September 20th…“DID YOU EVER LEARN ABOUT YOUR NORWEGIAN HERITAGE FROM SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY LIVED IN NORWAY?”

There I sat, in all the blank-brained innocence of a pimple-faced, ‘wet behind the ears’ 16 year old kid who was about to put his proverbial ‘foot in his mouth’ with a stupid statement to an elder guest visiting our home.   My father’s Aunt Dagny (pronounced “DAHGnee”) and her husband, Trygve (pronounced “TRIGvee”) Tolakson Lenning had just arrived at our home, there in Battle Ground, Washington.  They had made the long journey from their home state of Iowa and we were thrilled to welcome them into our home and make them feel comfortable with some coffee and visiting.  To accommodate everyone being able to get into our Living Room for visiting with one another,  Trygve and I placed our bottoms on the brick hearth of our fireplace.  I was intrigued by this quaint Norwegian man who still had a very distinct Norwegian lilt (or accent) to his English, even after having lived in America for many years.   Just as I was 16 years young, at the time, Trygve shared that he ALSO was a mere 16 year old boy when he emigrated from his mother country of Norway to America for a new life in our grand nation.

My father, Russell, and mother, Clarice, were both fluently bilingual in their ancestral native tongue of Norwegian.  That came as a natural result of both maternal and paternal grandparents speaking Norwegian regularly as our parents grew up, and, therefore, our folks spoke the ‘mother tongue’ very well, also.  With the fragrance of coffee casting a happy ambiance,  it was an extra pleasure to listen to our folks ‘switch gears’ into Norwegian on occasion, during the evening, in order to have their own ‘private’ sort of chats with Dagny and Trygve.   Feeling emboldened by the overall Scandinavian aura of the room, I then jumped in to the conversation with my ‘foot in the mouth’ statement.   “Trygve, your name sounds like it’s Swedish!”    Ohhhh myyyy goodness, by the look on his face, you’d think I had just busted him in the mouth with a baseball bat!!  “Don’t yew sayee DAT!!  Dat’s an insult!!!”

Of course, I apologized immediately with all due embarrassment.  It was then that I learned from Trygve about the long and bitter ill feelings between the Norwegian and the Swedish peoples over the centuries.

At some point, in the annals Scandinavian history, Sweden had conquered Norway.  They ruled and lorded over the Norwegians for a long period of time.  In 1814, the Norwegians drew up their own constitution and then declared their independence from Sweden.  War between the two neighboring nations ensued and the outcome was a victory and freedom for Norway to be its own independent nation once again.

Once Trygve’s pride was restored from my innocently-made insult, we all settled back into a grand rest of the day reminiscing of the old days in Minnesota and Iowa.  A great meal was prepared by the hands of our mother, Clarice, and Aunt Dagny, too.  Throughout the evening, Uncle Trygve enjoyed giving some jovial ribbing of jokes aimed at the Swedish ‘bad guys’ (in his opinions).

Along the lines of Norwegian pride is also the way their Independence Day is pronounced.   In Norwegian, May 17th is pronounced, “Syttende Mai” (Sit en deh My).  

There’s even a silly song that’s been written to express the Norwegian’s feelings about the “Swedes”.   The tune comes from the cowboy song, “Home On The Range”.    The words are written in a “broken English” as if a Norwegian from the shores of Norway were trying to sing it with his accented English/Norwegian flavor.  It was a fun occasion, that day (and the coming days they spent with us) to learn of the heritage of our family from these two dear folks.  A fun evening it was for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 18th…“WHAT WAS FASHION LIKE WHEN YOU WERE IN HIGH SCHOOL AT BATTLE GROUND, WASHINGTON IN THE LATE 1960’S?”

POEM – “What We Dared To Wear!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

What we dared to wear, When we all had hair,

Those days were lax, So we didn’t care,

What moms or dads, Or society thought,

Let’s give it a try, And maybe get caught.

Letting our hair grow, Long and low,

It was the far out hippie, Way to go.

Tie dyed T-shirts, Bell bottomed pants,

That usually scared, The uncles n aunts!

And ohhh the mini skirts, That caught the eye,

Of every wild, Red-blooded guy.

And who could resist, Some Beatle Boots,

Or the early rock group’s, Special suits.

Cause there in school, Back in those fun days,

You’d dress just like, The latest craze.

For the girls, Their boots were “Hullabaloo”,

White and tall, As they’d dance for you.

It all depended, If you were brave,

To wear those styles, Or be a knave.

Were we silly kids?, Yes, maybe so,

But those were the fashions, In the long ago.

September 17th…“WHO WAS THE BEST TEACHER YOU ENCOUNTERED AT BATTLE GROUND SCHOOL DISTRICT IN WASHINGTON STATE?”

A wise hunter will survey his arsenal of firepower possibilities and then choose the correct caliber of rifle to guarantee success in his goal of bringing home a ‘trophy’.   In the late 1940’s, the wise leadership of the Battle Ground School District also made a ‘guarantee of success’ when they hired someone of a high caliber in an educator by the name of Mr. Orrell Peru.

Even when I, as a teenager, being naïve to the overall scope of life, I was still drawn to the integrity and sincere life of this humble, yet confident man who taught choral music in our town’s High School for many, many decades.   I can easily associate Mr. Peru with a quote from the British poet and philosopher, G.K. Chesterton who once said, “…..The real great man is the man who makes every other man feel great!”.   THAT was the epitome our most beloved Concert Choir teacher!

The happy, humble heart of this man of music was filled with the passion to share his gleaning of choral knowledge with each generation of young people who gathered in the amphitheater of his classroom each day, year after year.   Mr. Peru lived by a code of high morals that naturally commanded respect from those young voices under his directorship.  Like a bee to honey, I could’ve easily signed up for a full six periods of Concert Choir each and every day.

At times, during difficult passages of teaching us music, our dear Mr. Peru would have everyone take a rest break from what seemed to be clashing notations of the various soprano, alto, tenor and bass voices.  Our youthful ignorance could not quite understand why a certain piece of music was so hard to sing.    With wisdom, this gentle scholar would then begin telling us stories that existed ‘behind the music’.  He’d share what timeline in history this particular song came from and what was happening politically in the culture of the composer at that time.  Mr. Peru would even go into some scenarios that depicted war and the chilling anguish of what humankind was suffering and therefore what this composition was trying to communicate.   Now, thanks to his sharing, we as a choir could begin to understand that the music contrasts were the composer’s way of communicating across the ages what the turmoil of that moment in history was and how the original composer used musical notes to ‘paint’ the portrait of what life was like at that moment in his touch-point era.

One of the highlights of my two years with Mr. Peru in Concert Choir was when our choral department teamed up with our District’s Art, Drama, Stage-crafts and the Symphonic Band departments to bring to life the wonderful Broadway musical extravaganza of the Lerner and Loewe musical called “Camelot”.  Hard work and joy were key ingredients to the recipe of success as we gave our community a gala event of stepping back, musically, into the mythical realms of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

Ever the one to have fun, when possible, I recall how, during a very hot spring day of practicing, we were all melting and lethargic in the wraparound seating of our Concert Choir practice room.  You see, those were the days before classrooms were air-conditioned and there were no windows for cross-ventilation in our Choir Room.   Our beloved instructor knew we had to get ‘sparked’ back to paying attention to our music, so Mr. Peru began to tell us of the cool, refreshing times that he and his family enjoyed skiing on the snow-covered slopes of Mount Hood down in the State of Oregon.   We could almost feel the cooling snow breezes when Mr. Peru quickly interjected how that their family skiing experiences were the place he learned to “NEVER SPIT INTO THE WIND!!!” ……..and to emphasize this hilarious moment, he drew his own hand back away from his face, spread out his fingers and then let it slap back onto his face.   As a choir, we all howled with laughter as he took the cue that we were once again awake by saying, “Alright!!! Now that you’re all awake, LET’S SING!!”  😉

In 1995, when our treasured Choir Teacher left this world, I was working part-time for Layne’s Funeral Home there in Battle Ground, Washington.  I therefore attended Mr. Peru’s memorial service (at Battle Ground Baptist Church) as a member of the funeral home staff and as one of his formers students.  As so, I was honored to have assisted in any way possible, that day, to honor this sweet man of my young High School days.

Likely due to their deep mourning of the loss of their husband and father, the immediate family did not have a public committal service at the grave site, nor did they attend the committal.   So, there were just four of us (myself, the funeral director and two grounds keepers) who carried my cherished teacher’s coffin to his grave.  Pastor Landis Epp, who had officiated the funeral, walked alongside us four as we approached Mr. Peru’s final resting place.  Before the grounds keepers lowered his casket into the now parted soil, the funeral director (Denton Harlan), Pastor Epp and myself each placed the carnations from our suit lapels upon the top of Mr. Peru’s casket as a final tribute to his touching our lives.   With cascading tears flowing down my cheeks, I said these parting words……..”So ends the life of a GREAT man!!”……..and in response, the four men with me acknowledged with a gentle and loving, “AMEN!!”   T’was a very meditative, musically-endued and moving moment for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 16th…“DID YOU EVER HAVE A CRUSH ON A TEACHER DURING YOUR YOUNG YEARS IN MINNESOTA?”

POEM – “My Forever Fine First Grade Friend”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Ensconced in the folds, Of baby blue dreams,

I gingerly stepped through her door,

As I found my seat, My little boy feet,

Set some creaking in the old wooden floor.

Her smile was so bright, On that First Grade day’s sight,

I just knew as she brought class to hush,

Though little I be, It was easy to see,

On my teacher I had a big crush!

Mrs. Weihr was her title, And on each chance I’d sidle,

Alongside her tall, lovely frame,

Whether numbers or letters, There never were fetters,

For to please her was my happy aim.

Just like the occasion, When her gentle persuasion,

Had us traced on a big paper’d floor,

Life-sized puppets we made, To our chairs were displayed,

For Open House parents galore.

Decades flew by, As this once First Grade guy,

Saw a lovely and silver-haired smile,

I just knew, in a wink, There was no need to think,

I’d know that dear soul from a mile.

Mrs. Weihr and I hugged, And happily snugged,

As I honored her with praises on end.

Her love was unbound, And in First Grade I found,

My Forever Fine First Grade Friend!!

September 15th…“DURING YOUR GRADE SCHOOL YEARS IN MINNESOTA, WHICH TEACHER DID YOU DISLIKE THE MOST?  WHY?”

In the course of human interactions, it is only inevitable that eventually one encounters another person that you just can’t connect with.   The two of you ‘rub each other the wrong way’, so to speak.

I collided with such an educator during my Grade School years at Kiester Public School.  In consideration of the feelings of those who may have had high regards for this particular teacher, I will just say that this very sad chapter of my life happened sometime between Kindergarten and Sixth Grade.

Needless to say, I loathed and despised this female educator that had me under her thumb for nine LONG months of that school year.  All one has to do is look at my near tearful visage in the class school photo for that year.   I can be seen reflecting utter sadness as the photographer snapped the camera’s shutter to capture the moment on film.  I’m sure I did something wrong again that day and her cutting words had me near to tears when the command was given for everyone to “SMILE”! 😦

Rather than inspiring me to greater heights of knowledge, she incited me to a riotous attitude and deep darkness with her deriding comments and ego shattering accusations.

I have endured some dyslexia over the years and when it came to numbers and Mathematics, I was in a type of torture land.   As a result, I was terrible when it came to remembering simple equations……like on Arithmetic Flash Cards.  The female School Principal would join forces with my teacher of that year and the dastardly duo regularly herded me into a narrow, shadowy storage room to educationally ‘beat’ me into numeric submission by coercive force of minds over boy.  Out would come the Flash Cards and the mental ‘beating’ began as they threatened me with no lunch or recess time until I had achieved some sort of recitation of Flash Card fanciness to their liking.

Oftentimes, I was brought to the point of tears in the daily insinuations of my stupidity and that a “boy my age” should know these facts and figures by now.  Without a doubt, the ‘whip and chair’ tactics of these mean-spirited educators instilled a mental block for mathematics that I carry as a scar to this very day.

If only I could’ve gotten into the fortressed skull of that teacher.  There’s a ghost of a chance that I MAY have found a person who only wanted to see me excel in my academics and move up on the ladder of educational endeavors.  Instead, with her poisonous perspectives promulgating pathetic performance in me, the outcome of that school year was a young boy escaping on the last day of school  with the exuberance of a starved prisoner of war that could once again breath freedom from the public school prison camp of punitive punishments for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!!  😦

September 14th…“BESIDES YOUR PARENT’S TEACHINGS, WERE THERE SCHOOL CLASSES FOR GUN SAFETY WHEN YOU LIVED IN MINNESOTA?”

With hands the speed of lightning, “Lucas McCain’s” sinewy arm pumped rapid-fire shells out of his Winchester 44-40 caliber rifle.   After his almost dozen deadly deliveries of firepower, it was then we’d hear a crescendo of the rousing music to one of my favorite Western television shows from my youthful days on our farm.   Like the greatest majority of TV shows in my era, “The Rifleman” television program didn’t spotlight on violence, but instead, focused on the many moral lessons that “Lucas McCain” (played by Chuck Connors) sought to teach to his young son as they lived out their daily life in the sometimes wild countryside of 1880’s New Mexico.   True, when evil arose and sought to destroy his loved ones or the peace of the nearby town, “The Rifleman” sometimes had to enlist the power of that Winchester to thwart those who would kill or destroy for the sake of evil intent.

Cowboy TV shows were so exciting, but even as a child, I knew and respected the power of all firearms.   Our wise, Christian parents had taught us that a rifle or a handgun were a part of the American saga of living life in a free country.    A firearm was, in a sense, like any other tool that could either be used wisely, or, could injure or kill someone if used unwisely.   Our dear father, Russell, (who had been raised during the Great Depression of the 1930’s), had received a 22 caliber rifle from his own father that he cherished as a proud family heirloom.

The Spring of 1967 brought with it the excitement of a Gun Safety Class that was offered there at Kiester High School in my dear hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.  Dear Mr. Dale Wolfe, a very respected business owner in our town, was our teacher for the class.  I seem to recall that the class was sponsored by The National Rifle Association and that the curriculum was prepared for our age level to better comprehend and learn the basic tenets of gun safety.   We sat in classroom sessions for a certain number of weeks to learn first from books on the safe way to handle firearms, the parts of a rifle and pistol, etc..   Then, it was time to make a field trip with our class to take part in tests at the local gravel pit firing range.  There, we’d show our instructors how to safely cross a fence line with a rifle, how to assume the proper firing positions, how to NEVER point a gun at someone (loaded or unloaded), etc..  We even had our chance to try skeet shooting with clay ‘pigeons’ as we used a borrowed 410 gauge shotgun.  Now THAT was an exciting first time experience for this farm boy!! 😉

I learned another powerful gun-related lesson, one day, when we were visiting the farm of our beloved family friend, ‘Grandpa’ Harry Bauman.

As we chatted with ‘Grandpa’ Harry that day in his farm home, I noticed a big Winchester Lever-action 30.06 rifle in his gun collection.   This was the type of rifle I had often seen in cowboy movies and asked Harry if we could see him fire it for us.  He agreed, so we stepped out of the house and into his back yard.  Harry chambered a shell in the rifle and told us to look over at a young tree sapling that had a main trunk of about 8 inches in diameter.  ‘Grandpa’ Harry first told us to cover our ears with our hands for protection from the sound of the blast.  Bringing the rifle’s stock and sight to his shoulder, he aimed and then Harry pulled the trigger.  An explosion occurred that made every crow jump into the air from the trees around his farm.  We walked over to that young tree with our other ‘grandpa’ and saw how that bullet had entered cleanly on one side of the tree trunk, but totally shredded the back side of the tree.  That hour of power was something that has impressed me to this very day, and settled an even deeper respect into my psyche for the power that is wielded by the user of said weapon.

I am so deeply grateful for growing up in the age of American life when gun ownership was looked upon as being as normal as “hot-dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet”!!!   We all, especially as Christians, need to embrace God’s respect for life and living out His principles in our daily walk with one another…..especially when it comes to handling of firearms.  Sadly, our society today looks upon gun owners as evil unto themselves, rather than respectful American citizens that have every right, according to the 2nd Amendment of our Constitution, to lawfully own a firearm to use to protect, defend and even feed our families if the need arises to do so.   Even in the Bible, one sees that it’s not the inanimate object that is evil, it is the intent of an evil heart that kills.  In Genesis Chapter 4, we see that Cain killed his brother, Abel.  Likely, it was a wooden club, or a rock that was used to carry out that bloody deed.  Do we then outlaw all rocks and large pieces of wood?  No, of course not.  Let us, as Christians, always seek to respect the beauty and sacredness of life, first and foremost.  Then, firearms, in the hands of a law-abiding and godly citizen will be merely a continuation of the saga in America that can be a tool and not a terror.  So shares the heart of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 13th…“NAME THE SCHOOLS YOU ATTENDED FROM KINDERGARTEN THROUGH HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION.”

Unequivocally, the tender nourishing of a mother’s love is what sets the foundation of her child that came from within her and helps that cherished little life set its roots in the soil of love itself.  Then, when those roots are established and mature from years of nurturing, that young life can then be placed out into the world to grow and blossom as it brings forth the beauty of his or her life that is a sweet fruit all unto its own.

The two words, “Alma Mater”, from the language of Latin, speak well to this scenario, especially in light of today’s sharing about the schools I attended over the years.   For the sake of my children and grandchildren, let me first paint a picture (so to speak) as I explain what “Alma Mater” means to me, and how there was a parallel for me in my own tiny life.  To begin with, from one source, I found that “Alma Mater” means “a nourishing and kind mother”……….

What a poignant picture is painted in my heart when I reminisce of how our blessed mother, Clarice, would cradle me softly against her warmth, there on our Living Room couch, as she’d read children’s Bible stories to us.  Or, there at our farm table, how she’d “nurture” us via her sacrifices of time and hard work in preparing meals for our tiny tummies to be satisfied.  Wanting God’s very best for me, she’d watchfully see to it that I learned what and what not to do in daily toddler life so that, later, I could survive in a world that was not always conducive to showing mercy to little ones who made too many mistakes.  Truly, our beloved mother was my first and deepest caring tutor of life and, as I found out the hard way sometimes, it was in my best interest to heed what mother said in her teachings.

For my generation, when it came to furthering our education, our loving parents decided to entrust us into the care of another “Alma Mater” to meet our needs for learning the ABC’s  and other forms of curricular knowledge.  That extended “Alma Mater” would be our public school system nearby in our hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.

Thanks to Marie Meyer, her husband, Manville, and other sweet folks, us Noorlun kiddos were transported to our “Readin’, Writin’ and ‘Rithmatic” classes at the Kiester Public School in our dear hometown that was three miles from our farm.

As in any human endeavor, there were highs and lows to the experiences of being in the public school system.  Some years, my teacher for a particular grade level was an absolute gem!!!  She was loving, understanding of my needs, patient with me and most encouraging to see me excel in my studies.  Over the years, I even had a “puppy-love crush” on a couple of my teachers……even if I WAS in Grade School! 😉

Then came the Summer of 1967.  A new chapter of life and a new “Alma Mater” awaited me in the town of Battle Ground, Washington.  Our parents, Russell and Clarice, had sold our farm, there in southern Minnesota, and it was westward ho!!! for us!   In comparison to my former school, this new educational facility was gigantic in its campus proportions alone.  In my new “Alma Mater”, I was NOT considered to be High School yet, as I had been back in Minnesota.   I was deemed a Junior High School student that resided in the two-story brick edifice that had once been the original High School.  My foray into a new educational realm was both frightening and exciting.   Being the new kid on the block, I was victim of a few mean-spirited bullies as I trepidatiously navigated the unending hallways of lockers.  Eventually, though, I began to meet and befriend new buddies that welcomed me into daily student life at Battle Ground.

I give my Lord thanks for every sincere educator, over the years, who tried to help me succeed in gaining knowledge that I came to use in adult life.  Some of those dear souls bordered on sainthood, in my young eyes, and I could’ve easily attended their respective classes for a full six periods per day.

Yet, with the recent passing (June 23rd, 2017) of our cherished mother, Clarice, I am reminded that she retains the ultimate title of  “Alma Mater”………..the nourishing and kind mother of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 12th…“DID YOUR FARMER FATHER ENJOY PLAYING PRANKS OR JOKES ON UNSUSPECTING FAMILY AND FRIENDS?”

POEM – “Our Prankster Playing Papa”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Our prankster playing Papa, He really loved to laugh,

Especially when, Someone else, Received his latest gaff.

You never knew, What lay in store, For yourself or family member,

For in Dad’s head, His mind just sped, With a new joke’s glowing ember.

Just like the time, As little boy, We saw a calf new born,

And I was the target, Of Daddy’s joke, One early summer’s morn.

“Son, go out to that newborn, And lift its little tail”,

Tell me “Single barrel? Or double?”, He meant female or male.

He laughed so hard, As I scratched my head, Had no idea what he meant,

But Dad laughed only louder, As his body doubled bent!

And ohhhhh the shock, That Dad would cause, There at our supper table,

When he’d toss a plastic pile of poo, On the plate of neighbor “Mable”!

She’d turn from conversation, With her head turned to one side,

And SHRIEK with shock, As Dad would laugh, To the point he almost cried 😉

She’d say, “OH RUSS, you stinker!!”, But then she’d laugh along,

While conversation returned to normal, Just like a family song.

Or when a cousin, Would come to stay, Some days upon our farm,

Now THAT was Daddy’s cue for fun, And causing some alarm.

He’d take some plastic puke he bought, And drop it on their chair,

So when they’d come, To sit on down, They’d jump in shock or stare.

Chalk another one up, For our Dad’s laugh, It rang throughout the house,

I’ll bet it scared, The birds outside, And even local mouse.

Girl cousins, When they came to stay, They dare not make a fuss,

Just like when they, Became the joke, That came from Uncle Russ.

Now Dad, He liked his toast burnt black, As it lay there on his plate,

The rest of us, Preferred it “gold”, The type that most folks ate.

Those early teenage cousin girls, Quite feminine, Dainty folk,

Were about to be shocked, As Dad said this, As gleefully he’d poke,

“Ohhh Uncle Russ, That toast is burnt!”, “It’s really not the best.”,

“AWWW, GO AHEAD AND EAT IT!”, “YOU’LL GET HAIR UPON YOUR CHEST!”,

Well, that’s the LAST thing, A little lady, Would ever want to hear,

But Dad just laughed, A hearty howl, And grinned from ear to ear!!! 😉

September 11th…“TELL OF AN EMBARRASSING MOMENT IN 7TH GRADE AT YOUR HIGH SCHOOL IN KIESTER, MINNESOTA.”

With each passing year, life deals us a new ‘hand of cards’ from a continually changing ‘deck’.  This is another way of saying that, in my younger years of little boyhood, girls had germs and were lower than worms!  Yet, as if overnight, hormones began flowing inside of me, during that school year of 1966 – 67, that were transforming how I viewed the opposite sex through what could now be described as ‘rose-colored glasses’.   Amazingly, girls now magically became feminine sources of twitterpation and hopeful romance.  I often found myself daydreaming of becoming the princely ‘knight in shining armor’ for one lovely young lady or another.

All of those wannabe Romeo-type daydreams came to a disastrous end one day in a class we called “Phy. Ed.” (Physical Education).  On that particular day in class, we were being taught the basic rudiments of basketball.

My fellow students and I were divided into groups and each queue gathered in front of different basketball goals, in the Kiester High School gymnasium, to try our hand at what was called a ‘granny shot’ (which is two hands on the basketball that is then swung low, from between the legs, and up to try and make a basket).   Standing behind me, in line that day, were many of the girls that I had hoped to impress with this new surge of girl appreciation’ feelings within me.  Well, I impressed them alright, but not as I had planned.

For us, that year, wearing street clothes was the normal Phy. Ed. apparel and not the loose fitting gym shorts that older students wore.  I wore a pair of dress slacks for the occasion that I had begun to grow out of; so they were a bit too small in the waist and the seat/behind parts.   It was now my turn, up at the Free Throw Line, to make that ‘granny shot’.  With two hands on the ball, I bent wayyyyyy over and squatted to make the shot for a basket.   RIIIIPPPPPP!!! went the crotch seam of my too tight dress slacks.  Those slacks split wide open from the waist band belt loops all the way to the base of my zipper in the front.

The whole line of girls behind me exploded in girly laughter at my ‘exposure’.   A couple gals almost fell to the floor of the gym in convulsive giggles from what had just happened to this farm boy.

I was totally mortified as I shot straight up, spun around, and grabbed for my ‘rear attributes’ that had been split open for all the little ladies to see.  Red-faced was an understatement for me as I backed my way out of that gymnasium full of girly giggling and guffawing.  I headed straight for the High School office and used the phone to make an emergency call to my home to beg my mother to PLEASE come to my rescue  by bringing me a change of blue-jeans or other pants to wear for the remainder of that class day.   Needless to say, the office chair that I was sitting on was the only place of secure modesty for me until my mother came to school to rescue this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

September 10th...”WERE YOU EVER IN A ROCK N ROLL BAND?”

POEM – “We Boys Made Noise”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

We boys made noise, In the days gone by,

When every kid, At least would try.

To be “The King”,  And try to sing,

And pluck a tune, On that guitar thing.

Even though six strings, Were made of junk,

We’d see ourselves, As the kings of hunk.

I’m sure we all thought, That we were cool,

To please the girls, And make them drool.

Good thing we stayed,  Inside garage,

As we attempted to make, A tune massage.

Larry n Steve, n Clyde n me,

Us 60’s kids, We shared some glee.

Our sound rattled the tools, And stirred up dust,

But moms n dads, They never cussed,

So we’d turn up the amplifiers for fun,

And watch those dogs n kitty cats run!

A popular song, Back in our day,

We tried to emulate and play,

We must’ve played it, A million times,

In hopes that folks, Would throw us dimes,

Or maybe dollars, A recording deal?

To thoughts of stardom, Our minds would steal.

To this day, When I hear that song,

It’s back to those teenage, Days I long.

But you know what touched my heart the most?

T’was a Bible verse, Owned by our host.

It was on a plaque, In a father’s shop,

That caused my teenage, Eyes to pop.

No matter the music, Or what I do,

My loving Lord, Is watching, too.

It’s the music of, Our life He sees,

So it is my aim, for Him to please.