August 11th…“BACK ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA, DID YOU EVER SEE WORK AND PLEASURE HAPPEN AT THE SAME TIME?”

POEM – “Havin’ Fun When There Weren’t No Sun!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Havin’ fun, When there weren’t no sun, And ya had some chores to do,

Was an easy task, Just had to ask, “Hey Cousins, Ya wanna come too?”

Now my Cousin Val, She was a pal, She’d squeeze me right on sight!”

Brenda n Dee, They’d come with glee, When the Summer weather was right.

In the Summer rain, We had much to gain, When it came to work AND fun.

Had to walk to the pasture, To get the cows, Now our fun had just begun.

No need umbrellas, Let’s just get wet, As we walked down gravel road.

The rain was as warm, As an indoor shower, While we hopped like a horny-toad.

We were doin’ work, That of gathering cows, To come home for the evening milking,

But we didn’t care, About soaking hair, Or that clothes were soggy and wilting.

When we got to the meadow, Sis, Cousins n this fellow,

We all started yelling, “COME BOSS!!”

The cows heard our call, And walked through grass tall,

As some pebbles we’d playfully toss.

Soooo, work can be fun, When there ain’t any sun, It’s all just a matter of fact.

For whoever has, The most fun WINS!, It’s all in how, You decide to act! 😉

August 10th…“IN YOUR YOUNG MINNESOTA DAYS, DID YOU EVER GET SEPARATED FROM YOUR PARENTS AT A PUBLIC EVENT?”

There I stood, lost in a forest of adult kneecaps…and no momma anywhere to be seen!!  It was 1959 and time for the Annual Kiester School Carnival that was held in the ‘Old Gymnasium’ there at our cherished school in southern Minnesota.  In November each year, the hectic times of harvest were, for the most part, completed, so farmers and their families readily looked forward to this elaborate festivity in our dear educational alma mater each fall.  Even as a tiny ‘whippersnapper’, I was quick to absorb the grand class and style with which our hometown could put on a pageant.

The late 1950’s were still a time in our nation when people cared about looking good and doing good.  It was a time when core values of decency and good clean fun still reigned supreme.  On this occasion, even though it’s true that I had become separated from my mother and father, I wasn’t concerned for my safety and just flowed with this forest of adults around me and drank in the wonder of this fun moment in my tiny life.

A very dear friend of our big sister, Rosemary, had been honored that year with being elected “Junior High, Queen Of The Carnival”.   This young lady’s name was Gloria Oshiem (now Mrs. Fallgatter).  Even being the tiny toad of a boy I was in those days, I was deeply impressed with Gloria’s stunning beauty!  And, from the glowing memories shared to me by our big sister, Gloria’s beauty was both inside AND out, for she was a true queen in many ways.

Even an itty bitty widdo kid like myself could still appreciate class and style in the way our school put on the best of the best for all to enjoy!!  There was the Royal Court that honored its selected queens, an elegant coronation ceremony and all things worthy of eloquent regalness became part of the fanfare that made this occasion special for all involved.

Now, you have to realize, that when you’re only ‘knee-high to a hiccup’, anything and EVERY-thing is a really big deal!!  That was happily the case as this ‘lost boy’ was able to play games from booth to booth there in our ‘Old Gymnasium’.  I thought it to be magical how I could take my play fishing pole, toss the ‘hook’ through the window of the Fish Pond Game and then feel a tug on my ‘fishing line’ from inside the booth.  I would carefully pull back on my play fishing pole and PRESTO!…..low and behold there’d be a prize of some sort hanging from the ‘hook’…..I was ELATED!!! 😉

The carnival games, with all their colored decorations, had been so much fun, yet I figured it was about time for me to get unlost.  As I reflect back on those days of long ago, I’m deeply grateful to the Lord and also to my parents for living in a small town where everyone knew everyone and we all took care of each other.  So, in a sense, even though my dear mother was not near me at that moment, I still had the ‘family’ of townsfolk who knew my parents and lovingly looked after their tiny boy.

When you’re barely old enough to know what is your right and left hand, you’re also unable to discern the difference between a polka dot and a spot.  I began looking up into the ‘treetops’ of adult heads who could actually see around that ‘Old Gymnasium’.  I figured I’d pick out a friendly-faced lady and have her tell ‘shorty me’ if she could see my mother from ‘up there’.  After tugging judiciously on the lady’s dress to get her attention, here’s what I said, “Have you seen my Mommy?  She’s the lady with SPOTS all over her dress!!”  (that evening our mother had worn a dark blue/purple dress with a polka dot print in the fabric).  That kind-hearted woman howled with lady laughter as she interpreted my five year old language and, at the same time, could see my mother in the distance.  Holding my hand, she gently drew me along with her as we weaved our way through the crowd until she reunited me once again with my loving mother as we, together, relished the rest of this fun evening of classy carnival conviviality for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 9th…“WERE YOU EXCITED OR NERVOUS WHEN YOU WENT TO TEST FOR YOUR DRIVER’S LICENSE AT 16 YEARS OF AGE?”

When we’re young we want to be old, and when we’re old we want to be young.  Although that may not make much sense to a person at the young end of life’s spectrum right now, it sure came into play with THIS kid, in that being older sooner was especially true when it came to the desire for me to be old enough to drive anything with wheels and a motor.  Ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I wanted to be placed on the seat of a farm tractor and hear it’s powerful engine roar.  I was hooked….when can I drive one??!!  Since it took a truck or tractor to do many of the chores on our farm, I was one blessed boy to be able to learn to drive them long before my “city slicker” friends and family did .  The day of “old enough” finally came, and, if I had been a mouse in the corner of that pickup truck cab, I would have howled with little mouse laughter as our father had me climb onto the bench seat of our 1950 Ford pickup to begin learning how to drive it.

Even though I sat on the very edge of that truck’s bench seat, my little legs could barely reach the clutch, brake and gas pedals.  But, with practice, I done “dooood” it!

Like any little wannabe farmer, the adventure of tractor driving was a fun thrill for me! Our International Farmall Model “B” was the smallest tractor our Daddy owned, but with our father’s teaching, I was able to master that little red workhorse.  In time, I was able to spin 360 degree “cookies” in the muddy manure of our cow-yard and explore our beautiful 120 acres of land with that mini farmer’s friend.

My many driving adventures during our farm years had to be put on hold when our family moved to Battle Ground, Washington in 1967.   We no longer had 120 acres of land of our own for me to drive on, so I had to relinquish those joys and relegate myself to being a ride along person and let our licensed parents do the driving.  When I reached the age of 15 1/2 years, I signed up for a Driver’s Permit and enrolled in the “Driver’s Education Course” at Battle Ground High School.   Mr. Newton, our instructor, chose me, one day, to be the driver in our training car.  Three fellow classmates sat in the back seat, with Mr. Newton up front with me as he sat in the passenger seat.  As I got the car up to speed on the highway, heading west, I was being “tail-gated” (driver behind you and too close to you) by an impatient driver.  I checked my speedometer and saw that I was doing 48 miles per hour.  Two miles below the posted speed of 50 miles per hour.  Just then, the cantankerous driver behind us blasted his horn and passed our training car in burst of speed and shot on down the highway.  I was flabbergasted when Mr. Newton chided me by saying, “If you had been doing 50 miles per hour, he wouldn’t have passed you!”   To myself I thought, “Ya RIGHT, Mr. Newton, another two measly little miles per hour would have kept that crazy driver behind me!!!  GEEESH!!”

“Driver’s Education Class” was finally behind me and I was now ready for the real deal of taking my official driver’s test to achieve my full driver’s license.  I was a nervous wreck that day.  A real “Nervous Ned!”.  Our father, Russell, rode along with me as I drove us into Vancouver, Washington to the Licensing Bureau.  I was SO stressed out that day, that when we’d come to an intersection, I’d make the car come to a stop, but everything in my scope of vision continued to move away from me.  Hallucinations from the stress, I guess.  Kinda like a vehicle vertigo 😉

First came the written driver’s test and, BOY, did I ever bungle that one.  One of the questions stated, “If you come to a sign that says SPEED ZONE AHEAD, what do you do?”  Well, I figured speed is speed, right?  So my answer was ….SPEED UP.  When I turned in my test to the Motor Vehicles Officer at the counter, he began grading it in front of Dad and I.  All of a sudden, the Officer busts out laughing!  Dad asked him what was the matter?  When the Officer told Dad about my SPEED UP answer, then they both started to howl with laughter.   Heck, how did I know you were supposed SLOW DOWN in a SPEED ZONE????!!!! 😉

Now came the real nail-biter!!!  A very serious-looking Department of Motor Vehicles Examiner meets me at our family car and climbs into the passenger seat while Dad waits for us on the sidewalk.  It’s time for the DRIVE  TEST!  As the first few minutes of the test roll by, I’m not doing tooo bad…..until…..the examiner commands me to complete a parallel parking exercise along a rather busy city street there in downtown Vancouver.  Even now, after a half century has gone by, I still HATE to parallel park.  I thought to myself, that day, “Well, here goes!”   Upon my completion of an ATTEMPT at a parallel park, my fears of colliding with the other parked cars had me so far out from the curb, that the Examiner actually got OUT of my car and walked over to the curb, bent down and said, “I THINK you’re a little too far away from the curb!!”  Like duhhhhhhh!!!!   I was slain by utter embarrassment!!!

That Motor Vehicles Department Examiner showered pure mercy upon me that day, because even with that horrible excuse for parallel parking, he still passed me and I received my official Washington State Driver’s License!!!  Overall, even with the stress, it was a super happy moment for this 16 year old Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!

August 8th…“DID YOU EVER NEGLECT YOUR FARM CHORES AND SUFFER DISCIPLINE FOR NOT OBEYING YOUR FATHER’S ORDERS?”

I could hear my enraged farmer father nearly rip the back screen door off of its squeaky hinges as he roared into the house looking for me.  My immediate thoughts were…..”I’m gonna be one chunk of 10 year old dead meat!”…..”My funeral will be on Tuesday!”…..and other parallels of “suffer the wrath” type of apprehensions of imminent DOOM!!!  You may wonder how I got to this point in my kid life that day?  Well, here’s how things came to a boiling point.

There’s a cute saying that I’ve heard through the years and it goes something like this….”I can resist anything, EXCEPT temptation!” 😉  That kinda sums up what happened to me on that warm, late spring afternoon when I got home from school.  I jumped off of that yellow bus and waved goodbye to our friendly bus driver, Marie Meyer, and then proceeded to run into our farm home.  Upstairs I flew, for I knew that part of my childhood family farm duties were to change out of school clothes and into my work bib overalls and buzz out to the barn to help Dad with the evening chores.  My main task, each evening, was to feed our 15 head of Holstein dairy cows (plus other assorted livestock) and then be available to do whatever other chores Dad had that needed to be done.

As I bounced down the wooden stairs to the first floor of our farm home, some mysterious power drew me over to the black and white television set that sat in the corner of our Living Room.  It was as if a wee small voice in my little boy head said, “Go ahead.  Twist that knob and turn on the television.  Just take a little peek at what cartoons are being shown on “Bart’s Clubhouse Cartoon Show”.  “  Rather than being obedient to what I knew was expected of me by my father, I was DISobedient and turned on that television set.

Sure enough, a glance became a gleefully long line of watching cartoons like “Popeye The Sailor”, “Bugs Bunny”, Tom & Jerry” and my very favorite……”The Rocky & Bullwinkle Show”.

I lost all track of time while our cows in the barn were getting hungry and NOISY with loud, continuous “moooooing”!  Their tummies were on a time clock and it was past their feeding time.  Poor Daddy, he had had enough of their bellowing and came ‘a hunting’ for the son who was supposed to be feeding those bovine beauties.  Well, when that back screen door of the house was ripped open, I was jolted from my cartoon trance and felt immediate terror for having been disobedient to what I was supposed to have done for Dad.

In his booming voice, Dad hollered out, “Whaddaya doin’ in here watching cartoons!?!?  Those cows are out there bellowing their heads off cause they’re hungry!!!  Now get down to that barn RIGHT NOW!!!”  Since there were no battery-operated remotes in those days, I raced over to the TV and spun the power knob to the OFF position.

Red-faced with anger, Dad was standing in the kitchen as I cowered past him on my way to the barn.  Just as my little boy butt cheeks passed him, his big old farm boot connected with my backside and the force of his kick actually lifted me off of the kitchen floor.  My lil whippersnapper feet were already spinning in mid-air as I touched ground and I shot out that screen door like a bolt of lightning and kept that pace all the way down to our barn as I hurriedly got our cows fed and any other chores that had been waiting for me.  For all the rest of that evening, while I did my chores there in the barn, whenever Dad would come anywhere near me, I would spin to face him so that my bruised backside could not be in range of his angry work boot again.

Now if I had been obedient in the FIRST place, my necessary discipline from Dad would not have occurred.   And notice, I did NOT use the word punishment.  The very word “discipline” comes from the word “disciple”.   To paraphrase, “discipline” is a form of training someone to do a special work.  Jesus had His twelve disciples and he trained them diligently to carry on His work here on earth.  To the other end of the spectrum, “punishment” is a negative term and the outcome is for someone to suffer and feel shame.  We children all knew our farmer father, Russell, loved us and wanted us to grow up to be responsible adults some day.  This had been one of Dad’s ways to turn me in the right direction of learning obedience.  With a caring heart, my daddy had the overall picture of eventual maturity in mind for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 7th...”IN YOUR FARM DAYS (AND BEYOND) DID YOUR DOCTOR MOM HAVE A FAVORITE REMEDY TO FIX A SICK TUMMY OR INJURY?”

POEM – “God Bless Our Doctor Mom!” by N. Elliott Noorlun

God bless our Doctor Mom, For always being there,

To aid our many owees, From our toes up to our hair.

From trips and falls, Upon our knees,  To bruises on our bum,

To injuries that happened, That we didn’t know what from.

Sometimes she’d kiss and blow, Our owee pain away,

Then shoo us from her presence, To go back out to play.

But sometimes blood was ooozing, We’d run to her in fright,

Then out would come the Band-aids, To hide the OUCH from sight.

Tis amazing how a Band-aid, Applied with gentle love,

Can brush away the tears that flowed, Like kiss from little dove.

Of course, there were occasions, When the pain was placed within,

So out would come the bottle, Of good ol’ Bayer Aspirin.

“Now drink this down”, “And give it time”,  Our Doctor Mom would say,

“And soon your headache’ll POOF be gone”, “You’ll be ready for more fun play!”,

She had no college medical degree, But we trusted her completely,

As she approached our every need, Administering love so sweetly.

There were, on two occasions, When barefoot I did run,

Nails poked inside my little boy feet, Such an ouch that weren’t no fun.

Blood poisoning, Was what I had, And poultice was applied,

To draw out all the poisons, Or else I may have died.

Throughout her life, She’s been a wife, And yet, she’s been much more,

When life got terse, She became our nurse, With a mother’s love galore!!!!

August 6th…“TELL ABOUT BOARD GAMES OR CARD GAMES YOU PLAYED THROUGH THE YEARS.”

POEM – “Bored On The Board” by N. Elliott Noorlun

When it comes to board games, You can count me out,  I tend to get bored on the board.

There’s not a competitive bone in my “bod”,   And I couldn’t care less who scored.

I guess I take after, My dear old dad,  Who saw all games as a waste.

“For grown men to chase, A silly old ball”,  Was his usual stinging lambaste. 😉

When games were brought forth, I usually went out, To find something else to do.

Strategy wasn’t my thing, And it held no zing,  As it did for the rest of the crew.

I’d pick up a book, And find a good nook, To get lost in the tales of a story.

I’d read of adventures, Way back before dentures,  With all of their riches and glory.

While the rest of the clan were arguing,  Over who got the highest point,

I’d plug in a movie, From Silver Screen days, And have the best fun in the joint.

And if push came to shove, I would go outside,  To gaze at the flowers by hours.

Rather than listen to the gamers a hissin’,  And hear how their gaming went sours.

A few table top, Exceptions there were,  To get this dad to play game.

To relay information, ‘Bout Bible or Nation,  Was a target at which I could aim.

Those games I did win, Most handily,  I was sponge when it came to a fact.

If it has to be heard, I’m just a fact nerd,  In the way that I sleep, play and act.  😉

August 5th…“TELL OF A MEMORY OF HAVING SPECIAL FRIENDS COME VISIT YOUR HOME.”

There is a warmth that exudes from the chambers of one’s heart when special friends come to call.  Even when life’s requirements keep those dear ones thousands of miles away from us; all one has to do is hear of or even think their name and the doors of golden memories swing wide to welcome them once again, in proxy, for the gold that their very life enriched you with.

Our family’s beloved farming neighbors, Evert & Oda Meyer, wore the title “Special Friends” with elegance for many decades.  Even though they both now rest upon Heaven’s Shores, their memory in our hearts glows on with much love!!  Our brother, Lowell, from his earliest days of Grade School, has always been kindred spirits with the Meyer’s eldest son, James.  As time passed, and since the majority of Minnesota families were of the farming culture, it was only natural that our two families were brought even closer through an agricultural fraternity known as 4-H Club.

Brother Lowell relates how the Meyer family, and numerous other 4-H families would gather, with their cows, at our farm to learn how to best train, prepare and show animals at our local Faribault County Fair each year in Blue Earth, Minnesota.   Our local 4-H Chapter was known as “The Kee Club”.  Adult leadership would instill proper etiquette into their young teen charges and demonstrate showmanship and animal care, in hopes that some of the club members may garner the coveted honor of winning a Blue Ribbon or maybe even a Grand Champion rating for their animal.  Once club formalities were completed, for that night, animals were loaded back into respective pickup trucks and/or trailers.  Then, it was time for club families to enjoy a fun time of visiting, food and family fun for the rest of that evening.

In 1967, our parents, Russell & Clarice, sold our farm and moved our family out to Washington State.  We were so lonely and sincerely missed our deeply loved family and friends back home in Minnesota.  To help alleviate that loneliness came the grand news that Evert & Oda Meyer had started a new job and lifestyle.  The Meyers had secured employment with the famed “Winnebago Industries” that headquartered in Forest City, Iowa.  Their new job?   Deliver brand new recreational vehicle motor-homes all across America.

Just think, your JOB is to climb into a sparkling new motor-home and drive that beauty to almost every one of the States in our wide open country of America.  AMAZING, ya?  The company paid them a wage AND, if I recall, paid for their airfare back home again, too, after they dropped the rig off at a local dealership, that is.  Oh true, as in any job, there’s the fatigue of long hours on the freeways, fighting rush hour traffic in the big cities, and I’m sure they likely had to deal with inclement weather along the way.  Yet, for us lonely, former Minnesotans, it was pure joy to hear of these precious friends that were on their way again to visit us for an evening when dropping off a new motor-home in the Portland, Oregon area.

We were all giddy with excitement whenever Mom would get a call from Oda letting us know they were on the way west again to deliver yet another luxurious new motor-home to one of the dealerships south of us in Portland, Oregon.  It was like a classic family reunion as they’d pull into our driveway, there in Battle Ground, Washington, with their big rig of vacationing possibilities.  Joyous handshakes and hugs were followed by the customary tour of the latest and greatest model of the Winnebago motor-home for that particular year.

The Meyer’s loving occasions with us were usually just for overnight.  In the morning, they’d have to deliver their RV to the dealership in Portland and then get themselves over to Portland International Airport to fly back home to the Midwest and pickup the next Winnebago and be off to a new State.  For those single evenings, though, our family made the most  out of each happy hour.  Seemingly,  gallons of coffee flowed into cups with saucers while giant amounts of love and food were dispensed across our dining room table.

Mom and Oda Meyer were closer than sisters.  So, when visiting our home, those two kindred spirits would spend the evening hours talking about quilting, gardening, hometown news and any other happy topic that would endear the one to the other.   On the male side of the visiting spectrum, our father, Russell, and Evert (who were still farmers at heart) would chew the fat about all that was recently happening back home around the Kiester, Minnesota area.   There was a kind-hearted camaraderie between these two men for the homeland of southern Minnesota that they had known so well as they both had farmed the rich, fertile croplands of that region for the largest share of their respective lives.

So gentle was the love between our mother, Clarice, and Oda Meyer.  Such a deep respect and admiration they had for each other.  I find it a sweet parallel that each of their maiden names began with an “S” (Clarice’s maiden name was Sletten and Oda’s maiden name was Scherb).  In a winsome way, it was like they were sisters separated, in the eons of the past, and then brought together, in their farming years.  They were two sweet souls that manifested and relished such love that, to this day, I can still count the innumerable sweet moments that they bestowed upon each other.  Such a pure friendship casts a warm glow in the heart of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

August 4th…“TELL OF AN EXPERIENCE YOU ENJOYED HIKING UP A DORMANT VOLCANO.”

Little did we realize that we were going to be sitting on one of the biggest “time bombs” that the United States had ever known.   In August of 1975, Mount Saint Helens, in southwest Washington State, was a pristine, conical, dormant volcano that loomed majestically over the landscape with its 9,677 foot summit pointing regally to the sky.  This sentinel of stone and ice lay 50 linear miles to the northeast of Vancouver, Washington.   For well over 100 years, the monolithic master of this region had been sleeping and we hoped our footsteps upon his northern side wouldn’t cause this giant to awaken.

1975 came rambling along to find me a young 21 year old buck and full of energy.  In my quest for fun, I called a new friend of mine and asked if she’d like to have an adventure with me.  Her name was Shirley Cass.  We had known each other, in the past, through attending a local church and had now been dating for about 2 months.   The plan was to enjoy the crystal blue waters of Spirit Lake and then attempt a short climb up the magnificent Mt. St. Helens.    She smilingly “bit the bait” and the date was a GO!  Like most Augusts in the Pacific Northwest, the weather was classically hot with lots of sunshine.  For us, the song lyrics played in our heads………”On A Clear Day, Rise And Look Around You”……for this was a see forever kind of day.

For this journey, my father graciously allowed us to use his little Ford pickup with a canopy over the cargo bed.  Everything except the “kitchen sink” went into that little canopy to feed us and help us have a thrill a minute……..well, at least we hoped for that 😉  Traveling north, on the Interstate 5 Freeway System, we eventually reached an area known as Castle Rock.  Off the freeway ramp we sailed and headed that little Ford eastward until we came upon the Spirit Lake Campgrounds.  Neither Shirley, nor myself had ever seen St. Helens from its north face.  The combination of that giant above us and the sparkling blue Spirit Lake before us was a sight to behold!!!

At the end of our first day, the sun played peekaboo amongst the evergreen branches as it then winked goodbye and goodnight.  To fulfill societal propriety, in that we were two single folk not married to each other, I offered my lady friend the repose of the pickup truck’s canopy for her evening slumber and yours truly scrunched into the front seat of that Ford and drifted off to snoreland.

The next morning was almost frosty as Shirley and I climbed out of our respective sleeping quarters and, after breakfast, made the drive from Spirit Lake Campground up to the base of this immense, pumice-covered majestic mountain.  Thankfully, in beginning our vertical hike, the ascent was a gradual one from the base and we enjoyed the brisk breezes at Windy Ridge viewpoint that sent our hairstyles blowing in every direction one could imagine.  Rivulets of ice cold water came trickling down that awe-inspiring mountainside as we meandered up the trail.  These refreshing waters were from the ever-present glacial snow and ice that still clung to the upper mountain side, even here in the heat of August.   Many alpine flowers, like the purple Russell Lupine and red Indian Paintbrush, were spread across the pumiced landscape with their striking beauty.   As we ascended above the “tree line”, we were refreshed with eating tiny, delicious wild strawberries that clung to the thin-aired heights of this amazing volcano.  It wasn’t too much longer and we felt that we were on top of the world.

Other “sister volcanoes” seemed to wave at us from their own lofty perches there in Washington State.  To the north, was Mount Rainier, to our east/northeast was the broad majesty of Mount Adams and to the southeast was the regal pinnacle of Mount Hood down in the State of Oregon.

We both realized that we didn’t have enough daylight or proper climbing gear to make it all the way to the top of this volcanic monolith, so we stopped at the 6,000 foot level and began our descent to the teeny weeny pickup truck that we could see wayyyyy down below us.

It’s a good thing we left the mountain when we did, because by the time we reached the truck and made that long journey back to Battle Ground, Washington, it was late that night by the time I was able to get my lovely young date back to her family home.

If Shirley and I had been eating mountain strawberries on that same spot five years later, we would have been blown into the sky and landed somewhere north of Seattle, Washington (tongue in cheek, of course…..we would’ve died instantly).  What a memorable time it was to stand upon the giant and not have him waken to repel this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

August 3rd…“WHEN YOU WERE A TEENAGER, IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST, DID YOU EVER FIND THE LEGENDARY “BIGFOOT MONSTER”?

Born and raised in the “Volunteer State” of Tennessee, our next door neighbor, Mr. Chuck Gross, had the deepest southern drawl “ya’ll dun evah herd”.   This tall, lanky southern gentleman fed his family by tromping the forests of Southwest Washington State as a true-n-blue, real-life logger.   With his massive chainsaw, Chuck spent his life harvesting timber way up in the forested hills that have to do with today’s story.   For you see, these same mountainous hills, that Chuck called home five days a week, also were the alleged domain of a creature the Indians called “Sasquatch”…..also known as the “BIGFOOT”!!

We were blessed to have the Chuck Gross family move right next door to us there on what was then known as Hawthorne Street in Battle Ground, Washington.  Our father, Russell, and Mr. Gross, coming from the same generation and being a couple country boys, became fast friends.  These two dear men grew in their bond of respect and friendship until it wasn’t long at all before they were like two, long-lost brothers that had finally been re-united again.   Chuck’s youngest son, Robin (who we called Robbie), and I also became good buddies really quick.  On many a pleasant day, we could be found shooting basketball hoops at the backboard goal above the Gross family driveway.  Or, we’d have a fun ‘rassle’ on the carpet of green grass that grew lushly between our two houses.

On numerous starlit nights, we two rowdy boys, after a good rasslin’ match, would lay back on that cushion of green grass and stare at the stars while we rambled on and talked about our teenage life in general.   Sometimes, we’d even let our conversation wander into the spooky realm of stories that involved a giant, furry creature supposedly living in the forests of SW Washington that was called the “BIGFOOT”.  This giant creature of legend was alleged to be between 7 and 9 feet tall.

Being youngsters with vivid imaginations, we figured it’d be a ton of fun if Robby’s logger daddy would take us up into BIGFOOT country for some camping and boyhood adventure.  Chuck agreed, and the fun was about to begin.  Tum-Tum Mountain was a conical peak just past the campus of The International Paper Company near Chelatchie Praire, Washington.   That point was to be our gateway to the fabled landscapes that may just contain the folklore legend, BIGFOOT.  This former farm boy was both thrilled and scared at the same time.  Who knows, the three of us may just come face to face with the legendary creature himself??!!

Being the seasoned mountain man that he was, Chuck Gross had that 1960 Ford pickup truck of his packed to the gills with everything we needed for doin’ some fishin’ n campin’ in the wild country up yonder.  Heck, that man had everything ya’ll could imagine……..from food, fishin’ poles, lures, sleepin’ bags,  “skeeter” spray and he even packed a “surprise” that we didn’t learn about till later.  We three adventurers were all aboard as Chuck slipped that worn key into the ignition, and, with a twisting command, that old Ford came to life.   We Three Musketeers rambled on through the hills of Clark County Washington till we reached the edge of the Cascade Mountains.   We now crossed over into timber country owned by giant corporations like Weyerhaeuser (pronounced WAREHOUSER) and others.  Chuck knew these forests like the back of his hand since he lived up here five days a week.

After chugging around some cliffhanger logging roads, we finally arrived at our secluded camping site.  After some exploring and fishing, we set up camp.  Our master woodsman, Chuck, got us a giant campfire going and we settled in for an evening of eatin’ chow and listening to the forest around us as we chatted.   After a trout supper, the crackling campfire flames worked perfectly to make some roasted marshmallows and prepare us for a night of cool, wooded slumber.

As if on cue, that old stinker, Chuck, began to get all excited as he pointed behind us to a hill and exclaimed, “Hey guys!!!”, his southern drawl was heavy, “Ya’ll see them thar beady red eyes a glowin’ in the deestance?!”  “Well, hoo-dawgies, I do beeleeve that thar’s oneah them thar BIGFOOTS that caught wind of our fish cookin’ on dah farr!”   Robbie and I were thinking a combination of, “Yah, right old man!!”  and “Hmmmm,…….maybe?”

After enduring some more teasing from Chuck about BIGFOOT, we saw him slurp down his last cup of coffee for the night and settle down into his sleeping bag for a snore.  Robbie and I followed suit as we unzipped and climbed into our cylindrical sleeping apparatus…….better known as sleeping bags.  There we were in those natural surroundings, and, ya never know….. maybe something else was out there that was NOT so natural, ya?   Imaginations in high gear now, every snap of a branch in the woods around us made us jump.  Us two youngin’s with the heebeejeebees made sure that one of us kept a log on that fire all night long, in hopes of keeping that BIGFOOT monster away from our campsite and not eating us tender young morsels of meat for HIS supper!!!  Hehehee 😉

BIGFOOT must’ve been scared away from our roaring, all night campfire, right?   Not!  Foolish boys that we were.  The real surprise, though, came to us at dawn when Robby and I came awake and began to stretch our young bodies to a new day of life.  And, sure, we were thankful that we hadn’t been dragged away overnight and eaten by the monster of the woods.  What was that surprise?   Turns out Chuck Gross had kept a loaded pistol under his own pillow throughout the night!  Tables were now turned.  Robby and I launched into his dad with teasings that it was CHUCK who was ‘chicken’ for sleeping with a loaded gun under his head.  In his good-natured way, Chuck just shrugged off the tease as we all continued that very fun camping time that is still held a special memory for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉

August 2nd…“DESCRIBE TO US THE ATTRIBUTES OF YOUR MINNESOTA CHILDHOOD’S FAMILY HOME.”

The back door was the front, and the front door was the back.  Sounds a bit silly, ya?  But, that’s the way our home sweet home was approached each day due to the U-shaped gravel driveway that circumnavigated the house we called home.   Folks coming to visit would just naturally follow that driveway around to the back, rather than stop alongside the house, get out of the car, walk across the lawn to the traditional front door and knock.

Though just for a minute, our true front door of the house was used in the mornings when we heard that metallic yellow banana of a school bus pull up out by our mailbox and honk its horn.  Like many an American family, we kids would be a hurryin’ and a scurryin’ to finish our breakfast, grab our school books and then our jackets.  Mom would pop the front door open and we young whippersnappers would rocket outta the house, across the lawn and straight as a bullet into the open, vertical school bus doors while Marie Meyer gave us her usual gregarious smile and greetings.

The Bible says, in Ecclesiastes 3:2, “There’s a time to be born…”.   Even though we’re uncertain of an exact year, we surmise that our farm home was “born” sometime in the middle 1860’s or so.  Before the Noorlun family enjoyed this quaint domicile, it was the childhood home of our landlord’s wife.  This large, fluffy farm wife’s maiden name was Tina Santmaier (or Sandmaier likely a German family).  A 1913 land plot map shows a family owning the land, at that time, by the name of S. K. Thompson.  Were these possibly the parents of Tina’s mother?   Then, by pure conjecture, Tina’s mother grew up to marry Mr. Santmaier and thereby it became the place of Tina’s young days?  Only the Lord knows for sure, but just think, when Tina’s ancestors came to this spot, there was nothing……just dirt……only the Indians had known this land up to that point in a time long before the White Man came.  All the farm buildings, including our home, had to be constructed from the ground up.  What a task that must’ve been for the original homesteading family.   As years passed, Tina married Morton Holstad and then they became the caretakers and farmers of her parent’s acreage.  In 1946, our parents, Russell and Clarice, heard that Morton and Tina were looking for someone to take over their farm as renters so that they could semi-retire to a home in our town of Kiester, Minnesota.  Our parents were elated to begin renting the farm and the Holstads, as our landlords, became yet another loving pair of surrogate grandparents for us young Noorlun children.

It’s true that “Home Is Where The Heart Is”.  And, even though our farm home was small and humble, by today’s standards, it was a “castle” for our Norwegian family to gather inside each day and give God praise for a place to stay warm, beds to sleep in (with cozy quilts over us) and even running water!!!   Our beloved mother, Clarice, shared that before I was born, in 1954, we didn’t have piped-in water to the house.  In today’s America, running water is taken for granted and even expected in a home.  Not then.  Even when pregnant with this little pre-born farm boy, our beloved mother had to bring water in buckets up from the Well House (also known as the Pump House) where it was pumped out of the ground.  She’d then have to lug those buckets inside the house for washing dishes, clothes and for doing her cooking.

In another instance of our farm home’s life, when I was a wee little farmer boy, I vividly remember that our home did NOT have a flushing toilet…….at least not yet.  In the bathroom of our house, there was place we kept a white porcelain (or ironstone) bucket known as a “Chamber Pot”.   We kept that pot about half-filled with water.  When “nature called” (also known as potty time), you’d take the top lid off the bucket and put down a “seat”for your little behind to rest on while you “done did yer duty”.  After you were finished with the normal human functions, you’d remove the “seat” and replace the original lid to cap the odor and looks of what was inside the “Chamber Pot”.   Of course, like proper boys n girls, then you’d wash your hands and leave the bathroom to enjoy the rest of your day.  At least once (or sometimes twice) a day, someone had the task of grabbing the wire bail by the handle and carry the “Chamber Pot”, with its full contents, out of the house, across the yard and over to the “Outhouse” (outdoor potty).  Off would come the lid and the odoriferous nasty contents were poured down the hole of the “Outhouse” potty pit.

One night, I had the need to go downstairs to use the “Chamber Pot” in the bathroom.  Half asleep, I trudged into the bathroom and groggily took the top lid off the pot.  What I failed to do, in my almost sleep-like trance, was to put down the “seat” for my behind to rest on.  Lost in my hazy thoughts of returning to slumber, I lowered my little bitty butt cheeks lower and lower till they actually touched that icy cold and nasty water.  YIKES!!! I was INSTANTLY awake and shot bolt upright to a standing position!!  I think I even lost the urge to “go”!!!  Hehehehe 😉

Stepping inside our back screen door had us entering the pantry/porch area.  We kept a large chest freezer in there for massive storage of meats from our animals, chickens, ice cream and any other food that needed to stay frozen.  We also had a milk pasteurizer in there to make our cow’s milk even safer to drink for our family.  In the color photo of our house (here in this story), you can see a pink, cement block chimney with a window on each side of it.  That was our family kitchen.  Mom and Dad’s Bedroom was to the north of the Kitchen.   An open archway from the Kitchen took us into our family Living Room (color photo with downstairs window to the far right).   A small downstairs Bedroom was to the north of our Living Room.  Upstairs were two Bedrooms.  Brothers had the small room, sisters had the larger Bedroom.

Although rough-hewn in its rock walled construction, our family home basement was a veritable gold mine, of sorts.  There were two entries to this subterranean vault of coolness.  One entry was down some open wooden steps that came down from a doorway in our bathroom.

The other entry to our cellar/basement was located on the north side of our farm home.  It consisted of two wooden doors that were set at about a 45 degree angle.  When opened, they revealed a rock stairway that led down to our cellar/basement.  This location was ideal, in that our family garden was very close to this spot and allowed an easier time of bringing the Fall Harvest of  food crops down into the cellar/basement for winter storage.   I considered our cellar/basement a gold mine because of our beloved mother, Clarice, who would invest countless hours and sweat from her brow each year to “put up” the food harvest into glass canning jars.  There would be row upon row of various pickles, fruit, tomato paste, etc. and etc..  Then, thanks to she and our father Russell’s help, there’d be heaping bins full of potatoes, onions hanging to dry, and all sorts of goodies for our family to enjoy before Old Man Winter would once again visit our world with frozen deadness.

As I look back to those days, I can realize why I had such a peace of mind and security.  It was because of the fact that our family enjoyed a cornucopia of provisions from those shelves loaded with God’s blessings of delicious foods that He had given for us to enjoy.  True, our house was very small and humble, but to me, it was God’s castle for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.