January 21st…..“SHARE ABOUT YOUR PARENT’S EARLY YEARS OF MARRIAGE AS HIRED HANDS ON THE FARM OF WALLY AND GENEVIEVE MUTSCHLER NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA.”

 

A golden sheen, from the tungsten lights within, sparkled across the predawn snow banks near the barn. The electric emanations came from the barn window glow of the “Green Gables Farm” that lay to the northwest of Kiester, Minnesota.

The farm’s ‘hired hand’ was a handsome young man by the name of Russell Noorlun. He and his lovely wife, Clarice, were expecting their firstborn child soon. As Russ faithfully and quickly moved from chore to chore in the barn that morning, daylight was still hiding beneath the cusp of the eastern horizon of sleeping farmlands. It was as if ‘Old Man Winter’ made it too cold for that old sunshine to want to make a showing in the brisk chill of another winter’s day.

Russ and Clarice had recently been made part of the Walter & Genevieve Mutschler ‘family’ by accepting employment as hired hands on the lovely site of this majestic farming operation. Part of the Noorlun’s monthly wage compensation was being granted the added blessing to live on-site in a little cottage cuddled into the treed windbreak that surrounded the Mutschler farm.

“Green Gables Farm” received its elegant title from the fact that the big barn, support structures and the family home were painted with a brilliant white coat of paint coupled with the harmonious and striking contrast color of the upper gables being an emerald green. The regal beauty of these farm buildings reflected the grand quality of the dear family that called that farm place their home.

As events of our young parent’s lives unfolded, God was about to show His loving provision to our father and mother. In their early days of being newlyweds (in June of 1941), Russell and Clarice had been employed as ‘hired hands’ (farm workers) for two, old bachelor brothers in northern Iowa. That term of employment had proved to be the opposite of enjoyable, sad to say. It seemed the two, crotchety old farmer brothers were always arguing amongst themselves and/or were seldom satisfied with the hard work our father was striving to achieve for them. Out of frustration, and in hopes of finding a better work situation, Russ had driven north across the borderline into Minnesota and arrived in the nice village of Kiester. While in town that day, Dad ‘ran into’ Walter (Wally) Mutschler and found out that a job opening was available on their farm northwest of that farming community. In a spiritual retrospect, we now know that God had that meeting all planned out in His omniscience and His best blessing was just waiting for our parents. Our farmer father accepted Wally’s offer of employment and, like they say, the rest was history for our entire family in the years to come.

Not only were Wally and Genevieve Mutschler excellent employers, they, and our parents, grew to love each other to the glorious point of becoming like a second set of ‘parents’ to our folks and like another ‘grandpa and grandma’ to all of us grateful Noorlun children over the many decades since the meeting that day of our father and Wally on the streets of our beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.

The reason, as stated earlier, that Russ was hustling with morning chores, was so that he could quickly make the walk along the farm’s snowy paths to the little white cottage that he and Clarice called home there at “Green Gables Farm”. One of our dad’s favorite radio shows was ‘on the air’ each morning around breakfast time and Russ didn’t want to miss an episode of the program called, “Snow Village Sketches” which entailed the ongoing adventures of a couple old codgers in this comedy/drama based in the State of New Hampshire.

As Russell’s young pregnant bride prepared his large farmer’s breakfast, he tuned in their Atwater Kent radio to be entertained there in their tiny kitchen while winter’s claws of wind and cold scoured the outsides of their little white bungalow.

Russ and Clarice had grown up through the late 1920’s and into the 1930’s. Those were the very lean years of “The Great Depression”. And, even now, in the early years of World War II, our parents had to daily employ some sage wisdom of the times that went like this, “Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Or do without”. In these days of their young married life together, Russ and Clarice had to “make do” with the only furniture they could afford at the time……….wooden orange crates. Set vertical on their ends, two orange crates were their ‘kitchen chairs’ and one orange crate was their ‘kitchen table’.

That ol’ mean-spirited Minnesota winter, outside of their cottage walls, did its best to steal any heat from within their tiny kitchen. To fight back those chills, Clarice kept their little wood stove roaring with a good fire in its metal belly. As Russ relished his radio show with lots of Norwegian laughter, he also gladly consumed Clarice’s eggs, bacon, cereal, coffee and morning grapefruit. Oh, and don’t leave out his preferred ‘scorched black’ toast with melted sweet creamery butter lathered on for good measure and taste.

As winter day followed winter day, Russell and Clarice tried to stay warm the best they could. When sitting near that little kitchen stove, they would roast from the generated wood heat on one side of their bodies, but be freezing on the back side. So, like human ‘flapjacks’, they’d flip themselves around so their backs and bottoms could warm up, as well.

That small wood stove in their home couldn’t hold a candle to the intense warmth that governed the heart of our sweet mother, Clarice. Even though she, herself, was ‘heavy with child’ (our brother, Lowell), Clarice and our loving father, Russell, were quite the team when it came to caring and sharing of what they had with others. In the early fall of 1942, our paternal uncle was a sergeant in Uncle Sam’s Army during World War II. Our poor uncle was also shouldered with the burden of being a single parent in need of care for his baby daughter so that he could return to active duty in Europe. Our parents agreed to step up and be a blessing to that baby girl. Family members from the Fosston, Minnesota area delivered a little pink bundle to that Mutschler farm cottage and, thanks to Russ and Clarice, our uncle’s baby girl was temporarily loved and cared for till another relative could take over. A photo from our family collection shows our dear mother holding her tiny niece while wearing a winter coat that conceals her own pregnant tummy waiting for our brother to be born later in February of 1943.

Being ‘instant parents’, with the arrival of this tiny little lady, Russ and Clarice made every effort to ensure that this little soul was taken care of to the best of their abilities. When it came to going nitey-nite, our mother became resourceful when she needed to create a ‘crib’ for the baby. Opening one of the drawers of the dresser in their bedroom, Clarice put a pillow and blankets inside that open drawer and laid the baby girl in her new-found, makeshift ‘crib’. 😉

Like the ubiquitous ‘pebble in a pond effect’, the ripples of love shown to our parents by Wally and Genevieve Mutschler enabled Russ and Clarice to then live out the tenets of our Christian faith in being a sanctuary for their baby niece in need of a temporary home. Their attributes were mirrored as shown from the Bible in Matthew 18:5, which says, “And whoever welcomes a little child like this, in My name, welcomes Me.” Their godly example is still a standard of life for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. ><>

January 20th…“WHAT SILLY SAYING DID YOUR FATHER CONTRIBUTE TO A CONVERSATION THAT MADE EVERYBODY LAUGH?”

POEM – “Mr. Toot To Boot”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

Some folks are tutors, Who live to teach,

Yet, I knew a tooter, Who’d steal all speech.

That guy was my dad, Who loved a good joke,

Be it lads or lasses, He’d gladly poke,

At traditions that called, For style and class,

Except when our Pa, Just had to pass gas!

There at supper table, With friends all around,

A “BRAPPP” of a noise, A most flappery sound!

Mom would then chastise, But Dad would just smile,

And then Dad’d say, In jokester style,

He’d spin in his chair, With accusing sneer,

And say, “Who let those darn dogs in here????!!!”

We’d all bust out laughing, He knew of his guilt,

And yet we were grateful, For the joy he “spilt”!!! 😉

January 19th…“DID YOUR FARMER FATHER EVER DO SOMETHING YOU THOUGHT WAS SCARY?”

Glistening in the morning sunrise, like diamonds in a row, were the crystal dew drops that hung from the taut wires of our farm’s electric fence-line.  Having been invented long ago and modified for farm use in the mid 1930’s, electrically-charged fence-lines were and are ubiquitous to farmers almost world wide.  When dealing with the control of Holstein cows weighing an average of 1,300 pounds each, an electric fence is an effective means to JOLT them back into a cow lane or pasture area.  After having their nose, or rump, zapped a few times, that little skinny piece of wire has the animal trained to avoid any future experiences, at all costs, and stay within their pasture or cow lane.

For those unaware of farming ways, you can be assured that safety factors were weighed when developing this modern electric marvel.  Any good farmer loves his animals and would never want to see them actually injured.  Not only does he care about them from a kind and godly heart, but he also knows of the investment each animal was, at the time of purchase, and can be when it comes time for marketing.  True, it is an electric shock that is administered to the bovine (or any living thing, for that matter) that touches the wire intentionally or by accident.  The magic of this safety feature is that the shock lasts for only a second or two, and then, the fence line goes dead for a second or two.  I had found this fact out personally when I was about 3 or 4 years old when my father, Russell, told me to ‘test’ an electric fence with a blade of wet grass………….BUZZZZTTT!!!!, went the electrical shock up my little farmer boy’s arm and locked it tight for a second or two.  Daddy laughed.  I cried my eyes out!  That old stinker loved to be a teaser!!!  🙂  From that intended  learning moment, on Dad’s part, I forever have had an intense respect for the power of electricity!!

Factors in farm life involve the passage of time when grass growth eventually touches the fence-line causing it to ‘ground out’ and stop working.  Those components of fence line damage and over-growth of grass combined, necessitate that a farmer needs to walk his fence-lines, from time to time, to check for damage and make repairs.  It was on one of those beautiful Minnesota summer days that Dad invited my little sister, Candi, and myself to accompany him on one of those check and repair journeys around our farm property.  Meadowlarks and Red-Winged Blackbirds sang a chorus to us as the three of us walked along our cow-lane while Dad inspected each area of fence and/or made repairs as we sauntered along.

Eventually, we ambled down to the large pasture land that bordered the southern property line of our farm.  Brush Creek was the flowing body of water that actually marked most of our southern property boundary, but, even so, there was a spot or two where our farmland also existed over onto the other side of the creek.  In order to keep our cows in where they belonged, a series of electrical fence wires had to cross that creek’s liquid line of demarcation.

Now our tough-n-wiry Norwegian farmer father was one of those hardy souls who could easily take the ‘hit’ of an electric shock and keep on keeping on.  Oh sure, Dad would sometimes blurt out some colorful language when he’d get zapped, but he’d just buckle down his efforts and get the job done whether it was repairs to a light switch, wall receptacle, or in this case, our farm’s electric fence-line.  On this particular day, though, our daddy had some fun silliness in mind.  Wading into the middle of Brush Creek, Dad intentionally grabbed onto the ‘hot’ electric fence wire that went across the creek to keep the cows on our side of the property.  As mentioned earlier, with each pulse of electrical charge that zapped through the fence-line, Dad’s entire body would jerk in massive contractions.  Candi and I were held aghast in awe as we saw Dad giggle and try to talk to us through each shock wave that hit his body that was now even more grounded, than usual, by him standing in the water up to his thighs.

In convulsive, interrupted speech he’d call out to us.…….”He’aayyy, kids!!! Wha’eye don’t you co’me down here and ho’ld my hand??!!!”  Little sister and I looked at each other in amazement, as we stood safely on the shore of the creek and called back, “No WAYYY, Dad, we wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole!!!”  Even Dad’s responsive laughter was ‘cut in two’ by the next shock wave that pulsed through his body.   Having had his jovial time with us, our daddy simply let go of the electric fence-line during one of the system’s off moments and came walking out of the creek bed laughing a good belly laugh at the whole funny, yet scary incident.  That was one ‘highly charged’ moment to witness for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

January 18th…“DID YOU EVER RECEIVE ADVICE FROM FAMILY AND FRIENDS OVER THE YEARS?

POEM – “Sages n Seers”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

 

Sages n seers, Throughout my years,

Would share wisdom, Both sober n silly,

And as they portrayed it, As some even sprayed it,

It stuck with each Sally n Billy.

Like teacher we knew, Who was a true blue,

While we, as his students, All grinned,

“On a strong, blustery day, What’er you may play”,

“You should never spit into the wind!”.

Then once, at a function, This kid had the unction,

To a waitress, A tip he did show,

It sure wasn’t money, He offered the honey,

But said, “Never eat yellow snow!”

There’s the cutest guffaw, That I ever saw,

That was posted by some little tart.

“Whatever you do, Even if you turn blue,”

“When you’re old never trust your own fart!”

 

May 15th…“TELL US ABOUT YOUR BIG SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND SOME OF THE ATTRIBUTES THAT MADE HER SPECIAL.” (she was born May 15th of 1946)

POEM – “Our Regally Royal Radiant Rosie!”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

On May 15th, Of ’46, An angel floated down,

And placed upon, A newborn’s head, A sparkling pink little crown.

Rosemary Arlone, Had come to us, Full of vim n zip n zoom,

So, watch out world, Here comes some fun, Life’s dance will need some room.

Momma’s helper, Was Rosie for sure, And when it came time for lunch,

To the field she would scurry, With sack in a hurry, So Dad could enjoy his meal with a crunch.

And then there was when, A party she planned, But left Momma out of the loop,

Birthday guests tagged along, With a whistle and song, But Rosie was then in hot soup.

Turns out Rosie’s guests, And she had decided, After school that they’d walk the train tracks,

But without telling parents, Those little declarants, Were hoping for cake and some snacks.

Mom quickly called parents, To settle their nerves, For daughters who’d not yet come home,

Then quickly made cake, With some jello to shake, For that party under farm home’s dome.

The years flew by, As this little guy, Saw his sister grow into a queen.

With a beauty so rare, It caused all to stare, Her bright spirit imbued every scene.

Marriage and family, Graced Rosie’s life, As she took on duties, Of mother and wife.

Each child a reflection, Of their mother and dad, Our Sis was so proud, They made her so glad!

But then in July of ’89, Our sister was called Home To Glory,

Though just 43, It was plain to see, On earth t’was the end of her story.

Yet eternal we are, And her story by far, Lives on in each life she created.

Each child, born in love, Is watched from above, By our Rosie with angels elated.

So I thank you, Dear Sis, As I blow you a kiss, Till in Heaven we’ll meet once again,

Then the best party ever, Will ring through the clouds, With a joy that can never wain.

January 16th…“SHARE A FUNNY EVENT BETWEEN YOUR FATHER AND YOUR LITTLE SISTER ON THE FARM!”

POEM – “Daddy’s Daring Dentures”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

I recall her squeals, As she’d run through the place,

When Daddy pulled dentures, From out of his face!!

“Come here, Lil’ Sweetie”, “Give Daddy a kiss!!”

Said our flappy-lipped Paw,  To his cute little miss.

“No way, not today!”,  She’d say on the run,

As she flew past our dad,  Who loved to have fun.

On most days, Sis,  Would give Dad a big squeeze,

But on that silly day, She was a target to tease!!! 😉

January 15th…“WHILE MILKING COWS ON YOUR FARM, NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA, WHAT KIND OF FRUSTRATING THINGS COULD HAPPEN?”

POEM – “The Flail Of Her Tail”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

To make a farmer, Moan and wail,

Just let ’em get slapped, With a wet cow’s tail.

Now the cow’s just tryin’, To rid herself of flies,

But it sure got nasty, For our couple a guys.

Till it was her turn, Old “Bossie” would lay to rest,

Upon the clean straw, That made her feel the best.

But her wandering tail, Would fall down in the goo,

Down in the gutter, Where cows would do their “doo”.

Upon our dad’s arrival, That cow would stand right up,

As Dad would wash her udder, And attach each suction cup.

But mean ol’ flies would come to land, Upon old Bossie’s back,

And with her tail she tried to shoo them, With a mighty whack!

No matter how close, You’d bury your head, Along her warm, soft side,

Twas you that got clobbered, Along with the flies, There was no place to hide.

Dear Dad n Bro, To the barn they’d go, Twice a day to feed n milk,

Like neighboring farms, With all their charms, Of men who had the same ilk.

So be thankful when, You tip a glass, Of good ol’ chilled “white silk”,

It took a lot of “whippin’ ” on Dad, To bring us that great milk!!! 😉

January 14th…“DID YOU HAVE A SWEETHEART WHILE ATTENDING BATTLE GROUND HIGH SCHOOL? HOW DID YOU MEET?

Her voice was rife with each tersely tossed invective. My fellow 8th Grade classmate, in the row of student desks next to mine, pleaded for the return of her belongings from the obnoxious assailant sitting behind me. The tall and gangly culprit, named ‘James’, had reached across the aisle and swiped something of value from her desk top.   Being new to this town and recently enrolled in this school, I quietly observed as the young, teenaged woman’s decibels of voice came in subdued tones so as not to attract Mr. Torstenbo’s unwanted attention while he attempted to teach us History. Unbeknownst to me, at the time, was the fact that this young lady and ‘James’ had known each other ever since their Grade School days at Glenwood Heights Elementary School . Glenwood was located at the south end of our large school district and was one of the many schools that funneled its students, eventually, to Battle Ground Junior High and Senior High School.

Longtime classmates, or not, I saw the behavior of ‘James’ to be rude, crude, lewd and unacceptable. Sensing a ‘damsel in distress’, I quietly twisted my torso, in the student desk, to face ‘James’ and said, “Why don’t you just give her back what belongs to her and quit buggin’ her.” To which he angrily retorted, “What’s it to you KID??!!” as the taunt was blurted back by my hormonal combatant. I once again restated my directive to the boisterous bully, to which he retorted, “Ya wanna step outside in the hall? Ya wanna fight?”. I responded, “There’s no need to fight, just do as I ask!” Even though ‘James’ was easily a full head taller than me, and likely could have pounded me senseless, I stood my ground and re-addressed my demand for the return of the poor girl’s belongings. Having called his bluff, he said to the young lady, “Awww, you’re no fun!!” and gave her back what was rightly hers.

The verbal ‘jousting match’ ended with perfect timing as the hall bells loudly clanged their sounding of the end of this class. Our classroom was on the second story of the ivy-covered Old East High Building (at Battle Ground High School), so I knew I had better get going to be on time for my next class. Like Pavlov’s dog, those bells made me automatically bend over and gather my textbooks. I exited the classroom for the stairwells that would take me to ground level and across campus to Mr. Storie’s Shop Class. A feminine voice behind me said, “Excuse me? My name’s Derra Abernathy and I wanted to say thank you for getting my things back to me in History Class!” To which I happily replied, “You’re very welcome! Glad to have helped out!”.   Now, she could have just walked on to her next classroom and dropped the incident in the portals of straying life occurrences, but instead, that day, a new friendship was born between a lonely, former farmer boy and this lovely young lady named Derra. Per chance could you say I had become her Norwegian ‘knight in shining armor’?

From that day on,  I didn’t feel so all alone there in that gigantic school campus with the many hundreds of students milling about from class to class. As each day went by, Derra and I enjoyed getting to know each other more and more. We felt so comfortable with each other that it was only natural that we even exchanged phone numbers. ‘Puppy Love’ yearnings gained a foothold as we began seeing each other as often as free time would allow in between classes or at lunch. Over time, it was easy for all to see that we were ‘a couple’, ‘going steady’, or whatever terminology that young love could be labeled by. Even lunch time could be romantic when we stepped off campus to frequent “Bea & Don’s Grocery Store”. There we’d purchase a “Mug Rootbeer” and one yummy Maple Bar. While walking back onto the school campus, Derra would take a bite from her end of the Maple Bar and I’d enjoy a bite from my end. Back and forth we’d partake until there was only one bite left in the middle……..with that last bite, we’d KISS!! 😉

With each passing school year, there at Battle Ground High School, Derra and myself looked forward to the football season. Here would be another scenario of our creative wills to be together with each other and allow romance to blossom all the more. It was easy for me to attend the games, since our brand new home was just up on Hawthorne Street at the north side of town. For my young lady, though, it was a different story; she’d have to beg n plead for her grouchy dad to drive her the six or seven miles into town. With fragrances of fall in the air, and with our ‘Tiger’ Stage Band playing in the Stadium, I’d be on my tip-toes, in the crowd, as I’d strain to see Derra being dropped off in the parking lot. There she was!!! Hand in hand, we giddily made our way up to the very top bleacher seats inside our relatively new football stadium grandstand. From the “Press Box”, suspended in the Stadium’s rafters, old gravel-voiced Mr. Martin (another teacher on the High School Faculty) would call the football plays happening down on the field. Neither one of us being much for football itself, we attended the game as an opportunity to cuddle n coo with each other. Warm we were as we snuggled against the chill fall winds that roared in along with many a rain storm that turned the football field below us into a player-churned mud pit. Oh sure, when one of our ‘Tigers’ made a touchdown, we’d jump up and down to cheer the team on; but, mostly, our rendezvous was intended to relish the company of each other.

During our three years together, we had even reached a point in our relationship where marriage was an option we were entertaining. But, then came a day when this Norwegian ‘knight’ fell from his ‘white charger’. Instead of protecting her heart, I had allowed words to wound her. Unintentional as they were, yet they were said. Now, my armor no longer shined and instead began to chink and rust away. Many decades have passed, since those golden days of that high school love. Even in my human frailties, I am now, and will always be grateful for those warm memories and, even though momentary, the knightly times of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

January 13th…“SHARE ONE OF THE WAYS YOU EARNED MONEY AS A TEENAGER IN YOUR NEW HOMETOWN OF BATTLE GROUND, WASHINGTON.”

The ghastly clatter-banging of an old-fashioned alarm clock jolted shock-waves into my teenage ears.  I had been happily locked in a melatonin-laced trance of hormonal hibernation when that hideous contraption had the gall to shock me into a 4:30AM reality of being awake……..like it or NOT!  And, as if adding salt to the wound of this morning calamity, I should have been able to sleep in for I was now out of school for Summer Vacation.  Why in the world would a teenager ever want to get up at this inhuman hour??   The answer?  Making some money by picking strawberries.   Reluctantly, I groggily swung my young legs out of the bed and managed to get dressed.  The heady aroma of great cooking led me to our family kitchen where I proceeded to scarf down some of Mom’s yummy breakfast while she made me a sack lunch for that day’s work in the fields.

The destination for my hopeful monetary multiplicity was at least 20 miles to the north of our new hometown of Battle Ground, Washington.  Being a teenager under the age of 16, and unable to drive a car yet, I wasn’t about to walk that kind of distance.  Thankfully, I wouldn’t have to.  I was about to become a ‘soldier’ in the summertime ‘army’ of an industrious, agricultural family by the last name of Tsugawa.  Over their many years of farming, the Tsugawa Berry Farm had acquired a fleet of old school buses that were dispersed each morning to various embarkation points around Clark County, Washington.   In a public relations campaign, George Tsugawa published berry bus schedules in many of the county’s newspapers so potential perky picker people (and their picker people parents) could know of and catch one of the berry buses for the trip up north to the Woodland, Washington flat lands near the majestic Columbia River.  To the end of Hawthorne Street (now NW 9th St.) I hiked and caught the 6:00am bus ride north.

After picking up a bus load of other pickers along the way, our old, squeaking, yellow-metal ‘banana’ rolled into the strawberry fields and we filed out for a berry back-breaking day.  Yes, even though we possessed the supple bodies of young teenagers, in those days, we had to bend over for hours on end to reach the low-lying rows of the berry crop as we picked a gazillion strawberries.  Filing past the Field Boss, we ‘soldiers’ were instructed to pick up an empty “flat” (shallow wood or plastic tray).  Inside each flat were 12 empty “hallocks” (small containers that held about a pint each of strawberries).   The goal for each of us was to pick those tasty, red strawberries and fill as many flats as possible each day.   Memories become foggy over the years, but I seem to recall that we each had a punch card with our names on it.  For each full flat of berries, the Field Boss would use a paper punch to cut a number out from around the rim of the card.  It may have been less payment than I think, but I gather that we were paid about $1.25 for each flat of berries picked.

Alright, alright, I’ll confess!  Earning summer spending money, picking berries, wasn’t the only reason that I allowed that alarm clock to assault my ears at ‘Oh Dark Thirty’ each morning.  Being a twitterpated teenager and happily infected with the ‘love bug’, my main reason for picking berries was to be close to my High School girlfriend, Derra Joan Abernathy.   With both of us being too young for a driver’s license, we felt it was a way for us not to be separated for the entire summer.  Derra rolled in each morning on one of the berry buses that serviced the south-central areas of the county.  Together in ‘our row’, we could chat the day away (and steal a kiss or two) while we picked strawberries and enjoyed the fellowship of other ‘Tigers’ from Battle Ground High School that worked in those fields, too.

With the playful sprightliness of young people ‘in love’, our work times, for Derra and myself, sometimes evolved into teasing tussles of happy heckling of each other.  Boredom, plus a little hunger would set in during the days and we’d end up eating some of the strawberries that should have gone into our picking flat.  On one such occasion, Derra had picked this monstrous strawberry and had it up towards her mouth to eat it.  I quickly grabbed that red, bulbous berry and smashed it all over her chin.  Squeals of laughter erupted between us as we enjoyed the moment.  The cute result of this ‘smashing’ incident was that Derra’s chin was stained a pretty pink color for the rest of that day.  As we boarded our respective buses for the trip home that day,  I bequeathed my young lady with the new nickname…..PINKY!!   In loving retaliation, the nickname DIMPLES was given to this strawberry-picking Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

January 12th…“CAN FARM ANIMALS BE DANGEROUS?  DID “PORKY PIG” EVER GET NASTY ON YOUR FARM NEAR KIESTER, MINNESOTA?”

Privy to the process of his perambulation, Dad caught the prominent pungent porcine perfume percolating from our farm’s piggy palace.  On most occasions, our farmer father, Russell, got along well with our porcine princes and princesses……till one day.   Male pigs, called boars, could reach up to 650 pounds in weight.  Their immensity (along with their loads of testosterone) made them hard to handle as far as showing them who was ‘The Boss’.   A particular boar of ours even had a set of long and ugly tusks (vertical teeth) protruding upwards from each side of his drooling snout.   ‘Mr. Power Pig’ had been ‘visiting the ladies’ in our sounder of sows.  His romancing and ‘pitching the woo’ (for the next generation of little pigs to come) was over and it was time for Dad to separate him from the sows and into his own private pen.

This story was relayed to me second-hand, so, in that sharing, I’m told that Dad was pressing a hog board (plywood board with handles) against the boar to move him in the direction he had to go to get to his private pen.  Any and all protection, for a farmer, was essential in dealing with these porky power pushers.  To begin with, boars are known for their aggressiveness, and this boar was getting more and more perturbed with every push of Dad’s hog board against him.  For whatever reason, our daddy took his eyes off this nasty nemesis for just a second or two when the boar caught Dad’s ‘hog board’ with his tusk and flipped it out of our father’s hands.

Caught off balance, and now at the mercy of that gargantuan grunting beast, Dad was knocked over as the boar charged at him.  The pig’s powerful snout tossed our father’s body like a toy.  In all the higgledy-piggeldy of the fear-filled moment, Russ saw that the only way of his surviving this attack was to make a beeline towards the split-railed fence of the pen.  Quickly regaining his stand, our father shot towards and through the railings just as that boar was about to charge him again.   Thankfully, those wicked tusks had not made ripping contact with our dear daddy’s flesh.   We were thankful to the Lord above that bruises and being shook up were the only injuries that had to be dealt with by the father of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.