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”!!! 😉

October 2nd…“DID YOUR TEACHERS, OR STAFF, AT BATTLE GROUND HIGH SCHOOL EVER TEACH YOU A SPIRIT CHEER FROM THEIR GENERATION?”

It was the spring of 1972 and we in Mrs. Magsig’s English Class jumped with a jolt as we sat inside those one-piece student desks!!!   The old-fashioned, wall-mounted fire sirens began to scream out in the hallways of Battle Ground High School.  Even though we were the ‘elder Seniors’ that year, you’d think us teenagers were kernels of popcorn on a well-oiled skillet, as far as our knee-jerk reaction that day.  Our wits now about us once again, we began to file out of Mrs. Magsig’s class for what we thought was another traditional fire alarm evacuation drill, but it wasn’t.  Administrators and staff were not wearing the ‘business as usual’ face and were directing this herd of pimple-faced youth out towards, and into, the District Stadium that graced the south side of our impressive football field there in Battle Ground, Washington.

Whispers were filtering through the crowd that some kids had seen the local police department patrol cars on campus.   Now THIS was getting interesting.   Once every person of the student body was accounted for and seated in the Stadium Grand Stand, various administrators confirmed that, yes, there HAD been a telephoned threat that a bomb had been placed somewhere on the High School campus.  IF that were the case, we youngin’s all hoped that the Stadium had been cleared of any bomb first. 😉   Thankfully, it was a gorgeous late spring afternoon and so we were instructed to be patient while police, custodians and other staff members made a thorough search of the main school building and adjacent classrooms.

To pass the time, announcements were made about upcoming events at school, we sang the school song, we even had our fine school cheerleaders lead us all in a number of school cheers.

Our much respected former High School Principal (and now Guidance Counselor) was the honorable Mr. Melvin Hope “Pat” Pettichord (September 21st 1915 – August 8th 2005).   I heard, years later, that, in 1936, a very young Mr. Pettichord was a top contender for the United States Olympic Team that eventually traveled to and competed in Berlin, Germany.   Sadly, it was told to me, that a severe sickness kept “Pat” from likely making the team.   Needless to say, young Mr. Pettichord had grown up in a generation that was not too distant from days of the horse and buggy mode of transportation.  So, it’s only natural that his parent’s generation imparted some nuances into his generation of school life in the mid 1930’s and into the 1940’s.    Having been a fervent supporter of his generation of Battle Ground School District “Tigers”, our well-liked Principal was prepared to share with we, his ‘captive audience’ that afternoon, one of the cheers that his generation enjoyed yelling at games.

With his rugged good looks and ramrod-straight walk, Mr. Pettichord approached the microphone to give us a cheer from his days at Battle Ground High.

Mr. Pettichord said, “In my days here, as a Tiger, this was one of our yells……..HORSE AND BUGGY, HORSE AND BUGGY……TEAM, TEAM TEAM!   ALL FOR BATTLE GROUND, STAND UP AND SCREAM!!!”   Between laughter and pride for our fearless leader, we all joined in and yelled right along with our educational leader!!

Eventually, some of the Assistant Principals came up and whispered in Mr. Pettichord’s ear the good news………sure ‘nough, the bomb scare threat was a hoax …….no bomb.   Awwww rats, now that meant we all had to get back to class.   That whole experience was more fun than scary for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!!  😉  (Author’s note:  I’m happy to share that I found a handsome photo of Melvin Hope “Pat” Pettichord from his college days at Washington State University in Pullman, Washington from the year 1941.  You can see our future High School Principal in the center of this photo with his hand on a buddy’s shoulder in front of him. )

October 1st…“DID YOUR HIGH SCHOOL, IN BATTLE GROUND, WASHINGTON, HAVE GAL AND GUY CHEERLEADERS?  DID ANY OF THEM REALLY SHINE WITH EXTRA SPIRIT?”

POEM – “Jim In The Gym”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

When it came to spunk, When it came to style,

His grin was seen, A country mile.

Any student could tell ya, Whether chunky or slim,

There was just no topping, Our Jim In The Gym.

We guys who sat, In bleachers high,

Could hardly stand by, When this “spirit guy”,

Would get us all, To growl with him,

Yup, that was our rousing, Jim In The Gym.

Oh sure, girl cheerleaders, Were nice to see,

As they rattled pom poms, And yelled with glee.

But our “Black and Orange”, Growls were for him,

None other than loyal, Jim In The Gym.

When after High School, Jim worked for the church,

And even then, He was quick to search,

For ways to lead, High Schoolers to Him,

They saw their Youth Leader, Our Jim In The Gym.

For me, High Schoolers, Were out of my league,

Their hormones and antics, Gave me fatigue,

But that young man, Had a vision for Him,

Whether church, school or home, He’s our Jim In The Gym. ><>  😉