barn, there was a small, connecting building we called the Silage Room.   Our kind-hearted, quiet, friendly farmer landlord, Morten, was in the Silage Room doing some sort of work to help our father, Russell.   In the meantime, bearing down on his furry victim, Darrel had raced down the center manger aisle of the barn and burst into the Silage Room where very quiet Morten was.   Breathlessly, he darted his eyes back and forth!! Darrel asked Morten, “Mr. Holstad, did you see my mouse?  I chased him in here!!!”.  

Without so much as a stir of emotion, dear old Morten stealthily reached down inside his bib overalls.  The old farmer grabbed for a wild, tiny creature and then pulled out the mouse that had just ran up his leg under his overall pants.  That terrified mouse had clawed his way up Morten’s leg to ‘get up in the world’!!! Hehehe!! 😉  With wiggling prize in hand, Morten asks little Darrel, “Is this the one you’re looking for?”.

With saucer-wide eyes, the little tyker was amazed how relaxed this old, friendly farmer was after having his ‘privates’ invaded by a scratching, clawing and frantic, furry friend seeking sanctuary.  Darrel accepted Morten’s flailing ‘gift’ and went off amazed at what had just occurred.  There was just no way that a mini, marauding, mouse’s meanderings would ruffle the feathers of Morten Ingvald Holstad in the barn of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

October 10th…“WHAT’S THE STRANGEST THING YOU EVER SAW IN THE SKY?”

POEM – “When The Sky Flew By”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

The birds grew shy, As the sky flew by, And careened up over the mount.

What happened next, Seemed almost hexed, Forming scene of startling count.

For stacked on top, Of mountain’s dome, Were pancakes made of clouds.

A sight that grabbed my attention fast, Unlike its usual shrouds.

A word from Latin, That means a “lens”, As I stood there upon the sod,

To me, They almost seemed to be, The looking lens of God.

The next impressive skyward scene, Happened off Hawaii’s Coast.

It captured awe and a bit of fear, And what really mattered most,

Was that I saw, Not one but TWO, Waterspouts twisting wild,

And if they’d come upon the shore, They’ likely scoop up this child.

So even though, There oft can be, Some gentle times in the sky,

I’m always awake to catch the times, For this awestruck Norski guy!

October 9th…“WERE YOU A VERY GOOD FISHERMAN OVER THE YEARS?”

POEM – “The Fish Would Laugh!!!”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

When it came to the sport of fishin’, My attempts were just a joke.

To water near, I’d drag my gear, And give wet surface poke.

“Here fishy, fishy, fishy!!!”

I’d dig me some worms, With all of the squirms, And wiggles on display,

In hopes I’d tease, A fish, if you please, To jump on my line that day.

I’d buy a license, If that was required, And checked my line and rod,

But when it came, To knowing my stuff, I really was a clod!

Oh I thought it fun, To be the son, Of a dad who went to the river.

Whether sun or rain, I’d not complain, Even if I had to shiver.

To watch the old timers, There on the banks, They truly had the knack.

They seemed to just snap their fingers, And fish would jump in their sack.

But not this guy, Cause whenever I, Tried to give that fish a gaff,

They’d swim away, And I swore that day, That I thought I heard them laugh!!!

The Grand Finale, Of my fishing life, Was in 1974,

When I tried to catch a salmon, Along Columbia’s shore.

I should’ve had an inkling, As I arrived that day,

There t’weren’t a soul, Along the shore, As I plaintively looked each way.

The weather was rainy, Wet and cold, As I set my line and pole,

So I took some shelter, In a shack, Upon the sandy knoll.

The bell on the pole, Just didn’t ring, From a fish that tried to bite,

So I began to reel, My line back in, To see if all was right.

Just then, I felt a tug on line,

“Do I really have one on?”,

I felt a glimmer, Of sportsman hope, That my losing streak was gone.

Alas, I had a fish, alright, And I began to wail,

I’d snagged a big DEAD salmon, With a hook into his TAIL!!!

THAT ended my fishing days for good, Except for family outings,

Cause when I gaff, The fish just laugh, And cause me great big poutings!!!  😉

October 8th…“WHAT WERE SOME OF THE CHURCHES IN YOUR BOYHOOD HOMETOWN OF KIESTER, MINNESOTA?”

POEM – “He Called His Sons And Daughters”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

From three miles ‘cross the farmlands,

His church bells could be heard,

Calling His sons and daughters,

To worship in His Word.

The glint of morning sunshine,

Reflected off stalks of corn,

As the call for saints to gather,

Was new and never worn.

And for those who came from Norway,

T’was even a church for them,

The sermon was in Norwegian,

From that land of ancient stem.

Our father attended a similar church,

In youthful days up north,

In days gone by, Young farmer guy,

Kinda questioned patience’s worth.

Two sermons were preached from the pulpit,

To the pews where saints were sat,

First in English, Second in Norwegian,

No wonder Dad’s smile was flat.

The key that touched my young boy’s life,

Was the family spirit owned,

As each family worshiped, According to,

The tenets that had been loaned,

From God above, Who knew His children,

Were different, And yet were one,

As each Sunday we were called to worship,

His one and only Son!!! 😉  ><>

October 7th…“IN YOUR YOUNG DAYS ON THE FARM, DID YOUR PARENTS GIVE YOU SPENDING MONEY (ALLOWANCE)?  HOW MUCH AND WHAT DID YOU BUY?”

The manly fragrance of “Old Spice” cologne radiated from our father, Russell, as he strode from the parental bedroom just off of our kitchen.   He looked so dapper with his hair combed into that special wave that allowed some curl to whimsically come over his forehead.   It was Saturday night and he had just dressed after coming up from the shower in our basement.  The water pressure on that shower head was so strong, it could peel paint off of a barn.  But, since our own barn was clear across the yard, it just peeled the soil and sweat from our handsome Norwegian daddy, instead!!!  😉

Rather than calling money given to us an “allowance”, I saw that the weekly twenty five cent piece, that my sister Candi and I received, was more like a love gift from Mom and Dad.  Now we’d be able to finance some kid fun when we got to our hometown of Kiester and the “Lucky Bucks Drawing” that brought families to town each week from miles around.   Our small town really ‘came alive’ on Saturday nights there in Kiester, Minnesota.  Not only was it the popular draw of the weekly, anticipated “Lucky Bucks Drawing”, but it was a great opportunity for families to get groceries at “Field’s Fairway” food market, gas up the car at “Stu Soma’s Texaco Station” or maybe buy that new pair of shoes in the basement of “Kraus Department Store”.

You could almost set your compass by the direction I went when Dad parked our family car.   That destination was “Paulson’s Rexall Drug Store” there on Main Street.

Besides using my weekly quarter to get some penny candy and a plastic toy soldier or two……I just HAD to preserve 10 or 12 cents so that I could get the latest copy of my hero’s comic book……..RICHIE RICH (“The Poor Little Rich Boy”).    It’s fascinating what ‘trips the trigger’ of each child’s interest in fantasy, but for me, it was the on-going saga of this very nice little boy who had all the money in the world and everything one could think of; including his own English butler named, Cadbury.   I was always taken by the way the artist (Ernie Colon) depicted Richie Rich as coming from a family of not only great wealth, but, more importantly, great character and morals who taught him to not be affected to the negative by all this money he had at his fingertips each day.   Even as a child, I was taken by the gentleness of this little boy who regularly reached out to others with his millions to help someone in need.

With any pennies I had left over from those wonderful Saturday evenings, I’d pocket them till we arrived home so I could play some more with the gift my Aunt Doris and Lew Hawley gave to me.  It was a metal “Wild West Coin Bank” that was a ton of fun to ‘save some cash’ with.   You’d load a coin horizontally on top of the mounted ‘pistol’.   Then, I would carefully take aim, and, when the trigger was pulled, the flying coin shot off the hat of the bank robber as it flew inside the coin bank.   The bank robber’s hat and arms were made of one piece of metal, so as the hat got shot off, the bad guy’s arms went up in the air as the crook surrendered.   I managed to save some coinage in that cute bank, but then, as well as now, my motto is this………..“For me, money really talks, it says GOODBYE!!!”   So says this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

October 6th…“AS A KID, ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA, DID YOU EVER PLAY IN THE FALL LEAVES THAT YOU JUST FINISHED RAKING INTO A PILE?  TELL US HOW YOU FELT AND ENJOYED THE EXPERIENCE.”

As ubiquitous as raking leaves has been to millions of kids over the ages, I can but nostalgically acquiesce to the same sensation of chilly, brisk winds stirring the scents of fall into my nostrils.

There, on our farm northwest of Kiester, Minnesota, crisp leaves below me crackled from the sweeping action of my rake and began to mountain themselves into pungent piles of pleasure.   Those same leaves that cooled me in yesterday’s summer shade were now warming me in the crisp chill of a sapphire blue, autumnal sky as my young muscles leaned into every sweep of that rake handle; almost as if I were rowing a boat across an ocean of brown, organic waves.

Then, from that mountainous marvel of mangled Maples, came a voice beckoning me to leave my senses and destroy, albeit happily, that which I just created by raking.  And so, with all propriety and logic set aside, I answered that sprite’s calling within me and happily launched myself airborne, landing deep inside that soft mountain of leaves.

A snap-crackling “KerrrFLUFF”!!! was the sound of my landing as I giddily disappeared inside that billowy mountain of crisp brown delight.  Now under a dome of magic, I entered a domain of inviting glee!  In kid heaven, I recall looking skyward and relishing the kaleidoscopic views of the brilliant Minnesota sky through the leaves above me.  What better use for these mangled, munched Maples, thought I, than to turn them into an instantaneous amusement ride…….for FREE, even!

Such were the simple, yet luxurious sensations of playing in the leaves of autumn for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

October 5th…“DURING YOUR YOUNG DAYS, IN MINNESOTA, HOW DID YOU DEAL WITH THE BOREDOM OF MOWING THE LARGE LAWNS ON YOUR FARM?”

The cautious congregation of crafty crows clustered at the tree tops of our farm’s windbreak each morning.  It was as if they were CAW, CAW, CALLING Dad to start another day of working in our farm’s fields.  Sure enough, after consuming one of Mom’s delicious farmer breakfasts, Dad’s striped bib overalls flashed out of the back porch screen door and made a beeline towards our Farmall “Super M” tractor.  After reaching his steel steed, our father climbed aboard his red-painted powerhouse and swung his leg up and over the spring-loaded seat.  It was almost as if he were a cowboy, from olden days, swinging his lanky frame over a leather saddle and getting ready to ride his horse.  The difference this day, was that, unlike the cowboy with only one horse…….our dad had 44 horses (of power) under the hood of that smooth-running engine.  A slight pull to the choke and a foot push to the starter and that ruby red Farmall engine popped to life and away Dad headed for that day’s work in our fields.

Ever since I was knee high to a burp, I had fallen in love with tractors.  Whether it was Farmalls (like Dad’s), John Deere, Case, Massey-Harris……you name it, I’d climb on it and hope for a ride.   Entranced I was, with the power and sound of those engines and the giant chevron treads of the massive tires as they churned their way through our fields.   Matter of fact, in the ignorant innocence of being a toddler, my love for tractors almost got me killed one day. 

Our mother, Clarice, told of a time when tiny toddler me heard our father coming back into the farmyard from one of our fields.  My itty bitty legs started running towards the sound of that Farmall, totally oblivious to the danger of getting crushed to death if Dad didn’t see my small frame coming his way to greet him.   Mom shared that she went screaming towards Dad’s tractor with her arms waving and pointing to my minuscule body in front of his mighty machine.   She saved my life, I’m sure, that day, as a slam on those tractor’s double brake pedals brought pending death to a fast halt.

Farm life and boyhood moved along methodically to the point where I was now old enough to mow lawn for the family, but still a bit too young for any major tractor/implement driving in the fields.  Happily, I’d learned to drive all our tractors around the farmyard and could do minor chores with these machine marvels.   It’s just that I hadn’t had the experience of working the more intricate machinery in the fields, yet.    I’d seen and enjoyed riding aboard the tractor with Dad many times, over the years, and was fascinated by every operation he could perform, such as mowing, raking and baling alfalfa.   I also loved to ride along to watch Dad plowing, planting crops and even combining our crop of oats.

My dilemma was this; old enough to mow lawn, but too young to run a corn Silage Chopper in the cornfield.   So, to pass the time on that large lawn of our farm, I just turned on the “Imagination Station” and my lawnmower became my own version of a fancy Silage Chopper….presto…….and I was having FUN!!   As the grass shot out the side chute of the mower, I envisioned it filling up a silage wagon that we’d offload to our tall silo.  Round and round that massive lawn I’d go working my own “farm” and having a pretty good time, too.

My work, as a son, was made into fun, by an imagination, on the run…………so says this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

October 4th…“DO YOU HAVE A GOOD PIECE OF ADVICE FOR THE NEXT GENERATION OF CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN?”

POEM – “So Glad I Know, Homer & Joe!!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

I sat in church, On a Sunday morn, In the Fall of ’68,

Listening to our pastor teach, The truths of God so great.

Now I’d been raised, In a Christian home, By parents who loved me so!

I was raised on godly principles, To do right was the way to go.

As I sat there during the sermon, Preacher’s words really touched my heart.

His Spirit was inciting, My soul to confess, And make a public start.

“Not to worry ’bout persons on left or right”, “The decision’s ‘tween you and God”.

“Choose now who you will follow”, “As upon this earth you trod”.

So as the organist played the hymn, Of song, “Just As I Am”,

I stepped from pew, And walked up front, To seek the great “I AM”.

Just then, two gentle, godly hands, Touched upon this young man’s shoulder,

T’was dear Joe Smith and Homer Johnson, Both godly men, Much older.

They ushered me, To quiet room, To pray and talk to the Lord.

And afterwards, They counseled me, To “feed” upon His Word.

During Sunday School, I still recall, A quote that Joe Smith used.

Its power has, o’er all these years, Into my soul infused.

How fast that life will zip along, And if we live for Christ,

We need to share with all we meet, Why, in love, He sacrificed,

His precious life, On Calvary’s Cross, To give to us His gift,

Of eternal salvation, And Heaven’s Home, To where He’ll give us lift.

“Only one life, Twill soon be past”, I heard brother Joe Smith say,

“Only what’s done, For Christ will last”,  I remember so clear to this day!! ><>  😉

October 3rd…“TELL US ABOUT ANY OTHER EXTRACURRICULAR ACTIVITIES YOU ENJOYED AT BATTLE GROUND HIGH SCHOOL.”

POEM – “No Sort For Sport”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

“Yer too puny, They’ll kill ya on the field!”,

When I asked Dad to play Football.

Better to have me as, A living young man,

Than dead or crippled from a fall.!

So then, while wrestling, I made a wrong move,

With my head being hammered to the mat.

Coach took me to hospital, Concussion severe,

As I groaned while I laid there kersplat!

And then there was Track, Where I chose the High Jump,

I hoped to be a high reaching star.

But the more I practiced, The worse I got,

As I lowered and lowered the bar.

Too short for Basketball, Can’t swing a bat,

Too slow for the Cross Country Squad.

It seemed that no sport, Was ever to be,

No winner’s trophies to laud.

It didn’t take long, For me to learn,

To escape from getting contusions,

Was to play the sport, Of “Running Amok”,

And “Jumping To Conclusions”!!! 😉