July 12th…“DID YOU EVER EXPERIENCE A FISHING TRIP THAT WAS FUN AND FREAKY AT THE SAME TIME?”

Even though I swim like a rock (straight to the bottom), I agreed to go along with my father on his Saturday morning adventure with our new neighbor just down the street from us in Battle Ground, Washington.  In August of 1967, our family made a major move all the way from Minnesota to our new town in southwest Washington State.  One of our new neighbors was Mr. Frank Scotton.  Frank’s ancestors had been early pioneers of this community.  Even the plot of land that our new home rested upon was known as “Scotton’s Addition” in honor of Mr. Scotton and his wife who had previously owned all that property on the north side of our town.

Our former farmer father was used to working seven days a week, back on our farm in Minnesota and seldom had free time to enjoy fun things like fishing.  Now, in his new occupation as a school custodian, Dad had the luxury of having every Saturday and Sunday all to himself.   He sometimes said it was like being on vacation two days a week to enjoy and do whatever he pleased.  It was truly a happy time and great change for our daddy.   Our friendly new neighbor, Frank, invited us to go with him on a fine Saturday morning to Vancouver Lake and do some angling for a sunfish called, Crappie.

Frank, in sharing fishing lure knowledge with my dad, said that we’d be using a device called a Wet Jig Fly.  When the lure was down in the water, the “fur” of the lure had a very active movement as you’d allow the lure to “dance a jig” with quick up and down movements of the fishing line while the bait was down there in fishy territory.

We even filed off the barbs on the fishing hooks so that when a Crappie would bite, we’d just pull them up into the boat and shake them off the hook so we could get the Jig Fly back into the waters for more fishing action.  For this 13 year old (at the time) it sounded like a HECK of a lot of fun.   Swimmer or not, let’s GO!!!  😉

Truth be known, I have an intense fear of drowning……..therefore, I don’t trust ANY boat to keep me afloat.  Nonetheless, I really wanted to experience this fishing fun, so I gathered what little courage I could find and climbed aboard Frank’s very old row boat at the boat launch area of what’s known as Felida Slough.  Mr. Scotton’s antique row boat had an even older looking engine, attached to the stern, that looked like Henry Ford, himself, had built it 😉   With a few pulls of the engine’s starter rope, that mechanical contraption sputtered to life with the usual coughing and spewing of blue smoke across the surface of the early morning waters.  With no life vest on, and with my butt firmly center on my hardwood seat, I was desperately clinging to the wooden seat beneath me for security.  I was fearfully contemplating how the water seemed to be playing with my mind as it swelled way too close to the gunwale (pronounced, GUNal) and tempting to surge over and INTO our flimsy row boat.

Eventually, we bounced our way, over that liquid highway, to the south side of the enormous lake and settled into shade provided by over-hanging trees along the shore.  Our fishing host for the day shared that those lil’ sunfish that we were after liked to hide in the shadows of these tree overhangs.   Sure enough, Frank was right.  As the three of us anglers let down our Wet Jig Fly lures, those lil Crappies began to snap at them right away.  I shouted, “I’ve GOT one!!”, as I pulled that lil fightin’ fish up outta its former world and shook it loose off of it’s barbless hook.  Down went the jig fly for another fish while Dad and Frank were bringing up a number of little trophies of their own in the morning shade of those trees along the water’s edge.

Weather in the Pacific Northwest can change in a blink and such was the case that day on Vancouver Lake.   The pleasant rays of sunshine that welcomed us onto that expansive body of lake water were now chased away by a quickly approaching weather front that was dark and ominous.  Seasoned outdoors-man that he was, Frank Scotton decided it would be the better part of wisdom to call our fishing adventure to an end and head back to the safety of Felida Slough and the boat ramp before the sky broke loose above us and jeopardized us all.

Mr. Scotton’s wisdom came to bear in seeing the weather begin to turn foul around us.  Winds were picking up velocity and the previously smooth lake was now churning to almost white caps at the tips of the water.  Thunder that was in the distance was now almost right over our water craft as that sputtering excuse for an outboard engine tried to ply us back towards the boat launch and safety as we scurried across that now UNfriendly lake.  The prehistoric outboard motor was clanking away as it propelled us towards the north end of the lake and safety when…….KAHWHUMP!!!.…. the old wooden vessel lurched out of the water and back down with a smashing splash!!   WHAT WAS THAT????  We had struck a semi-submerged log in the water!!

This teenage NON-swimmer was now praying BIG TIME that this old water craft would PLEASE not sink from a leak or a gash caused by that log.  From those harrowing moments between the log strike and stepping on good old terra firma, I was promising God that I’d be in church every Sunday and anything else I could offer if He’d just spare the life of this non-swimming fisherman known as the Norwegian Farmer’s Son 😉

July 11th…“DID YOUR FATHER EVER INVENT SOMETHING THAT MADE FISHING EASIER?

POEM – “Daddy’s Wacky Worming Wonder Rod” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Whenever our dad went fishin’, He’d make his plan real firm,

In order to catch his limit, He’d need more than just one worm.

Ol’ Pop would throw out coffee grounds, In flowerbeds round the house,

And assisting him, For his fishing whim, Was his dear and loving spouse.

Now who wants to sweat, In order to get, Enough worms to last the day?

Since they lived down under, He’d have to plunder, To bring them to light his way.

He could use a shovel, To bring worms up, But that would take too long,

There must be a method, If he thought long enough, That would turn a chore to song.

As time went by, Our inventor dad guy, Came up with a zippy zap notion,

An electric rod, Shoved into the sod, Would cause them worms commotion.

Some wires did lead, From the rod’s end feed, And plugged right into the wall.

It made those worms squirt, Right outta the dirt, Dad gathered, no problem at all.

Dad got a good giggle, From seeing them wiggle, So fast to get out of that soil.

As he readied the can, Our inventor man, Went fishing without any toil. 😉

July 10th…“TELL ABOUT A MUSICAL SUMMERTIME MEMORY”.

As a recent passenger aboard my gentle time machine, I was transported back to a perfect Midwest summer evening in the year 1963.  The landing coordinates of that mild-mannered memory machine placed me at the intersection of Main and Center Streets there in our beloved hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.  In my mind’s eye, I can still see giant, white, cotton candy clouds floating gently overhead as if to be celestial spectators of what was to musically transpire below.  A mellowing sun decided to cast its golden spotlight across the tree-lined streets and beamed right through to the center of our town as if a heavenly spotlight on what would soon become music on the air.

Farmers finished the last milking of their dairy herds for the day and loaded their families into the car to head down the gravel roads into town to enjoy munchies, mingling and music each Wednesday evening during that summer.  Our Noorlun chariot joined other dust-covered vehicles in procession along those same classic gravel roads as the town’s population grew that evening for the concert by our Kiester High School Marching Band.

Not only was the school campus physically in the center of town, the Kiester High School Music Program was central in our community’s heart and pride, as well.   A key source for that pride lay in the excellent leadership of the school’s program by her Music Director, the honorable Mr. Milton Glende.  Prior to each Wednesday night concert, I’m sure the school’s band room was a hustling and bustling place as Mr. Glende could be found fine tuning performances and ensuring the sharpest look possible for each uniform worn by our large marching band.

On an aside, even though the young people I mention in this recollection were “mere” teenagers, I was always in awe of my sister and brother’s generation of young adults.  To me, they all possessed a maturity and panache for life that was far beyond their chronological years.  I pleasantly surmise that this maturity, that I witnessed in those days, came from a combination of good, old-fashioned American ideals and an inculcation of fine morals by their rural upbringings with Christian parents who taught them well in all the tenets of living an honorable life.

Living out the Boy Scout motto of “Be Prepared”, Steven Fry, and other local Boy Scouts gave wonderful community service by bringing folding chairs and music stands so that the center intersection of town could now be made into an entertainment arena with a large, multi-rowed, semi-circle of chairs.  Pretty soon, our ears perked up to hear the approach of the spit n polish spectacle of our Kiester High School “Bulldog” Marching Band.  Their regal uniforms brought a flash of blue and white elegance as they kept cadence with Mr. Glende’s leadership and the drumming that spurred each unison step.   Once released from their marching formation, the band members took their seats and the evening’s musical extravaganza was about to begin.

Citizens of our village, parents of band members and all of us band member siblings found ourselves clustering for the best viewing positions for the summer concert that was soon to be initiated.  While waiting for this massing of musical merriment, there was a happy din of farm neighbors in the crowd visiting with each other to exchange pleasantries as well as sharing the common pride we all had in our favorite family band member in that evening’s performance.

Our young people, now all seated with instruments at the ready, looked to their honored conductor for his introductory welcome to the audience on that quiet summer’s evening.  Mr. Glende then turned towards his young symphony around him, and, with that all knowing glance of attention, swirls his baton for the first musical selection to commence.

Like an artist wielding his paint brush, Mr. Glende painted a musical artistry from this cadre of instruments around him from whence there came rousing march tunes, classical melodies and Broadway songs.  It was pleasingly evident that many of the musical renditions were crowd pleasers from the amount of applause after each song selection was completed.  It was a common denominator among all in attendance that the time and effort invested by these young performers each week was deeply appreciated by all who came to take in the joy of their performances.

As I look back to those times, I’m so happy that I lived in an era when formality, coupled with pride and pageantry, was still looked upon as an exemplary way of life for young adults.  These moments were truly a cherished slice of Americana at its finest.  Even as a young boy of only 9 years of age, I was so proud to see these handsome young men and women taking time out of their summer to dress their best, play their best and contribute to the joy of our little farming village.  This happy glow of remembrance still wraps its peaceful arms around me to recall that joy we all experienced on those warm, balmy Minnesota evenings when music floated through the air of our quaint town and into the heart of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 9th…“WHEN ATTENDING YOUR CHURCH IN KIESTER, MINNESOTA, DID YOU GET BORED BY THE ADULT SERMONS?”

POEM – “The Woozy Wows Of The Thee’s n Thou’s” by N. Elliott Noorlun

The woozy wows, Of the thee’s n thou’s,  Attacked my little boy brain.

E’en though I tried, Down deep inside,  My sleepy eyes did strain.

Preacher talked away, So my mind it did stray,

My brain finally quit,  And went “outside” to play.

It seemed for some reason, In my little boy season,

That God only spoke “King James”,

With a thee and a thou, My brain would kowtow,

Church verbiage all sounded the “sames”.

It was a struggle, As in pew I did snuggle,  I would almost fall asleep,

So to keep awake, For propriety’s sake,  Imaginations inside would creep.

The floor below, Was tiled you know,  All shiny n flat n square,

So in vivid thought, That couldn’t be caught, I’d have some fun with a flare.

Our countryside, Was flat and wide, Roads laid in giant square,

They resembled this floor, Where I sat with a bore,

In my mind I rode motorbike there.

So as preacher preached, To adults in the pews,

Giving King James talk, Of God’s Good News,

My little boy thoughts, Dun lit the fuse,

Of quiet fun, Beneath my shoes.

In tiny micro, little boy thought, I’d board my hotrod scooter,

As minister sought, To have us taught, Being God’s loving earthly tutor.

Staring at my “roads”, I just had loads, Of motorcycle fun,

Til it was time to sing, A hymn, by jing,

For this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 8th…“IN MINNESOTA, DID YOUR FAMILY ATTEND A COUNTY FAIR?  WHICH ONE?  WHERE AT?”

Even before our family car banked into the fair entrance driveway, I caught the illustrious sights and sounds of the Faribault County Fair.   A giant, elegant octagonal barn stood along the busy highway that bordered the fair’s entrance gates.  That handsome barn was like an agricultural ‘lighthouse’ to the brightness of the farming that surrounded the town where I was born, Blue Earth, Minnesota.

Our big sister, Rosemary, and brother Lowell were members of our local agricultural club known as the “Kee” 4-H Club.   Months before the fair time arrived, each elder sibling would feed, train, groom and prepare one of our Holsteins to take to the Faribault County Fair in hopes of winning a coveted First Place Blue Ribbon from the judges there.  In order to keep an eye on their animals that were entered for competition, Lowell and Rosie actually lived at the fairgrounds for the duration of the fair time.

A long, white wooden box was constructed to hold all their gear and personal belongings.  They even painted their names on the box and decorated the box with decals from their 4-H Club.  It must’ve been a wonderful adventure for them, as teenagers, to take care of their animals on the grounds there, but to also explore the rides and fun with friends in the evenings.  Then, it was back to their respective barns to bed down alongside their bovine entries for the night.

On certain days of the Faribault County Fair, our parents took my little sister and I up to see the festivities and our older counterparts with their bovine beauties.  Once Dad had paid our admission and parked the car, I bounded out and made a beeline for “Machinery Hill”.

Farm equipment dealers in our area would bring their newest agricultural tractors and implements to display on this grassy knoll for all to admire (and hopefully buy).   Ohhh, how I just LOVED to climb aboard each and every one of those magnificent machines and tractors; imagining that I owned them all!!!   There’d I’d be, perched atop a giant, brand new corn picker combine harvester and turning on my imagination juices as I bounced in the driver’s seat with glee.  I’d envision that I was driving this on the gravel roads near our farm and pulling into a corn field (or whatever) to engage this metal marvel to do its work as I’d harvest my imaginary crops.

“That’s the smell of money, Son” is what our Norwegian farmer father would say to me about the various animal odors at our farm’s home place near Kiester.   When it came to the ‘Eau De Cologne’ of country living, I enjoyed the fragrance of ‘Porcine Perfume’ or ‘Bovine Beauty #5’.   With happy nostrils to guide me, I took in the wondrous list of animals that took temporary residence at the fairgrounds each summer.  From the baby runt pigs suckling their momma sow, all the way up to the mighty, mountainous draft horses; all was magical for this country boy to enjoy.

All of my boyhood senses were twitter pated at the fair each year!!!   Especially towards evening, when the myriad of colored lights would come ablaze across the fairgrounds as carnival rides, midway games and food concession booths all displayed a rainbow of colors…….and, smells of yummy for the tummy!!!  My monies could only go so far, but I saw everything from golden, fresh sweet corn smothered in real creamery butter, pink cotton candy that swirled magically round and round in its drum as a concessionaire would ‘capture’ it on a cone stick.  Corn dogs flooded the area with their aroma as mustard was drizzled over those cylindrical, tasty delights.

‘Whilt-A-Terls’, ‘Wherris Feels’ and ‘Coller Roasters’ were just some of the high energy rides at the fair each year.  Ohhhh, you never heard of those?  O.K……I’ll change their names back to Tilt-A Whirl, Ferris Wheel and Roller Coasters 🙂    If it wasn’t these attractions that got your spending money, it was the never ending line of games on the Midway.  Later in life, I shot almost $40 on games and came away with a handful of trinkets.  I sure learned my lesson the hard way after THAT ‘pocket emptying’ fair experience.

Captured in my mellow memory vault are similar feelings that go along  to the song that sang as the “lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer” and the laughter-filled magic of the Faribault County Fair for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 7th…“AS A YOUNG BOY, DID YOU EVER HEAR SOMEONE SPEAK AMERICAN ENGLISH DIFFERENTLY THAN YOU DID?”

Her mouth was a movin’, but I had no idea what she was trying to say.   Before divulging what this scenario was all about, let me digress a bit about language as I knew it.

Having been raised in the northern State of Minnesota since birth, I was accustomed to hearing and using the good old English language as my parents and siblings did.   There was the exception, of course, when it came to the elders on both sides of my Norwegian clan.   Those dear ones were only the second generation to America from the Homeland of Norway, so they had a bit of the flavoring of the “mother tongue” accent along with their English.  Seeing that our grandparents AND our parents grew up fluently bi-lingual (Norwegian and English), I found it a special treat to listen to those two generations carry on conversations with each other.

Vacations came few and far between for a farmer and his family, but, in the summer of 1964 (I was 10 years old) we packed up and climbed into our 1956 4-door, Chevrolet Bel-Air for a long-awaited vacation.  Dad pointed that metal, motorized machine towards Denver, Colorado to visit his brothers and families in the “Mile High City”.

While enjoying the Rocky Mountains and our Colorado Cousins, one of my uncles invited some friends over to their house, one evening, to meet us ‘out of towners’.   These folk were visiting Colorado from the State of Oklahoma.   I was introduced to one of the lady guests that evening in my uncle’s Living Room.  She was a very elegant woman and seemed to think I was a very cute little boy by the way she gushed forth her effusing compliments about me.  From her lips came phrases like, “Why hunny chil’, ya’ll are jus’ the keyootest thang Ah ever done did see!!!”   Word alarms went off in my head as my northern little boy pea brain tried to decipher what she had just said to me.  As far as I could figure, she was TRYING to speak English, but it was a foreign tongue to me.   Our mother was sitting nearby, so I went over to her and asked, “Mom, what country is that lady from???”

After some uproarious laughter from she and Dad, Mom replied, “Well, Son, she’s from America, just like you”.   My reply?…….“Well, I sure can’t understand a thing she’s sayin’ “!!!!  Everyone had a good laugh from the first ever Southern Drawl that was heard by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 6th…“DID YOU GET TO DRIVE TRACTORS ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA??”

From toddlerhood to this very day, I’ve had a love affair with tractors n trucks n all that bucks!!!  Since I was ‘knee high to a grasshopper’ I’ve always had my imagination captured with the powerful, agricultural  mechanized ‘workhorses’ of our Farmall-favored farmer father when we lived out our sweet agricultural adventure in south central Minnesota.

I’m confident that it could’ve been said of our daddy that ‘from breakfast, to bed, he farmed with red’……. this was in reference to Dad’s preference to purchasing and using equipment and tractors that were made by the International Harvester Company.   Those tractors in his collection included a Farmall F-20,  a Farmall Model B, a Farmall Model H and his most powerful worker was a Farmall Super M.   And, for the record, Dad also owned a Massey Harris 44 and, for a short while, even owned a John Deere 70 (although he did not like it and sold it quickly…..heheheh).  For my young readers, I suppose you could understand the Farmall series of tractors like this…….The “B” was like the baby of the family, which then, in natural growth, the “H” was like the teenager.  The “Super M” was like the grown up strong muscle-man of the tractor family and the “F20” was like the old grandfather who came before them all  😉

Springtime was usually super muddy in our cow-yard as the snows of winter melted away.  I vividly remember my hero brother, Lowell, as he had the task of pulling a very full manure spreader, full of cow poo, out to the field one day to spread the load over our fields for fertilizer.  The sloppy mud conditions next to our barn seemed to have him stuck as his chevron-cleated rubber tires began to spin.  Lowell was wise, though, as he began to use his independent left and right brake pedals to his advantage.  First, he’d hold down the left brake (allowing the right tire to spin till it hit hard ground below the muddy surface), then he’d brake the right tire to allow the left to grab solid ground.   Back and forth he “walked” that little tractor and manure spreader out of the slimy cow-yard and out to the fields.

After our big brother, Lowell, left the farm to start life on his own, it was now my turn to step in to help Dad when it came to tractors and life on our farm.  The most exciting, and yet very scary, chapter of my tractor driving came one day when our dad had his biggest Farmall Super M at a repair shop in our hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.  Repairs were completed and the tractor needed to be driven back home.   On the way into town, Dad shared with me that it was to be my responsibility to drive our “M” back home to the farm while he followed behind me in our old 1950 Ford F-100 pickup.   As we headed west out of town, on the paved highway, I shifted that big red beast into what we called “road gear”.   As that monstrous machine and I picked up speed, the wide front end tires of that tractor were just a bouncin’ along while the giant, rubber, chevron-cleated, big tires next to my driver’s seat set up their own special ‘song’ as they whined against the smooth asphalt highway beneath us.  Even though, in reality, I may have only been cruising at 25 miles per hour or so, to me, it seemed like I was FLYING!!!   I was happy and scared spit-less at the same time, hoping I could keep this mechanical marvel on the straight n narrow of that highway and not cause a crash.   As we came to the north-bound turn-off that would take us down the last stretch of the journey home, I successfully shifted down to third gear and then down to second gear so I could make the turn from highway to gravel road without going too fast.  Every so often, I’d make a lightning glance behind me to make sure Dad was still following me as he said he would.  I’m happy to say that he was, and I was proud of myself for bringing the “M” home safely and falling in love with tractors even more for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 5th…“WHAT WAS A HARD LESSON TO LEARN AND UNDERSTAND ABOUT LIFE AND DEATH ON YOUR FARM?”

His porcine peals of pain pierced my ears in the dusty air of our hog house on that frigid winter’s evening there on our farm in southern Minnesota.  I ran towards the sound of that tiny voice and peeked over the railing and down into the pen area where a new litter of baby pigs and their mother sow lived.  It was quickly evident where that high-pitched squeal had come from.  A tiny piglet had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  His BIG, HEAVY momma sow had, inadvertently, either stepped on his back, or had laid down with a heavy, side-flopping thud and had broken his infant back.  My little boy heart was aghast at this painfully sad sight!!

In agony, the little creature maintained his high-pitched squeals of pain as he did his best to pull himself along with his front legs over the straw-covered floor of their pen.  His back legs were now dead and useless as they drug along behind him.  In a flash, I burst out from the hog house into the snowy winter night and made a beeline for our barn where Dad was milking our cows.  Frantically, I divulged the sad news of what I witnessed and called for him to come quickly to see what he could do.

Exiting the barn, we trotted silently along in the snow together; soon reaching the hog house and stepped inside.  Dad shared with me that, usually, as a mother sow lays down to feed her brood of piglets, the little ones will “get the message” that momma was going to lay down by her first dropping to her knees and then flopping onto her side.

But, it wasn’t the case this time.  Big momma sow may have dropped with a heavy flop to the pen floor and now her little one was mortally wounded.  Our farmer father, Russell, truly loved all our animals on that farm, yet, he also needed to keep in mind the minimal chance for survival of that little piglet who was suffering so badly.  Once inside that swine’s abode, it didn’t take Daddy very long to discern that this tiny creature was not long for this world.  At that moment of decision, what happened next shocked my little boy heart and I started to cry.  Dad grabbed that tiny piglet by his paralyzed back legs and whipped his head, four or five times sharply against the hard, wooden, vertical posts of the hog house roof supports.  Once the piglet was dead, Dad opened a side window of that pig house and tossed the lifeless body onto the straw pile outside.

Through my tears, I tried to grasp the reasoning and reality of what I just saw happen.   In choking voice, I asked our daddy, “Couldn’t you have called Dr. Blohm to come out and fix his back, Dad”?   Knowing I was distraught, and in his wisdom, my farmer father told me that even if he COULD afford to have our veterinarian give long-term care to that pig, there would be no guarantee that that little guy could be restored and live a healthy life.  Dad made it evident that, even though it hurt his heart also to have to do what he did, he was being merciful to the little animal to put him out of his intense suffering.

The death of that little pig was hard for my little boy mind to comprehend at that moment in my timeline of life.  Yet, as I look back, I saw the need to trust that my earthly father was being merciful to that poor little creature by putting it out of its torturous pain and suffering as quickly as possible.  So also today, when life hands me various challenges, I need to lean and trust on my gracious Lord Jesus that, whatever happens, He has the BEST intentions for me within His loving heart.  So, I will choose to put my hand within His and see that His next best will be for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 4th…“SHARE WITH US HOW INDEPENDENCE DAY WAS SPECIAL ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA.”

On Independence Day that year, I thought for sure I heard one of our Holstein cows call out, “Red, White and MOOOOOOO”!!!!  Well, o.k., so my little boy imagination was running overtime on that one……hehehe 😉   It was STILL so exciting to be celebrating our nation’s birthday once again!!  Part of the fun of that special day had to do with the small community of Bricelyn, Minnesota that lay to the west of our farm by a few miles.  Later in the day, our farm family would be driving over there so we could take part in the grand finale of patriotic fireworks that night.   That village came alive each Independence Day with many events that were put on for families to enjoy throughout the day that culminated in the giant fireworks show that evening.

Little as the two of us were, sister Candice and myself were still made keenly aware of this patriotic holiday from our parents and teachers sharing stories about America’s history.   We also were influenced by the wide variety of television and Hollywood movie historical dramas of how our nation came to be free from British rule.  Thanks to our elder siblings, Lowell and Rosemary, we were also personally introduced to the medium of how we could loudly celebrate this special day of freedom………..FIREWORKS!!!

We were in awe as big brother brought home a supply of firecrackers known by the brand of “Black Cat”.   This was going to be a good week of fun leading up to July 4th when it arrived on the calendar.  Since the milking of our dairy herd, and other chores, were done for the evening, we gathered with Lowell in the center of our expansive, graveled farm yard for the explosively good time he was about to show us.   In those remaining golden hours of daylight, brother was going to demonstrate to us how to create our own home-made rocket ship out of a tin can.  Boy, oh boy, oh boy!!!

One of my grandchildren might ask, “You mean, a tin can that held corn or peas?”  Yup, one in the same.  In order to launch our home-made rocket, we had to create a launching pad.  To accomplish that goal, Big Brother found a five gallon bucket and put about two or three inches of water in the bottom of that bucket…..now we had a launching pad.  If you’re scratching your head on that “pad” idea, you’ll see why it makes sense in a minute.  One end of the tin can was already open, from when our mother had emptied out the vegetables for one of our family meals.   The open end of the tin can was placed down on the ground, exposing the closed end of the can upward.   Brother then took a nail and, with a hammer, punctured a hole in the can with that nail, dead center.   He could now take a firecracker and wedge it tightly into that small hole with the wick of the firecracker’s fuse pointing up into the air.  Now he took the “rocket” and gently settled the tin can into the water at the bottom of that five gallon bucket.  If needed, he’d tilt the tin can a bit to the side so that trapped air bubbles could escape, thereby allowing the can to sit flat on the bucket’s bottom.   Now it was time to “clear the launching pad” as Lowell gave us command to get WAYYY BACK at a distance of safety, which we obediently did, of course.    With a fun “countdown”, our “Mission Commander” would light a match and slowly lowered the flame into the bucket to light the fuse of that firecracker.  As the gunpowder-laced fuse ignited, Lowell made a made dash of speed over to where we were standing.  As the firecracker EXPLODED, the concussion between the interior of the tin can, and the water below it, caused pressure that forced that tin can up, up, UP and HIGH INTO THE SKY!!!!  That little metal “rocket ship” would “fly” as high as 20 feet…..sometimes even 30 feet into that Minnesota sky.   We little ones were THRILLED!!! 😉   That noisy time with our elder brother was so much fun!!!

To culminate this red hot Holiday, it was now time to climb into our red n white 1956 Chevrolet and roll along the gravel road with our family as we’d head west towards the town of Bricelyn and those majestic aerial fireworks that night.

That Independence Day summer sunset was bidding us to follow it to the horizon.  Dad brought the engine of our handsome Chevrolet to life and we cruised out of the farm’s banking driveway as we followed country gravel roads to the west and the destination of where those fiery “blossoms” in the sky would end this day of celebrating our life of living in a free country!  With all the windows rolled down, the cropland fragrances of a lovely Minnesota evening wafted in and through the car as Dad gently cruised those classic country gravel roads.  The summer heat of that Independence Day had produced the emanation of a wonderful “green perfume” from the field corn and soybean crops.  The aroma seemed to lend a pleasant joy of being a little farmer boy who relished living in a free nation with loving parents who could provide for us in spiritual and material ways that were to bless us all in the years to come.

Upon arrival at our neighboring hamlet of Bricelyn, Dad pulled our family chariot over to the side of the highway and right across from the football field where the super-dooper fireworks extravaganza was about to commence.  Like any child, sister and myself wanted to have the best possible view into the black velvet sky above us for the upcoming fiery gala.  During everyday life on our farm, we were forbidden to climb onto our car’s hood, roof or trunk (our weight could possible cause dents or damage), but tonight was special.  With our parents gracious permission, we removed our shoes, and were given Dad & Mom’s blessings to tenderly climb onto the wide hood of our Chevrolet Bel Air.  In our stocking feet, we gingerly crawled across that metal hood to the windshield where we leaned back so that we were perfectly situated at an angle to gaze up into the starry Minnesota sky and wait for the first brilliant bursts of colorful, dazzling fireworks to light above us.  The magic hour arrived……   KAHWHUMP!!!  KAHPOWWW!!  WHIZZZZBANG!!  What a joyous, loud and colorful way it was to say, “Happy Birthday, America!!!” for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!!

July 3rd...”DID YOU EVER GET A GIANT BANG OUT OF USING FIREWORKS THE WRONG WAY, AS A CHILD ON THE FARM?”

KAAAHHHBOOOOM!!!!!…..was the last sound that my little boy ears heard as I entered into the realm of temporary, but significant deafness.  In just a split second, I went from being able to hear the slightest chirp of a bird, to hearing nothing….AT ALL!!!  Besides the siren-like ringing in my ears, everything around me was now deeply muffled; as if two giant pillows had been glued to each side of my head and I was trying to filter voices and sound through the stuffing of those imaginary pillows.  What caused this explosive mayhem??   Well, I’ll tell ya.

Since I really LOVED all the cowboy shows on our old black & white television, I just HAD to have my very own cap gun, six-shooter pistol for my playtimes.  Ammunition for my mini-Western adventures was in the form of roll caps that we loaded onto a peg inside the pistol.

The caps were little dots of gun powder on a paper tape.  Each time you pulled the gun trigger, the mechanism inside would pull the paper tape up against the strike plate of the gun and the hammer would clobber the dot of gunpowder making a POP sound.   The toys were also known as pop guns.  For a time there, in my young days, the pop gun sound was alright to play with, but, after awhile, I just had to have more “BANG for my buck”, so to speak.

In my itty bitty little boy conniving mind, I gave some thought to a new paradigm shift.   “Hmmmm, what if I double or triple the dots of gun powder and then stuff them into the firing hammer of my cap gun?”  The resulting decibel blast from that experiment was better, but not enough to satisfy my longing for even MORE noise.  “Aaahaaaaa!!!  What if I take three whole ROLLS of caps and, since that many wouldn’t fit into my cap gun, I’ll just set them on some flat iron and bludgeon that wad of gun powder with my dad’s long handled sledge hammer??!!!”

Now, our beloved mother, Clarice, always used to tell us kids, from her wisdom of life, “Too much of a good thing is NOT good”!!!   I would’ve been really smart, that day, to have heeded her sage advice, but little boy logic won out and I decided to carry out my explosive idea.  Near our father’s work shop, there was a large, metal anvil outdoors with a good-sized flat surface built into its design.  I placed those three whole rolls of caps on that flat surface and backed off as I picked up the long-handled, heavy sledge hammer that belonged to my dad.  Once committed to this decision, I used all my little boy muscles and lifted that sledge hammer high above my head.  With all of my mini-might, I flung that sledge hammer down with a WHAM!!!!   The impact of that blow caused all those hundreds of little dots of gunpowder to explode in unison in what was a resultant, enormous KAAAHHPOWWWW!!!!!

What I thought would be fun, ended up being almost a tragedy in the potentially permanent loss of my hearing.   I praise the Lord that He allowed my hearing to begin returning in about 10 minutes, or so.  Needless to say, when it came to fireworks that day, there was  a painful lesson to be learned by this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.