August 31st…“DO YOU HAVE A MEMORY INVOLVING AN OUTHOUSE WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG AND LIVING ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA?”

Ohhhh, do you mean those cruddy, crass, crustation-covered crap castles?  Sure, we had one of those when we lived on our farm northwest of Kiester, Minnesota.  That domain of “doo-doo” looked like a tiny house and was located in the woods that made up our “windbreak” that surrounded our main home and buildings.  In case my young readers may be wondering how this little house came into being……..basically, a farmer would dig a deep hole in the ground and then would build a small house over the hole with one or two open-holed seats inside to sit down upon.  A roll of toilet paper (or old Sears catalogs) was then hung inside and you could swing the door shut for privacy and see about getting rid of the human waste that we all produced in daily life.

Since this miniature, architectural creation resembled a house, and, since it was located outdoors in our woods, it was called the “Out House”.   On a summer’s day, if you ventured too close, you could hear someone “breaking wind” (farting) in the windbreak where the Out House was located.  Get it?  Breaking wind? ….in the windbreak?  Oh well……just a pun of a son, I guess 😉

In my very early years of life, there on our farm, our parents had not yet installed a “plumbed-in” flushing toilet inside our bathroom.  Therefore, a person either had to use a “chamber pot” (bucket with a seat on top) or, make a trek outside to the “privvy” in the woods.  I seem to recall that our Out House was a two-seater, but I can’t imagine wanting to have someone “baring their all” and sitting right next to you in such a private moment…..YIKES!!

Of course, for those of us “ancient kids” that had the human need to use such a structure as an Out House, we all knew that the “perfume” of what was down below, in the pit of the Out House, was of a negative, odoriferous organic pungency that was just a part of life, then, that all humans had to deal with.  But face it, folks, when you have the urge to purge, “any port in a storm is good for refuge and relief” (to coin an old sailor’s adage).  So, if your internal intestinal “storm” was urgent enough, you gladly headed for the putrid, peeeyoooo potty parlor!! 😉

Nighttime was the worst time for me to have to go out and use the Out House.  But, since “nature” was calling rather urgently one summer’s evening, I had no choice but to go out there so I could “go”.  I gingerly crept out out towards the Pooper Palace and was in the “process” ( of taking care of human needs) when sounds in the night overcame my super-hyper imagination.  Low hanging branches began to scrape the siding of the structure as the wind brought them “alive” with movement.  Owls were hooting in the darkness of the trees and Mourning Doves sang their sad tunes.  All of those incoming noises fired my already vivid imagination to the point that I thought the “Boogy Man” would grab me in the dark as I stepped out the door after “finishing my business”.   With my heart beating rapidly, after my “paper work” was done, I hooked up my bib overalls in record time.  Bursting out the door of the “privvy”, my bare toes dug in for traction as chunks of dirt and clover shot up behind me.  I ran like a rocket across the yard and back to the welcoming light of a single bulb fixture at the back door of our home and safety once again.

Growing up, when we did, made for some funny, flatulent farm boy times for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 30th...”TELL OF AN INCIDENT WHEN ONE OF YOUR PARENTS WAS VERY ANGRY WITH YOU AND YOU NEEDED TO SPEAK THE TRUTH NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENED.”

POEM – “No Taller Than Truth”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

No man can stand, Any taller than truth, My father and God taught me well.

And when it came, To confessing sin, I knew what I should tell.

In my young days, With the wayward ways, That a child will tend to go,

My father shared, As his soul he bared, That this is what I should know.

“Son, I HATE a liar!, You can never trust that man”,

“With “stories” galore, He’s like the seashore, With shifting, faltering sand”.

“If you speak the truth, I’ll always show, The benefit of the doubt,”

“But lie to me, And you will see, The thunder of my shout!!!!”

So there came a day, In my teenage way, That I was guilty of major sin.

It tore at my heart, From the very start, Oh where would I begin?

To tell the truth?, Or fabricate?, A story that I had made?

Was I to lie?, To try to get by?, From foundations of truth that were laid?

The “jig” was up, For this teen pup, When confronted by my dad,

He was seething with anger, Till he shook, By the doings of his lad.

From my Christian upbringings, I knew what was right, In the eyes of God and my father.

So I spoke the truth, In hopes I’d grow, Much closer to Dad, Not farther.

The moment was tense, As I bared my soul, E’en though his words were terse,

But Dad honored me, For choosing right, And from my father, There was no curse.

As my dad’s life, Drew to an end, From cancer raging within,

I was at peace, That truth had been, My choice in time of sin.

I held his frail body, In my arms, As I said, “I love you, Dad!”,

He said, “I love you, too, my son!”, That really made me glad!!

To know that I stood, As tall as truth, Though easy it was not,

As far as the east is, From the west, Those sins our God forgot!!

August 29th…“SHARE A STORY ABOUT A SPECIAL MOMENT WITH YOUR FATHER ON THE FARM THAT BECAME ALMOST MAGICAL.”

Did you ever notice how the titles of Dad and God both have three letters in their spelling?  As a tiny lad, there on our family farm in southern Minnesota, I worshiped the ground my daddy walked on.  My miniature self wanted to walk like him, talk like him and act like him.  Our daddy was strong, wise and the handsomest dad this side of anywhere.  I longed to spend every minute of every day with him whenever the opportunities arose.  Even just to stand by his side, or ride next to him on the bench seat of our 1950 Ford pickup truck was a treat that couldn’t be beat for this lil farmer boy.

“Green Gables” was the elegant acreage of the farm to the north of our place that housed our most beloved neighbors, Wally and Genevieve Mutschler.  These precious souls, and their wonderful family, were like another set of loving grandparents for we Noorlun kids and also played the parts of another “dad and mom” for our own parents.   Matter of fact, it was through the blessed benevolence of Wally and Genevieve’s generous hearts that our parents could actually make a start of farming from animals that were shared to them from the Mutschlers.

In my tiny life, there came a day when Dad asked if I’d like to ride along with him to the Mutschler farm.  I was ecstatic with happiness and ready to roll!  As the gravel dust billowed behind our pickup truck, Dad shifted down to a lower gear as we made a left banking turn into the farmyard of our dear neighbors.  True to the farm’s name, there were handsome green gables on the house, barn and outbuildings.  Sweet old Wally, replete in his bib overalls, met us at our truck as he and Dad exchanged pleasantries while we made our way into their beautiful, two-story home.  The Mutschler home, to me, was like a castle and I relished every minute inside their stylish kitchen while my father enjoyed a cup of coffee and some visiting with these fellow farmers.

During the visit with Wally and Genevieve, Dad had heard that the Mutschlers had been blessed with a giant batch of baby chicks in their Brooder House, so, at the end of the visit, Dad and I headed that way for a look.  It was a sweet moment because it was just Dad and I that took a gentle walk through the green, dappling shade of the treed windbreak until we came to that Brooder House of baby chickens.  Always in the shadow of my daddy’s legs, I stopped when he stopped by the doorway of this little building.  I remember him squatting down to my minuscule height so he could impress upon me what he was about to say.  “Son, I’m going to allow you to come inside this Brooder House with me and see something VERY special!  There are hundreds of beautiful baby chicks inside here.  In order to see them, though, you have to promise me that you will be silent and move very slowly in silence.  The reason for being quiet is this…..if those tiny chicks get spooked (scared), they’ll be frightened and will run away from us into a corner of the room.  Sadly, in that corner, they would pile up on top of each other and cause those chicks on the bottom of the pile to be trampled and smothered to death.”

Deeply impressed with what my father just shared, he ever so quietly opened the door of this little chicken house and the two of us floated inside on gossamer wings.  The only light, in that dark quietness, was from heat lamps that cast a golden glow upon a literal moving carpet of fluffy baby chickens.  Their tiny peeping voices were like music to my farmer boy ears!  True to my daddy’s instructions, I hardly moved a muscle as this precious “carpet of golden life” moved with an innocent marvel around our lower human appendages.  It was as if we were standing on a farmer’s version of “holy ground”.

Life was a triple treat for me that day!!  Why?  Well, for #1…I had been obedient to my father’s instructions and had garnered his smile and appreciation for being his “big boy”.  Then, #2…I had the joy of visiting my “other grandparents” at Wally & Genevieve Mutschler’s Green Gables Farm.  And, #3…I had witnessed a moving carpet of golden softness in the form and beauty of God’s creation in those darling little baby chicks.   What a GREAT day it was to be a Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! 😉

August 28th…“TELL ABOUT A UNIQUE PERSON WHO LIVED IN YOUR HOMETOWN WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY GROWING UP IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA.”

[Author’s Preface……August 28th, 2023.   Mr. Beryl Franklin ‘Lightning’ Lark was born September 6th, 1919 in Boone, Nebraska.  He was one of a family of seven with three other brothers and three sisters.  Beryl died on January 4th, 1989 {at 69 years of age} in Freeborn, Minnesota and he lies in rest at the Glenwood Cemetery in Ogden, Iowa.  I discovered through my research that Mr. Lark dutifully registered for The Selective Service during World War II (I even made a copy of his Draft Card) and that he even found love and was married, in 1947, to a young lady by the name of Elsie Chestnut…….although, during his tenure in our village, it appears that that marriage came to an end as he lived single in those Kiester days.

Like a good meal, every community is home to individuals who bring a ‘flavor’ of their own to the ambiance of the village they have chosen to call home.  Mr. Lark, while he called Kiester, Minnesota his home, was part of the ‘recipe’ that made our little town special.  Was he perfect?  By no means!  Yet, it would do no good to elaborate on his failings as a human in this story forum.  Matter of fact, in another story here at my website, I sing the praises of Mr. Lark for capturing one of my favorite toys from the junkyard there in town and selling it to my father.  As a kid, I treasured that metal orange dump truck and kept that Tonka truck for YEARS until my own children could play with it, too. 

You see, friends, the reason I share this background information is because when I first published this story, a current resident of the Kiester, Minnesota area took it upon himself to severely excoriate me for publicly regarding my sharing of this memory from my childhood.  His remarks cut me deeply!! 😦   I had merely shared my childhood observations of ‘Lightning’ from the perspective of those times of childhood innocence and never intended to denigrate Mr. Lark in any way.  Sadly, the attacking person failed to see that there is a ‘happy ending’ in the story of my farmer parents choosing to show love to ‘Lightning’ by inviting him into our home for meals and fellowship and that our farmer father saw to it that Mr. Lark was safely transported back to town and his humble abode.  With my heart having shared this preface, I now bring you the story of ‘Lightning’.] 

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He may have rolled into town inside one of the many railway freight cars that stopped at our village in southern Minnesota.  Or, he may have been a son from a local farm family.  Either way, Beryl ‘Lightning’ Lark was a colorful character that found our small town of Kiester, Minnesota to his liking and called it home for the largest share of his adult days.

Somehow, over the years, Beryl was tagged with the nickname, ‘Lightning’.  And, from my childhood recall, it likely did NOT pertain to him being speedy on his feet by any means.   When it came to physical attributes, that literally poor man had to merely open his mouth to show that there weren’t many real teeth in attendance, per se, but only a vacant dental cave with a single stalagmite and stalactite here and there in his cavernous smile.

One thing for sure, ‘Lightning’ never looked like he was starving……wink, wink ;o).  Through his various means of garnering some sort of income, Mr. Lark became one very roley-poley man.  That fact became seam-splittingly obvious when he’d try to fit into a lady’s old dress while riding one of his bikes through various parades in our town over the years.

Amongst the various parade entries of marching band, fancy decorated floats and sparkling cars during festivities in our hometown of Kiester, Minnesota……….there’d come old ‘Lightning’ on a bike, pulling a child’s wagon and throwing candy to the kids in the crowd along the way.  With about a six month supply of dirt all over his body, he was quite the sight wearing a lady’s frilly hat with a matching dress on that very soiled body.  His burgeoning belly had burst out the side seam of that dress that was wayyy too small and revealed sections of his ‘personal landscape’ as he wiggled-n-jiggled by to the crowd’s delight.

Our farmer parents, on occasion, would hire one of the local grain grinding businesses to come out to our farm with their special machinery to grind field corn into a meal mixture, which we then, in turn, would feed to our cows and other livestock.   Good old ‘Lightning’ had been given the opportunity, by the business owner, to earn a few dollars as one of the crew of the grinding service that day.

After the grinding operation was completed that day, the other feed grinding workers on the crew had already gone home to their families, but not ‘Lightning’.    With no family to rush home to, ‘Lightning’ meandered up to our mother’s kitchen and engaged her in conversation while she prepared our savory family supper that evening.

Since Mr. Lark was an unmarried person (during that time of his life) with a microscopic source of income, he was limited to taking up residence in an itty-bitty shack that was either near or actually IN the town’s junkyard.  So you see, as a man who had to fend for himself in the food department of life……he was in no hurry, whatsoever, to want to leave the tantalizing aromas of our mother’s delicious cooking and that warm, cozy kitchen of ours.  Being the generous soul she always was, it didn’t take Mom long to realize that this long-winded talker was hoping for an invitation to stay for supper with our family.

From Mom’s kind heart came these words, “Lightning, would you like to stay and have supper with us?”   Spoken through his toothless mouth and with an accompanying speech impediment, his classic response to Mom’s invitation has become a staple in our family ever since his utterance of ……“Well, thince ya twithted mah arm, SURE!  I’ll thtay fer thupper!!”  

Mom had to squelch a giggle in reacting to ‘Lightning’s’ quick response to her invitation.  When Dad had finished milking the cows, he also arrived upon the sweet aromatic scene of supper on the table and our guest of honor for that evening…….Mr. Beryl Lark.  Generous were the pleasant portions, that evening, of food, friendship and fellowship with ‘Lightning’ that made for a pleasant moment to remember for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 27th…“DID YOUR FATHER EVER DO SOMETHING THAT YOU THOUGHT WOULD GET YOU BOTH INTO TROUBLE?”

I guess if there’s a category for the “GULLIBLE GUS AWARD”, I’d be an Olympic Contender!!!  Such was the case in the late summer of 1967.  Our former farmer father had just been hired on to the staff of the Battle Ground School District and was assigned as the Head Custodian at Glenwood Heights Elementary School.

 

 

As a teenager of just 13 years, I spent a lot of time with Dad as he learned his new trade of being a custodian during those August weeks before school started session again for the new class year.  One day, we were all by ourselves in the school building and walking down the long, echoing hallway.  Dad noticed one of the fire alarm pull stations on the wall.  He said, “Hmmmm, I wonder what would happen if I pull this fire alarm handle?”  In earnest, I replied, “NO, DAD!!!  It says its a local alarm and it MIGHT be hooked up to the nearby Fire Department!!  We might get arrested for turning in a false alarm!!”   With a twinkle in his mischievous Norwegian eye, that stinker of a dad pulled open that fire alarm station box anyway and set off the enormous fire siren that was right over our heads.

The screaming decibel level of that fire siren just about peeled our ears from off of our heads!!!  “GULLIBLE GUS” (alias yours truly) is freaking out as I run down the hall to see if fire trucks are pulling into the parking lot, yet.  Ohhh my goodness, Ohhh my worry warts, Ohhh ragelsnats boogers!!!

 

 

 

I could, with my overly healthy imagination, envision angry firemen yelling at us both for interrupting their day with a false alarm.  Heck, who knows, maybe the police will show up, then Dad and I’d BOTH be hauled off to jail for toying with such a serious infraction of public safety.

Well, that dear old dad of ours was as “cool as a cucumber” in all of my fire alarm frenzy.   All the while that siren is screaming over our heads, he looked the over the surfaces of the alarm box and noticed that there was a set screw at the top of the red box with a “cabinet (flat) blade” screw head used to open the hinged alarm box.  Dad calmly pulled out his screwdriver and gave that set screw a twist.  Sure enough, the alarm box popped right open on its hinge and revealed a simple toggle switch inside.  Dad gave that toggle switch a snap in the opposite direction and killed that siren above our heads.  By this time, both of our ears were ringing loudly as the siren began to recede in decibels, returning the hallway to its original peaceful condition.

As usual, Dad had the last laugh as he teased me real good about what had just happened!!  And, we also learned that “LOCAL ALARM” was just that, it occurred ONLY inside our own LOCAL building and nowhere else.  It was an embarrassing, funny and learning moment for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

 

 

August 26th…“WHAT WERE TELEPHONES LIKE WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG?”

POEM – “Box On The Wall, To Talk, That’s All!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

What’s that you say?, A box on the wall?

And all you can do, Is talk, that’s all?

And what’s that wheel, With plastic holes?

As if attacked, By plastic moles.

And what’s that cord, On a two speaker thing?

You say the sound, Went ring a ding ding?

How archaic!, And simply gaudy!

With this you talked, To old Aunt Maudy?

Yup, grandchildren, When I was a kid,

We thought these were modern, Our phones we did!

Of course there was, A “party line”,

Where two, or more, Could talk just fine.

But if another, Wanted to talk,

You’d have to wait, Or grumble n balk.

Until the first parties, Cleared the wires,

After putting out, Their social fires.

The only “Speed Dial”, Was to see how fast,

You could spin your numbers, Round that plexi-wheel glass.

Now there weren’t no thing, Like answering machine,

You just had to hope, That the king or queen,

Of the house you called, Would be at home,

To answer your call, Before they’d roam.

If you called your lover, On that old phone,

And you really wanted, To be alone,

You could only go, Far as cord could reach,

To talk to your darling, Sweetie Peach.

At best, you could maybe, Step outside,

As patio door, Behind you would slide,

To be able to talk, In tones of hush,

As you shared that lovey,  Dovey mush.

Even so there was something, Sweet about phones,

That inhabited all of our, Childhood zones.

Maybe they weren’t “smart”, Nor could music play,

But we thought they were fine, In the “talk only” day!!! 😉

August 25th…“HOW DID THE WORK ON YOUR FARM GET DONE IF YOUR FATHER WAS SICK OR INJURED?”

POEM – “Sick Or Fit, Our Dad Was It!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

The other day, I had the flu, And really felt like junk!

With fever, pains, And jumbled brains, My energy just sunk!

So I reached for a phone, To call a Sub, To work at job in my stead,

While I stayed at home, And didn’t roam, Very far from my soft bed.

As I lay, And convalesced, At least three days or more,

I pondered how, Our farmer dad, Survived in days of yore.

Here in this modern culture, We have things pretty easy,

But not our father, He couldn’t bother, Even when he felt all queasy.

Like the mean old cow, Who swung her head,  And knocked him off a ladder.

He broke three ribs, As he screamed in pain, Which made me all the sadder!

The only thing, That Mom could do, Was wrap his rib-cage tightly,

Then sent him back out, To milk those cows, Just like he did so nightly.

Even though our brother, And blessed mother, Worked hard from sun to sun,

Whether sick or fit, Our dad was it, When it came to “getting it done”!

No need for Super Hero cape, Or “S” upon his chest,

When I think of strong, I can’t go wrong, When I label Dad “The Best”!

Even in his pain, With energy drain, Our father carried on,

It makes me proud, And I say it loud,  GLAD TO BE A NORWEGIAN FARMER’S SON!! 😉

August 24th...”DID YOU HAVE TO OBEY A CURFEW (time to come home) AS A YOUTH ON YOUR FARM?”

A Ring-necked Pheasant jumped into the golden evening sky with its chattering call as another day of life was coming to a close on our farm.  Thankfully, there was no set time on the clock for curfew at our farm home in the lush south-lands of central Minnesota.  For any who may be curious, the word “curfew” comes from the French language and means “to cover the fire”…….as if to make things dark to go to sleep.  😉

In the blissful innocence of childhood, farm life was all I knew and enjoyed.  Thanks to a very strong Christian influence, within the farming culture all around us, we could, with complete safety, enjoy life and play, without supervision, far into those summer evenings and not have to worry about being attacked by evil thugs, wicked gangs or drive-by shootings.   All this because the rural family unit was so vividly strong in those sweet times.

As I look back, I find that our farming culture, in those dear days of yesteryear, was absolutely ideal for the raising of a child.  For instance, whenever any of our cousins, or neighboring families, came to visit, we little ones could engage in the classic childhood games of “Hide N Seek”, “Annie-I-Over” (the roof of the house with a ball) or just make up games as we explored the farm while passing the evening hours with joyful abandon.

Only our imaginations limited our joy-filled activities as Mr. Sun would wink his way goodnight over the horizon silhouettes of our corn and soybean fields.   To our joy, there was an inaudible peacefulness of our farm life that, unlike the big cities, was not attacked by the molesting sounds of snarled, angry traffic replete with their livid horn honking.  Also absent were incessant sirens, hideously loud stereo systems or other audible intrusions into what we knew as our tender, docile world.

Since there were only the evening sounds of crickets and nighttime breezes across the landscape, we could easily hear our mother’s call when it was time for supper, bath or bedtime.  Although, I’m sure we tested her patience more than a few times when we were engaged in sleuthing the shadows in conquest of some imaginary bad guys during our latest little adventure.

If we were playing a bit farther outside of our farmyard (say, in the fields), then our father could “cut the air” with his shrill whistle that could be heard all the way to Planet Mars and back…….or so it seemed to me, at least.  That piercing, shrill whistle meant that it was time to leave the gentle, kind darkness of the farm fields and get our legs moving towards our farm house and waiting family.

Whether it was catching fireflies in Mason jars, or just counting stars in the black velvet Minnesota sky while laying on cool, green grass…….the word, CURFEW, seemed to take on a happy meaning for me (even though we had no curfew, other than bedtime).   That happy acronym to me was:

C…hildren   U…nderstood (that a) R…ural   F…amily   E…qualed   W…onderment!!!

Such are the musings of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 23rd…“DID YOUR FATHER ALLOW YOU TO RIDE WITH HIM ON A TRACTOR DURING HIS FIELD WORK ON YOUR FARM?”

Meadowlarks warbled a song in our ears as Dad and I stepped outside the back door of our home and heard the screen door slap shut behind us.  Those feathered chirps were coming from our young cornfield that lay to the west of our treed windbreak there on our family farm.  The fluted trill of our little ones on the wing was so sweet, it was as if those golden-breasted Meadowlarks were beckoning us to come out there to keep them company.   Mom’s excellent breakfast was still warm in our tummies and that new-day Minnesota sunshine was warming the back of our respective bib overalls as we made our way to the Farmall B tractor that had our crop cultivator already mounted and ready to go to work.

This was a very special day in my young boy life, for I had crossed a threshold of maturity where my father said that I now could ride with him on our tractors as he did his field work.  Today’s tractor chore entailed cultivating the weeds that were trying to take over in the field-corn.

In a way, farming is like a sport or athletic competition of sorts.  Our hard-working father, Russell, was always in competition with everything from time (getting crops to market), to weather (getting alfalfa baled and off the field before a rainstorm hit)…….and, in this case, Dad was competing with weeds that wanted to grow in between the rows of our field-corn.

Our parent’s farm consisted of 120 acres of ebony-rich soil that could grow just about any type of seed you chose to plant in it.  How much is an acre? (my young readers may ask?)  Well, for those of you who watch football, one acre is the equivalent to almost 3/4 of a football field in size.  Now, as an example, let’s say that my father had 40 acres (of his 120 acres) planted in corn.  Just think how long it would take him to chop the weeds out of that much acreage by hand?  That would be a giant amount of hoe, hoe hoeing, ya?    Well, thanks to the invention called a “Cultivator”, Dad was able to attach that four row device to the frame of our Farmall tractor and we were now able to conquer those weeds at many times the speed that it would have taken one person to even try to do the same chore by hand.

A gentle rain, during the night, had moistened our rich, black earth so that it gave off its own delicious fragrance.  Dad climbed aboard our Farmall tractor and plopped into that spring-loaded seat.  I also climbed onboard this red chariot and sat down on the axle next to Dad.  I was beyond ecstatic to have reached the age where Dad thought I was now strong enough to hang on and to now ride along with him on this “iron horse” as he worked our fields.

With his work-boot pushed to the starter button below, our Farmall B sputtered to life.  With the left clutch pedal fully pushed in, the metal, vertical gear shift handle was shoved into the 1st gear position.   Dad then let out the clutch pedal the tractor slowly moved forward as the two of us bumped along the graveled farmyard while we made our way out to the corn field.  The Cultivator was mounted to the tractor frame and hung above ground.  The Cultivator even jingled a little song as the chevron tread of the tractor tires powered us along the field edge.  Digging shovels or “shoes” on that Cultivator were arranged so that, when the weight of the implement pushed them into the soil, the V-shaped shovels would pierce below the surface of the soil and uproot any weeds that were growing between the rows of corn.

As Dad steered the Farmall into the first rows of corn to be “weeded”, he stopped the engine and had a very serious talk with me about safety.  Without fail, I was to ALWAYS hold on very tightly to the frame of the tractor at all times while riding along.  Farming was oftentimes dangerous work and to strongly emphasize the point for safety, Dad told me the following story.  Dad had heard the very sad reality of a nearby farmer whose little boy was riding along on his daddy’s tractor while his dad pulled a sharp, round-bladed implement called a Gang Disc.  The little boy, in this story, had NOT hung on tight, as he was told and lost his grip.  Sadly, the child had fallen to the ground from the back of his daddy’s tractor.  In the blink of an eye, the Gang Disc had run over the child and killed him by its multiple sharp blades.  Needless to say, after that story, this Norwegian Farmer’s Son held on very tightly any time Dad allowed me to ride along upon his mechanized marvel.

With that wise advice shared, Dad re-started the engine, revved up the motor speed, dropped the Cultivator into the first four rows of corn and off we went.   We spent a good share of that day hoe, hoe hoeing our way to a beautiful field of corn.  I often found my gaze fixed on either the spinning lug nuts of the front tractor wheels, or the cleaning action of those many Cultivator shovels as they turned over the weeds and soil in their wake.  I thought, “What a time saver this machine is for Dad!”

I felt a new belonging and closer to Dad than I had before.  In years past, being too young, I was only able to sit in the shade of the tree-line along our windbreak and observe our daddy as he plied the fields of our farm back and forth with his powerful agricultural machines.  Here, now, I was old enough to be elevated to the honor of riding along with Dad, and would someday be given the task to drive our tractors all by myself.  What had transpired that day, under the glorious glow of our Minnesota sun, was a truly grand adventure in the next maturing step of agriculture for this young Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 22nd…“TELL ABOUT A FAVORITE TEDDY BEAR YOU HAD AS A CHILD.”

POEM – “Tender Teddy Twins”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

When this boy was little, As a bug in a rug,

I caught me a “bear”, And gave him a hug.

“Tiny Teddy”, Was my delight,

And he gave me joy, Through every night.

Each day I’d drag him, As I’d play,

I’d toss him and catch him, In my little boy way.

He was with me, Every place I’d go,

I felt so tall, Cause he was small, ya know?

When nights were dark,  After lights were out,

I didn’t wanna cry, Or give a shout.

I’d squeeze “Tiny Teddy”, Till his eyes nearly blew,

And if he could’ve breathed, He woulda fainted, too! 😉

But there t’weren’t no softer, Friend than mine,

“Tiny Teddy” and I, Got along just fine.

So strong was our bond, As we played in the gravel,

That “Tiny Teddy”, He started to unravel.

His stitches came loose, An eye fell out,

And there I’d go, To Momma and shout,

“Hey Mom, can you fix, My teddy bear friend?”

And like all moms, There was no end,

To the magic she could do, With a needle and thread,

And soon, “Tiny Teddy”, Was back in my bed.

Just when “Tiny Teddy”, Was ’bout loved to death,

Along came an auntie, Who some called, “Beth”.

Her husband worked, In a business making toys,

And even made teddy bears, For girls and boys.

When they made a trip, From the city to our farm,

I was always taken, By her beauty and charm.

On one happy visit, They brought “Pouty Teddy”,

Since my old pal was worn out, For this toy I was ready.

We all thought it magic, How our dear Uncle Gene,

Could actually get paid, For making toys so keen.

Even though they never had, Any children of their own,

They made memories for us, That have stayed until we’ve grown.

And even though this grandpa now, Is old with belly big,

I still have both my teddies, That makes me dance a jig!

They’re tucked away, Into a box, With padding all around,

And protected there, From age’s harm, In a spot where there’s no sound.

But if my very old teddies, Could come back out to play,

I think they’d enjoy grand-kid’s sounds, If they had anything to say.

They played a part, In my tiny life, Back in chapters sweet and warm,

In days of helping me to play, Full of joy there on our farm.