September 30th…“TELL US ABOUT HOW SPECIAL YOUR HOMECOMING FESTIVITIES WERE IN YOUR CHILDHOOD HOMETOWN OF KIESTER, MINNESOTA.”

Each autumn, with celestial clockwork, our good Lord bequeathed a crown of fine silver frost upon the rich farmlands of southern Minnesota.  That regal mantle of silver elegance ushered in the finishing rush of local farmer’s harvesting and also ushered in the delightful time for our hometown school to “Welcome Home” former students to the alma mater (which means….dear mother) and join in a rousing celebration of family known as “Homecoming”.

This school tradition had its genesis in the early part of the 1900’s around our nation.   Homecoming, in our community, pivoted around a traditional football game with a local rival community school.   Oddly enough, with all the chilly fall weather in our area, the opposing football team was from a town nearby called, FROST, Minnesota.  Kinda cute, ya? 😉  Be that as it may, our farming village would plan for at least a few days of celebration that would include the following (and more)…..wonderfully decorated floats (on flatbed wagons, pickup truck beds, etc.), funny class skits at pep assemblies, a roaring bonfire rally, the big game night, and following the game, was a glorious Homecoming Dance in the High School Gymnasium.

Since the farmlands around us had received its crown of silver from The Lord, our school also chose to place silver crowns each year upon a ‘King’ and ‘Queen’ to rule over this celebration of joy and alumni visiting school once again.  Tradition, throughout most educational facilities of our nation, lent that as qualifying mandates, in order to be a ‘King’ and ‘Queen’, candidates should have made significant contributions to school life and even that of the local community.  Nominees would then be brought to the forefront of the student body and a secret ballot system would be used to vote for each year’s ‘King and Queen of Homecoming’.

Our most beautiful sister, Rosemary, was amazingly active in her days at Kiester High School.   Just a sampling of her activities included Band Officer, Future Farmers of America Chapter Sweetheart, Cheerleading, etc………pretty much if you name it, she was part of it.  Our darling mother, Clarice, used to make comments that if the family car were a horse, she’d just have to point it towards town and it would find its way over familiar roadways when you consider the zillion trips Mom made to ferry big sister back and forth so she could be involved in the life of our school.   We were all so proud when Rosie’s classmates honored her by voting for her to be ‘Queen of Homecoming’ that school year of 1963-64.

Our “Bulldogs” usually trounced the opposing town’s football team each year, so next on the agenda of the gala evening was to dress impeccably well and take your beautiful lady to do the promenade around the school gymnasium floor and then enjoy dancing and fellowship with fellow classmates and visiting alumni.

Being just a little “ankle-biter”, at the time, I was too young to attend the dance that night.  But, we WERE granted permission, during school hours, to have our teacher give us a tour of the festive decorations that morphed our normal gymnasium into a place of magic and color that would come alive that evening for the High School generation of my sister.  Placed delicately in my memory’s haven is that Homecoming time for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 29th…“AS A LITTLE BOY, ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA, DID YOU EVER HAVE TO “BREAK” ANY OF YOUR HORSES?”

Up there, in the equine clouds of Happy Horse Heaven, they must’ve had a bad day at the factory.   Maybe this Shetland colt got hit by a lightning bolt on his way down to earth; cause from day one, that lil four-legged fiend was a tiny, tromping terror to tussle with!!!  Just as we Noorlun children had to attend school to learn about the rudiments of life, so also did any young horse have to learn how to serve those humans that they now belonged to.

It wasn’t much more than a day or so, after getting this hirsute horse off of the livestock truck, that we realized that this was gonna be one crazy creature…….so we named him “Joker”.  The title fit him well!!!  For when one of us stood too close to “Joker”, he’d give ya a nip in the arm or bite your butt with those tough teeth of his.  And, like any ‘baby’, he wanted to go his way when he wanted and NEVER your way.  Good thing our wise farmer father, Russell, was raised with horses as he grew up in northern Minnesota, cause he was always one step ahead of this pony’s shenanigans.  “Joker” was no match for Dad when it came to any tricks that that puny, pawing potentate of a pony would try.   As a little boy, I’d watched plenty of cowboy movies and was always excited to see a strong cowboy get on a wild, bucking horse and let that four-legged firestorm go crazy with energy until the animal was finally ‘broke to ride’ and realized that the cowboy on his back was his new master and it was time to obey the will of his new owner.   When “Joker” came of age, it was gonna be me who’d have to deal with our tiny ‘firestorm’.

The day eventually came, for that rascally runt of a pony, when our dad felt it was time for “Joker” to learn about letting a human-being ride upon his back.  Another word for this procedure is to ‘break’ the will of the horse.  Now the idea is not to literally injure (or break) the animal, physically, but to ‘break’ the disobedient self-will of the young pony so that the evolving equine can be a blessing and not a burden to the family he belongs to.

On many an evening, from spring till the first snows of winter, Dad would finish milking our Holstein cows and ‘put them to bed’ for the night.  Then, Dad attached a long rope or chain to “Joker’s” bridle and led that pony, from his stall in the barn, to a soft grassy area of our lawn near the house.  The reason for being on a soft lawn area for this event was that THIS little farm boy was about to become a cowboy buckaroo………like it……or not 😉

This Shetland equivalent to dynamite, that stood before Dad and I, first had to be ‘broke’ to ride bareback before our father could even begin to think to put a saddle on his back.  Dad tied two ropes, one to each side of “Joker’s” bridle, for me to hang on to while I was aboard his back for the ride.  Now, it was my turn to jump on “Joker” from the left side as I threw my leg up over and ‘on board’ that little powder-keg.   The pony’s reaction was immediate and eruptive, just as if a pin had been thrust into his rump.  As I jumped and landed on his back, that micro-stallion shot straight up, arched his back and when he landed, I did too……in that soft grass I’d mentioned earlier.  I crashed to earth with a green-bone crushing THUD!!!  Dad hollered, “GET BACK ON HIM!!!  If you don’t, he’ll know you’re scared of him and he’ll think he won!”  Well, heck ya, I was scared of him…..but I jumped back on anyway….and away we flew again and again.

Those first few weeks, the score of this competition put “Joker” in the bucking winner’s circle.  Whereas, this flamboyantly flying farm boy had butt bruises like you wouldn’t believe from being launched off the back of that bad boy pony repeatedly, ad infinitum.  I thought for sure that I could hear that Shetland snicker and smile as he’d see me become airborne from his bony backside.  Over time, though, I got used to his antics and could hang on for the ride for longer and longer periods of time.

What got our dad laughing hysterically, one day, was when our girl cousins arrived at our farm for a visit.  The youngest cousin begged for a chance to ride “Joker”.   With a sly smile, I saw Dad give her his approval to board this mini-keg of our pulsating pony powerhouse…..all the while knowing what may transpire.   At that time in her life, that little cousin of mine had the roundest bottom ever seen on a chubby little girl.  She managed to climb onto the pony, but it was as if “Joker” knew that this new rider was ‘going places’.  One quick hump jump and a rearing up on his hind legs and our round-rumped girl cousin went rolling off and to the ground like ‘water off a duck’s back’.   Collectively, we all howled with laughter as our little, chubby gal cousin picked herself up off of the ground and brushed the grass stains off of her rounded rumpus maximus 😉

Eventually, even Dad decided that this crusty critter wasn’t worth the hassle, so a deal was made with the local livestock company to make a trade and get rid of that prankster pony and soon a darling Shetland mare (who we affectionately called, “Little Lady”) came into the life of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 28th…“DID YOU EVER LOSE A GOOD FRIEND WHEN HIS FEELINGS CHANGED TO THE NEGATIVE ABOUT YOU?”

POEM – “My Fault, Sorry Walt!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

It must’ve been my fault, I’m sorry, Walt, Yet up until this day,

I do not know, How I hurt you so, To make you feel this way.

There was the time, In a better clime, When we were brothers true,

But you went dead, From things I said, Since then, I’ve felt so blue.

If only I knew, What I did to you, At least then I’d understand,

But to you, I’m dead, And that I dread, Now you treat me, Oh so bland.

Life has moved on, Yet I dwell upon, My failure on your part,

What did I do, That would cause you to, Have such a calloused heart?

Did I not follow through, To you, so true, With what I said I’d do?

Was it something about your family, Made you do those mean things, too?

Walt, you are such a talented man, In so many wondrous ways,

To lose you as friend, Makes my spirit bend, And be troubled the rest of my days.

September 27th…“TELL US WHAT MADE YOUR BIRTHDAY CAKES MEMORABLE AS A TODDLER GROWING UP ON THE FARM IN MINNESOTA.”

POEM – “Plastic Indians And Songbirds”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Plastic Indians and Songbirds, Upon my birthday cakes,

Each year gave me the giggles, And high-chair bouncing shakes!

Our precious Mom, Somewhere she found, Those tiny plastic friends,

To hold each bright new candle,  Completing each calendar’s bends.

As her little boy, Grew inch by inch, New Indian or Bird would appear,

Warming the joy, For this little boy, As to yummy cake I’d draw near.

Those hardworking hands of Mother, Who made and touched my cake,

Gave all her love, With His blessings above, Just for her little boy’s sake.

Each plastic holder, As I got older, Took on magic all its own,

As it seemed they lent, An extra splash, To the overall birthday tone.

Eventually, Mom’s birthday cakes, Reflected a boy grown taller,

And candle holders, Too would change, From the ones I had when smaller.

But we all know, It wasn’t just, Candles that made her cakes best,

T’was the ambiance of a mother’s love, From her genuine heart expressed.

September 26th…“DID YOU EVER FIRE A PISTOL ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA?  WHAT WAS IT LIKE THE FIRST TIME?”

Blazing fire spewed from the muzzle of the 45 caliber Colt revolver that my hero, Roy Rogers, fired at those outlaws.  Roy’s muscled arm held that powerful pistol steady as a rock as he’d ‘pour the lead’ to those dastardly dudes hiding behind boulders as they cowered from the realization that their time was up and they’d better surrender.  As this eager beaver fan, namely me, idolized Roy’s every move, I was amazed at how easy Roy Rogers made it look whenever he’d rip that pistol out of his holster and fire away without hardly any effort on his part to hold the gun in check and control.

A Kiester High School teacher was one who touched base with my young life back in 1965.  Even though he was not a cowboy, he had always impressed me with his handsome good looks (much like Roy Rogers).  Mr. Larry Fosness was his name and  I appreciated his smiling ways towards this impressionable 11 year old.   Instead of riding a Palomino Stallion to our farm, this young man drove a sparkling 1965 Chevrolet Impala.

The cornfields surrounding our farm place were a haven for lots of Ring-Necked Pheasants…..especially towards the season of fall.  Somehow the word had gotten around town about this bird bounty at our farm and Mr. Fosness had contacted our farmer father for permission to hunt on our property.   My dad granted that blessing to this man, so on one of his hunting excursions, he pulled into our yard and had something with him besides his shotgun.   Larry pulled out a snub-nosed 22 caliber pistol.  I was completely entranced by this firearm.  It was the first time I had ever seen a handgun in real life.  My teacher friend saw that I was mesmerized by his small caliber weapon, so he went into the safety aspects of how to hold it, aim it, load it, respect its power, etc..

It was as if I was gonna become an instant cowboy, right then and there!!  Keep in mind, now, how Roy Rogers made this pistol shooting look effortless.  For me?….NOT!   One thing Larry Fosness did NOT tell me about was what was going to happen the second I fully pulled back that trigger to fire the pistol.   It was a phenomenon called ‘recoil’, also termed as the ‘kick’ or ‘kickback’.    In my gullible innocence, I imagined that this firearm experience was gonna be a ‘piece of cake’ just as I had seen “my boy Roy” do a hundred times in the Western movies and TV shows.  Right?  WRONG!!!

There I was, about to experience my first shooting ever with a pistol.  I was the consummate ‘Mr. Clueless’ as I raised the pistol up and straight in front of me to take aim at some insignificant tree out in our woods.  I slowly squeezed the trigger, and then BANG!!!  In a nanosecond, that pistol, attached to the end of my arm, is now straight UP in the air above my head!!!  I’m aghast in disbelief as I look up to see the pistol ABOVE my head and wondering, “How in the heck did it get up there?……Roy Roger’s gun never did that!!!”   A belly laugh poured out of Mr. Fosness as he enjoyed the naïve ways of this little boy in front of him.  He then explained what’s called ‘recoil’ and how the short barrel of this gun ‘kicks away’ as the bullet leaves the weapon.  I think Roy Rogers would’ve had a good laugh, too, at this inexperienced novice who remains an ever-learning Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

September 25th…“WHAT WERE YOUR SCHOOL COLORS IN YOUR STUDENT DAYS IN MINNESOTA AND WASHINGTON STATE?”

POEM – “What Colors Did You Wear?”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Just what is it, About two colors, Those certain spectra of hue,

That makes each school feel special,  That cements school spirit like glue?

So many colors are out there, But to our school, Two colors we’d choose,

And it seemed that when, Those colors would fly, There’s just no way we could lose.

Now back in my, Minnesota days, Our colors were blue and white,

That Bulldog team, Could make foes scream, As we’d enter athletic fight.

And when those days were finished, And family moved out West,

The colors chosen, By my new school, Were thought to be the best.

The Battle Ground “Tigers”, Were known for years, As the mascot of this school.

And if you wanted, To show you cared, You’d wear these colors “cool”!

From “Tiger” caps, To “Tiger” shoes, To “Tigers” painted on face,

If you were a “Tiger”, You’d show your pride, In just about any place.

So whether tenacious “Bulldogs”, Or roaring “Tiger” pride,

As youngsters we, Would wear with glee, Those colors we’d not hide.

And now, in later years we view, Those days we’ve laid aside,

But colors swell, In memory’s well, True team colors were our guide!

September 24th…“DO YOU REMEMBER A SPECIAL SCHOOL CUSTODIAN AT BATTLE GROUND SCHOOL DISTRICT?”

POEM – “He Called The Girls George”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

He called the girls “George”, The boys he’d call “Sue”,

Just to see what those little, Sweethearts would do.

Some would laugh, Some’d say “HEYYY!”,

But either way, He’d brighten their day.

Oliver Wolbert, Was this man’s name,

From a cowboy past, I’m told he came.

He’d scrub n mop, And shine the floor,

But “Cowboy” never, Was a bore.

“Cowboy” would arrive, Wearing cowboy hat,

Tall n lanky, With tummy flat.

Maybe riding horses, Back in his past,

Gave him the energy, To last and last.

With Big John Maynard, That duo fine,

Would scrub those floors, And make them shine.

Night after night, When the kids were home,

These two dear men, Round the school would roam.

Moving furniture, Waxing a floor,

Then move all back in, And do it once more.

All the while, They’d tease and gaff,

And down the halls, Came Oliver’s laugh.

Loud n boisterous, Then down to a giggle,

As he and John, Made their floor mops wiggle.

I was always impressed, That “Cowboy” was there,

Day in day out, With his silver hair.

Maybe his only, Choice was work,

But he was faithful, And would not shirk.

The daily grind, To get ‘er done,

That always impressed, This Norwegian Son.

September 23rd…“WHEN IT CAME TIME FOR SCHOOL EACH YEAR, HOW DID YOU GET INTO TOWN FROM YOUR FARM THERE IN MINNESOTA?”

A Minnesota morning sun winked its way through the rasping together of untold millions of ripe corn stalks while Marie Meyer, wrapped in her great coat against September’s chill, made her way to her bus.  Popping open the vertical bus doors, she climbed aboard and settled into her queen’s throne as the monarch of her yellow-metaled kingdom.  Obedient to the turn of the ignition key, that International Harvester bus motor churned to life once again.  While the heater took the chill off the bus seats, she readied herself to pick up this little farmer boy and a bus load of other fellow classmates.   Her faithful task each day was to ferry us to the brick fortress of the learning palace of Kiester Public School there in our beloved hometown.   This scene I’ve described is how I’ve envisioned what a morning may have been like for this dear lady who saw that we all got safely to school and home again.

Our fine family farm was located 3 miles to the northwest of the small town we loved called Kiester, Minnesota.  And, to a tiny guy like me, those 3 miles may as well have been 300 when seen from a little life in a giant world.  Our father, Russell, talked about having to walk 3 miles to and from school in his northern Minnesota days.  But for this kiddo, who didn’t wanna walk THAT far, I had two options to get into town and school……..#1.  Ride Marie Meyer’s yellow metal marvel, OR……#2.  Hitch a ride into town inside our 1950 Ford F-100 pickup truck.

Now the reason that our old black beauty of a pickup was heading to town each morning was because, in those days, when our father milked our herd of dairy cows, the milk was poured into ten gallon metal cans.  Chilled overnight, those cans were then loaded into our Ford pickup for the morning’s trip to the Kiester Co-op Creamery for processing that milk.   After the milk was processed into bottles, and other products, it culminated in bringing in money for our family.  That old Ford pickup was like a horse heading for the barn as it seemed to automatically careen around the corner near the Kee Lanes Bowling Alley and soon rolled into the Creamery’s parking lot.  Lyle shoved that clutch pedal to the floor and settled the long floor-mounted gear shift into reverse as he brought the truck tailgate up to the loading conveyor of the Creamery.

Being the young strong buck he was, Cousin Lyle hefted those 86 pound cans of milk from the pickup’s cargo bed up and onto the conveyor that took them inside the creamery for processing into Grade A milk, butter, cheese, etc. that was sold in local grocery stores.  Our own family enjoyed some of our dairy bounty in the form of receiving delicious sweet cream butter from the creamery once it was made and packaged.

Option #1 (that I mentioned earlier) was the most frequent mode of getting to school.   Personally, I enjoyed the winter and springtime rides to school the most.   Marie Meyer was a very determined woman (matter of fact, she was the ONLY woman bus driver on the payroll).   Blasting through major snow drifts on the roadways was one facet of excitement in getting to school, but I leaned towards the sometimes wilder rides of springtime as being the most fun means to get to and from our local alma mater.

As massive amounts of snow melted each spring, our predominantly graveled farm roads became gnarled mud pits that were churned up by tractors pulling farm equipment to fields and family trucks and car usage.   If that bus could’ve worn a saddle on top, you’d think it was a metal “bucking bronco stallion” by the reaction of the vehicle being thrown from one side of a mud rut to the other.   I’d happily move to the back of the bus on those occasions because we kids became human “popcorn kernels” exploding up and down.   I can remember a wheeee!!!!! of glee as we’d hit a massive rut that literally saw our little butt cheeks leave the bus seat and go airborne.   Heck, that was more fun than a ride at the Faribault County Fair.   Getting to and from our education location had its fun times for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

September 22nd…“IN YOUR DAYS AT GLENWOOD HEIGHTS ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, DID YOU EVER WITNESS CORPORAL DISCIPLINE ADMINISTERED TO A STUDENT?”

Even though there’s plenty of hugs n cuddles in childhood, eventually, pain (in one form or another) is one of our earliest ‘teachers’ in life.   For instance, a skinned knee, a splinter of wood or even touching a hot stove; all these instances are forms of pain that teaches us to be more acutely aware of the dangers of a particular activity and learn to avoid that same pain again.  In many of life’s hurting moments, we also procure a higher sense of respect for the power that caused us that oweee in the first place.  Personal case in point; one of my finger tips was taken off by a lawnmower back in 1981.  To this day, the agony I endured via that injury has given me a much higher respect of the power of those ‘invisible’ lawnmower blades that spin as fast as 200 miles per hour under the cover of that lawnmower deck.

Being raised in a Christian family, and being a naturally-born little stinker, I also personally found out about how the pain of a spanking can be a learning experience.  When needed, our loving Dad and Mom would use spanking as a form of discipline (now notice I did NOT use the word “punishment”) to correct our behavior because they loved us and wanted us to follow a course in life that reaps rewards over time and not incur disgrace or loss of respect.  Instead they wanted His best for their children by living out godly lives that would bring honor to our immediate family, but also to the Lord Jesus Himself, as well.

In today’s politically correct climate, spanking is taboo in the school systems of our country.  But I remember the day when, as the school’s custodian, I witnessed a swat time that was both necessary AND hilarious, at the same time.   In my days there at Glenwood Heights Elementary School, corrective discipline could still be administered to a student as long as the teacher had another teacher as witness to the corrective measure of giving a swat.   On this particular occasion, two husky boys in the upper Fourth Grade level of our school had been disrespectful and disobedient to their teacher that day.   Their rebellion had reached the pinnacle where the teacher decided it was time to correct that bad behavior with a necessary swat for each boy.  The boys were ushered out into the hallway with the two teachers (one giving the swat and the other as witness to the incident).  The correcting teacher instructed the first boy to bend over and grab his ankles.  After grabbing his ankles, the boy looked up and towards me as I stood down the hall a ways.  Now here’s where this situation took on a humorous bend.  When the correcting teacher lifted the wooden paddle and came down with a SMACK on that kid’s back bumper cheeks……..the kid who took the swat didn’t utter a word, but OHHH MYYY did his eyeballs POP wide open!!! 😉

The second boy to be disciplined was “Ben”.   I could tell, from the moment those two boys were directed to step down to this hallway, that Ben was deeply affected, emotionally, by what was about to transpire as a result of his disobedience in class.  From my vantage point in the distance, I couldn’t help but break into a broad smile at Ben’s reaction to the first swat on the other kid.  As you recall, the first boy is bent over and holding his ankles.  His teacher winds up for the swing and is now on the down swing for the KAPOW!   Only thing is,…….when the paddled connected to the first boy’s bottom, it was BEN who screamed out loud, as if HE’D been the one who received the swat!   Stifling their obvious laughter over what had just happened, it was only too obvious to these two wise educators that Ben, who was a puddle of tears by this point, would not need to receive the ‘board of education’, after all.  His learning moment in that paradigm shift had come and he fully agreed to turn his behavior to the positive side upon returning to their classroom.

As human beings, we would always prefer pleasure to pain, yet, on this occasion, that little boy’s reaction to his buddy getting a swat was so classic, it brought a smile and a giggle to this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 21st...”DID YOU EVER WITNESS A FELLOW CLASSMATE PLAYING A PRANK ON A TEACHER AT BATTLE GROUND HIGH SCHOOL?”

There once was a fellow ‘Tiger’ who lived among us other young Freshman at Battle Ground High School.   This young upstart was so imbued with self-confidence and zest for fun that he was easily, in my opinion, given the crown of “Class Clown”.   Mike Colgrove was his name and having fun was his game…….even when it came to the brand new Algebra teacher that arrived at our school after the Christmas Break of 1968-69 school year.  Our previous Algebra teacher that year had been a seasoned veteran of the faculty with close to 30 years of service in our school district.  Sadly, though, Mr. Ray O’Neal passed away during the Christmas Holiday vacation time, so this new Algebra teacher was a likely candidate for Mike’s sly sense of humor.

If I recall, the new teacher was a recent graduate of his college courses and therefore was kind of a ‘green horn’ in the teaching ways of life.  Either way, Mike was merciless in teasing this poor soul of a man and the harassment came to a crescendo one day as the Algebra instructor was ‘chewing out’ a kid in the back of our large classroom located in the Old East High Building.    Like a slinky, slanky fox, Mike hunkered down and slithered up to the front of the classroom and pulled the rolling teacher’s chair far back and away from the educator’s large, old-style wooden desk.   The ‘trap was set’ for the focused faculty member who was so intent on locking eyes with the student being reprimanded that he had no idea that his chair was vacated from its usual spot near his desk.

With his stern ‘dagger’ eyes zeroed in like a laser point on the back of the classroom, this unaware teacher man walked up and stood at his desk, looking out at the class……..still clueless as to what was about to transpire.  As the educator’s knees buckled in anticipation of his gluteus maximus touching down on a chair, to his complete shock, he was ‘sitting on air’ and POOF…… he disappeared!!   The educator dude had completely vanished below the level of the desktop as his butt hit the wooden floor below.  We, as the collective class of students that day, all erupted in howls of laughter!!!   Just as in the slapstick comedy films of old Hollywood, first, we saw Math Man’s fingers grasp the edge of the wooden teacher’s desk and then next came his fiery red and furious face rising from his inglorious position on the floor.  The voice of our Algebra Ace was now at hurricane velocity as he bellowed out, “WHO DID THIS!!!!!????”   Of course, we all cloaked Mike’s secret amongst our giggles and guffaws.    Oh sure, it wasn’t the proper way to treat a teacher…….but hey, we were just a bunch of FRESH Freshman, ya?  And that included this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉