July 2nd…“AS A LITTLE BOY ON YOUR FARM, DID YOU ENJOY WATCHING WESTERNS ON TELEVISION?  HOW DID YOU PLAY COWBOYS AFTER THE SHOW WAS OVER?”

An equine explosion of beating hooves raced across the little black n white television set that sat in the corner of our Living Room on our farm in southern Minnesota.  I loved every cowboy movie and television show that I could watch.  There I was, absorbed in all the thrills, sitting on the frayed edge of that old easy chair.   My little boy body bounced on the cushion of that “horse”, keeping rhythm with the same cadence of my latest cowboy hero as he sat in the saddle of his mighty steed.

As the dastardly devil of a villain raced into the jagged hills, my cowboy hero would guide his handsome stallion, without waiver, in hot pursuit.  In the truest sense of “horse power”, that cowboy’s muscled mount dug in his hoofs as each horseshoe spewed back dust and gravel as he was spurred to even greater feats of power in their race to suppress evil.  With lunging leaps, my hero’s horse catapulted them both in near vertical jumps as they gained ground on the assailant ahead of them.  In short order, the team of cowboy and horse were there to stop the evil up ahead and see him overtaken by their combined power of good!

After the happy ending of another cowboy television adventure concluded, it was time for my little boy imagination to carry on the thrills in my own ways.  In the summertime, I could run outside to play cowboy, but oftentimes, in the many months of winter, I had to confine my mini-adventures of western wildness to inside our farm home.   It was a blink in time for me to improvise inventive games and ways to play cowboy indoors.  Being “knee-high to a grasshopper” in those days, the floor was not too far down for me (like it is now when I’m an old man), to reach.  With unlimited energy to burn, I’d easily drop to all fours (hands and knees), and happily pretend I was Roy Rogers, Gene Autry or even the black-caped Zorro!

My pretend cowboy pony (in other words, ME, MYSELF and I) was missing something, though.  Oh sure, I could rear up on my legs and whinny like a horse, I could imitate a bucking horse, even.  What this “horse” was missing was the SOUND of those horseshoe hoofs going clippity clop on the ground.  IDEA TIME!!!  I ran over to my mother in our family kitchen and asked for some horseshoes……….well, actually I asked her for some Mason Jar lid rings.  You see, our dear mother, Clarice, canned LOTS of food into glass jars for our family to enjoy during the very long winters there in Minnesota.  Over time, she had gathered a large collection of jar rings and lids to accomplish her canning goals each year.  Mom sweetly shared two of her jar rings with me and I was then one happy cowboy!

I grasped the metal jar ring with my finger tips so that when I placed those two rings to the floor, that metallic sound replicated the metal sound of the horseshoe of a horse.  BINGO!!!!  I now had my very own clippity clop sound as I reared up in a triumphant horse standing position (from my kneecaps, that is) and then went happily clackety clacking away through our linoleum-floored farm house as a very pleased little cowboy version of a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

July 1st…“WHEN A LITTLE BOY, ON YOUR MINNESOTA FARM, TELL US ABOUT AN OUTDOOR GAME THAT YOU MADE UP ON YOUR OWN.”

The song, “Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead”, was still ringing in my ears as I exited our farm house after viewing the classic 1939 movie called, “The Wizard Of Oz”.   Ohhh, the impressionable imaginations of a child!  Ever since that fun, yet scary, movie first appeared on our little black & white television set, I grew to be a big fan of the story of Dorothy and her adventures in Oz.  The exact date of this scenario is a bit vague, but I’d easily guess that I was about 8 years of age, so that puts us in the timeline of about the summer of 1962.

Do you remember the scene where the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and the Cowardly Lion are on the quest to rescue Dorothy?  They were peering down from the dark cliffs near the castle of the Wicked Witch of the West, remember?  There below, near the castle entrance, in all of their deep, bass-voiced splendor, were the Winkie Guards conducting their military marching drills.  With evil relish, those Winkie Guards would march with vicious cadence as they paraded over the castle drawbridge area.  With their intent to cast fear into any trepidatious enemy nearby, the malicious Winkie Guard would then sing out this mournful, bellicose, chanted dirge…..“OHHWEEEOHH, YEEOOOH WHUMPF”!!   Over and over, in deadly harmony, they’d make that mournfully deep sound as their long, green noses poked out in front of their furry, turbaned heads.  And, to add to their mercenary maleficence, slung over their shoulders, they carried those long weapons of death…..the multi-pointed spears!!  OOooooo, how MONSTROUS they were!!!!

Now, I took that imagery from the movie that was emblazoned on my young mind and PRESTO, I had the genesis of my new outdoor game.  Since the farm demanded so much time from our father each day, I seldom had a time to play baseball catch with him.  Big brother had already left our farm to join the Air Force, so he was away, too.  No offense to my sisters, but at my age of about 8 years, girls were just not acceptable playmates.  You know, they had girl germs and cooties, etc.  😉  So, that left “me, myself and I” to create a playtime on my own.  And, that’s just what I did!

T’was a glorious Minnesota day as I grabbed my baseball bat and ball and wandered out into the expansive front lawn of our farm home.  I began by tossing the baseball into the air and hitting some long “pop-flys” with my bat.  Of course, the baseball ended up landing at the far end of our sloped lawn which necessitated that I walk the long distance to retrieve the ball so I could then “pop-fly” a hit of the ball to the other end of the yard.  Rather than just carry the bat as I returned to the far end of the yard, I decided to add some flair and fun to this repetitive routine.  Instantly, with my vivid imagination, I transformed myself into a short, squat, high-voiced little Norwegian “Winkie Guard”.  While on the “march” to get that baseball, my bat became a long, “Winkie” spear over my little boy shoulder, just like the wicked bad guys did in the movie.  Naturally, in my imagination station character, I would march pompously toward my baseball while singing loudly (and in the deepest voice a little squirt like me could make), “OHHWEEEOHH YEEOOOH WHUMPF”!!!  Upon reaching my baseball’s location, I’d toss it up in the air, whack it as hard as I could with my bat, and then conduct a repeat performance of the March Of The Winkie Guards.   T’was some real fun in the sun for a self-sufficient little farm boy with the vivid imagination of a Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 30th…“TELL US ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE WORKS OF ART AND WHO WAS THE ARTIST WHO PAINTED THEM.”

I stepped into a frame of time and place and could only stand in awe at the wonderment of watching this Artist Craftsman in progress as He created the essence of the ultimate beauty on His “canvas”.  I was held spellbound in His presence by the captivating manner of His omniscient brush strokes and colored hues in this properly proportioned project of  loveliness and serenity.  As each part of the artwork was tenderly put into place, being imbued and enhanced by love, I couldn’t help but be breathless in anticipation of seeing the final canvas of art revealed.

Master at what He does best, He knew that to truly compliment this work of perfection, He would need to select and draw colors from two wide spectra of work and then harmonize them into this opus of magnificence.  Patience was a necessity while He built one facet of this bejeweled work upon the next.  They were to be like jewelry that is both made of gold and yet caressed with inlaid gems, as well.

Finally, at the apex of perfection, this very beautiful work of art was brought forth in five wonderful revealings.  The title to this masterpiece of art?  “BIRTH!”  That glorious artwork of God in the births of our five glorious children…….our “jewels”, our “diamonds” of delight in the form of the lives of our Nathan, Christa, Rachel, Johanna and Rose Noorlun!!!  Each of their creations, each maturing, each bringing forth, and each life developing has been truly God’s work of art and something I have always been in awe of and thought was very beautiful to behold for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  😉  ><>

June 29th…“WHAT WAS THE WORST PAYING JOB YOU EVER WORKED AT?”

POEM – “I Knew Wood Should”   by N. Elliott Noorlun

I knew wood should, not be my foe,

As I came to the Mill each day.

But if wood could, wear evil hood,

I think I’d hear it say,

“I’ll make the Mill, pull levers at will,

And send piles down “green chain” way.

We’ll pile wood so deep, that those sad boys will keep,

Crying in horrid dismay!!”

For you see, my work, which I did not shirk, Was to sort and pile each plank,

But the tons they’d send, seemed to have no end,  And so my young heart just sank!

I got blisters and bruise, from each muscle I’d use, My young lean body would smart!

As each morning would rise, with more pain in my eyes, I really began to lose heart.

For the Mill crews were clever, with button and lever,

Produced too much wood for us boys,

To track and to stack, As our foreheads we’d smack,

While those bozos played big with their toys.

When the winter winds blew, and came flying through,

That Mill it would chill to the bone.

So with lumber in lap, This forlorn young chap,

Carried on in this laboring zone.

Just once in a while, we’d all crack a smile,

When the Mill up above would break down,

We’d yip and holler, as some swigs we’d swaller,

And tease around like a clown.

But sure enough, just like sneezing from snuff,

They’d make their repairs up above,

Then t’was back to the dreary, Our bodies all weary,

We’d give new loads of wood a shove.

But then came the day, when I said, “HOOORAYYY!”

For a new job came into my view.

Bid the Mill goodbye, it’s time to try,

A job I knew I could do.

Thirty years went by, And I tell ya, this guy,

Was thrilled by each parent and kid.

For this janitor smiles, and sang o’er the miles,

This job’s joys made me flip my lid!!! 😉

June 28th…“WHEN LIVING ON THE FARM IN MINNESOTA, DID YOUR MOTHER EVER TEACH YOU A CRAFT TO ENJOY THAT SHE HAD LEARNED WHEN SHE WAS YOUNG?”

Cradled in the gentility of a mother’s loving heart are the desires to share the joys and knowledge she gleaned in her own youth with her sweet progeny of today.  Our precious mother, Clarice, did just that for my sister, Candice, and myself when we were little.   Mom’s sewing and embroidery prowess came from her being tutored by her own mother, grandmother and her extended church family.  Clarice had been raised in the Lutheran denomination of our Christian heritage and our darling mother warmly recalled being a happy member of an All Girls League (like a club) at her local church of worship.   The title of her girls church club was called, “The Lutheran Daughters Of The Reformation”.   On regular meetings, Clarice and other High School aged girls would meet at their church for Bible Study, spiritual training and also various homemaking skills and crafts.

As time went on, at their club meetings, two elderly lady “spinsters” (our mother’s terminology for ladies who never married) volunteered to attend the League meetings to share their knowledge of sewing skills to the mid-1930’s generation of young women that included our lovely mother.

It is only too evident that our beloved mother also gleaned more of her sewing and embroidery skills from her precious mother, Amanda Rogness Sletten.   Another gracious contributor to Mom’s needle knowledge was our Great Grandmother, Martha Larson Sletten.

The culmination of Mom’s excellent sewing skills manifested themselves to our own generation by the beautiful creations she would make for our own immediate family and also as home-made gifts for others.  As just a partial listing, our sweet family matriarch created embroidered dish towels, fancy embroidered pillow cases, artistic wall hangings, gorgeous quilts and the list just went on and on.

As is common for many little children, my sister and I would sometimes come to our mother with the age old saying, “Mom, we’re bored!!  There’s nothing to do!!!”  This whining became more prevalent during the cold and long winter months when confinement to the house, due to blizzard or icy conditions, was a norm for farm families.  Mother, in her wisdom and love for us, would bring out her sewing supplies and also our favorite coloring books.  First, we were directed by Mom to find a cartoon page that we wanted to use to create our very own special stitching project.  We’d then cut that page out of the coloring book.  Another step of this process of creativity was to lay a piece of black-looking paper, called carbon paper, over a piece of linen cloth (that we’d soon be stitching onto, and then finally, place the cartoon page over that carbon paper.  Mother showed us how to then take an old, worn-down, well-rounded pencil and begin to trace that pencil along the lines of the cartoon image we wanted to create on the linen cloth on the bottom of this tri-level project.  As we moved the dull pencil over the cartoon outline, the carbon paper was transferring its “ink” onto that line image of the cloth below.  When we finished every last line of the cartoon tracing, and lifted the coloring page and carbon……..THERE would be our stitching cloth picture; just ready for coloring in with stitching.

I distinctly enjoyed the rainbow of colors that our dear mother had in her collection of embroidery “floss”.   No, not like what you use on your teeth before brushing…..this was special sewing string called, floss.  Wooden embroidery hoops were also now employed to “capture” the cloth image tightly within a round frame so that we could begin stitching the outline of our horse or princess picture with whatever colors of floss we imagined that they should look like.

Now, the two of us little ones were happily lost in our world of woven wonderment.  Sister and I enjoyed countless hours of pleasant pleasures of our own fabric artwork while “Old Man Winter” howled benignly outside of our cozy farm house walls.  Those were soft and peaceful memories for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 27th…“WHEN GROWING UP ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA, SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS ABOUT SOMETHING THAT WAS A MYSTERY AND PUZZLEMENT TO YOU.”

POEM – “A Hammer Named Stammer”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

There’s a lot of questions, For each little boy,

As he encounters, Every daily joy.

“How come this?” and “Why is that?”,

Like, “Why did God make a calico cat?”,

A moment like that, Came to me one day,

As far off towards, Our woods I did play.

I could see our dad, Real far away,

As far as a football field I’d say.

With muscled arm, Dad’s hammer would fall,

And yet, for a second, No sound at all.

Then, like magic, Sound reached my ear,

And only then, Could I hear.

T’was if that hammer, Didn’t know how to talk,

It seemed to stutter, It seemed to balk.

Being too young, To understand science,

I could only draw on, Boy’s brain reliance.

So, then and there, I named that hammer,

His name then would be, The hammer called, “Stammer”.

As I got older, And went to school,

Learning facts, And the Golden Rule,

I was taught about, The speed of sound,

And just how fast, Across the ground,

That sound can travel, Once it’s made,

And where we stand, Will change the grade,

Of when our ears, Can listen in,

From whence that sound, Did really begin.

So, “Stammer” the hammer, Was a learning time,

As I have shared, Within this rhyme!!  😉

June 26th…“WERE YOU EVER IN A FIGHT DURING YOUR HIGH SCHOOL YEARS?”

POEM – “Ping Pong POW!!!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

Back in the days of P.E. class, Where each of us boys reports,

Ol’ Mr. Lynn, before he’d begin, Had us dress in our P.E. shorts.

Upstairs to the gym, back when we were slim, It was time for our ping-pong teaching,

Yet we didn’t suspect, or even detect,  What pains to us would be reaching.

That Terry T., was a jerk, you see, With an evil twist of a prank,

He’d sneak up behind, As our butt cheeks he’d find,

And with paddle would give them a SPANK!!

As we filed downstairs, I grabbed him by hairs, And threatened he spank me no more,

And true to his form, he started to swarm, And we tangled for I was quite sore!!!

With one hefty shove, I changed from a dove, And sent that doofus a flying.

He landed in hamper, and away he did scamper, I even thought I heard crying. (Hehehe!! )

Needless to say, from onward that day,    Our butt cheeks were no longer molested,

For Terry T. knew, the reason I “blew”, Not wanting my anger be tested. 😉

June 25th…“DID YOU EVER TRY TO DO SOMETHING, LIKE YOUR DAD, THAT ENDED UP BEING AN EMBARRASSMENT?”

POEM – “Ya Gotta Know How to Blow!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

You may think it’s funny, But it’s SNOT,

That dribbled down my face.

Dad made it look easy, But when things got breezy,

The mess I made was disgrace!

Our farmer dad was lean and lanky,

And sometimes too busy for proper hanky.

With one finger he’d ply, And let nostril fly,

But was a ghastly mess for this little guy.

“Protein Propelling Prince” I was not,

And at first I really got upsot.

But with practice each day,

I got better each nostril way,

In clearing face “tunnels”,

Of protein’s whey.

So gross, you say, And I know it’s true,

Not prim or proper, some’ll say boohoo.

But when your busy, And you’ve got the urge,

Just look out and blow, And give them a purge!!! 😉

June 24th…“AS A CHILD, DID YOU EVER HAVE TO BE TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL?  WHY?”

Gravity has never been a very good friend of mine.  From the time I was allowed to wobble from my mother’s protective hovering, I’ve been “attacking the floor” ever since.  Seems that in Heaven’s holding area before birth, I must’ve contracted a pixie disease called, “Clumsyitis Maximus”!!!!  That malady even extended to my mouth, in that I was always tripping over my own tongue with dyslexic words or just plain having the same mouth size as shoe size.  I often have been guilty of the proverbial clumsy condition of “sticking my foot in my mouth”.

You’ve heard the expression of, “The bigger they are, the harder they fall”, ya?  When I finally survived life to the era of my Third Grade level in school, I really pulled a woozy doozy of a doofus dive that almost killed me……..cause when I fell, I fell HARD!!!!

When the majority of us farm boys came to school each day, we were wearing high-topped leather, heavy-duty work boots.   They were good for either kickin’ a cow, or in our case, good for kickin’ a ball on the playground at recess.  Those clodhopper work boots came in handy, cause instead of the All-American pastime of Baseball, we farm kids loved to play a parallel version called KICKball.   It was played identically as baseball, but we’d just use a rubber ball instead.

Usually, we’d play our Kickball games outdoors, but, during the winter months, we’d also play it in our school gymnasium as a planned curriculum of our Phy.Ed. (Physical Education) class.  Only difference was that those farm boots had to come off and we’d wear some designated gym shoes to protect the lovely wooden gym floors.  Part of that gymnasium facility also included our elevated school stage for putting on plays and other public events.  Under that elevated stage were low profile storage compartments for racks of folding chairs.  On that fateful day, our teacher had placed the 3rd Base marker right next to one of those chair storage compartment doors.   Kickball, that day, was a rousing game of fun for all and it was my turn to be up at Home Plate and be a farmer so’s I could “plow” into that ball.  The “Pitcher” rolled the rubber ball my direction and that gym shoe of mine gave that ball a colossal clobbering KICK!   If that ball could talk, it likely yelled OUCH as it went sailing away to the far end of the gym “outfield”.  On that thrilling cue, this lightweight little Norski body flew past 1st Base with no problem and I “clipped” 2nd Base with an increasing blur of my feet “engines”.

What happened next, though, seemed to happen in slow motion.  Somehow, on the way to 3rd Base, the blur of my feet got in the way of each other and I ended up tripping over my own feet.  With my equilibrium totally askew now, my whole body went into this wobbledeebobbledee conundrum of movement that sent me rocketing in a uncontrollable collision course with that chair storage door at 3rd Base just under our school’s stage.  KAHHBAAAMM!!! was the sound that was made as the top of my head connected with that chair storage door at my top velocity speed.  I blacked out for a second or two as my whole body was stunned by the tremendous impacting shock of that chair cart storage door slamming shut.  Needless to say, I dropped right there at a dead stop (and for a second, I thought I was REALLY dead)!!!

The teacher in charge ran over to scoop me up off of the floor and ushered me over to the bleacher seating to let me rest and recover.  The game went on and as our class period came to its close, I was already beginning to lose my eyesight due to the blurred vision and a major headache setting in that was beginning to pound in my little nine year old cranium.   Upon witnessing my physical deterioration….our classroom teacher spoke with the school Principal, Mrs. King, out of concern for me.   Mrs. King, in turn, called my parents to drive in from our farm and transport me as soon as possible to immediate medical attention.  By the time Dad and Mom arrived at the school, I was so “blind” that I couldn’t walk on my own.   To the rescue came our very kind Music Teacher, Mr. Arden Torbert.  That kind-hearted man assisted my mother, Clarice, in getting me down the stairway from the second story of the school and safely out to our family car.  At this point of the injury, I was becoming a bit comatose and unresponsive to my folks as I sat next to my mother with my head against her shoulder.

Fading in and out of consciousness, I didn’t recall much of anything as we arrived at the hospital in Wells, Minnesota.  But there is one incident that happened at the hospital that day that I vividly recall.

To rule out a fractured skull, I was laid on a gurney (flat, rolling table) and taken to the X-ray Department.  The x-ray technicians and the attending nurse had me lay on the table on my stomach with head turned away from the nurse who was caring for me.  She was standing close to the x-ray table on my left.  Another x-ray was needed, so the nurse asked me to roll over and turn my face towards her this time.   As I did, I made with a projectile vomit that sprayed the whole front of her nice white nurse’s uniform.   Even in my sick condition, I was mortified that my incapacitated body had done such a nasty, messy deed to this poor woman of the medical profession.  I can still see her using her two hands to pull her puke-saturated uniform away from her slimy torso.   Immediately, I asked for her forgiveness and said, “Ohhhh, I’m so sorry!!!”   Her grace, in that moment of horridness, was exemplary!!!   I’d even wager that that dear woman was likely a Christian for how she responded to me, saying, “Ohhh wellll, it’s part of the job!!”

To this day, over 50 years later, I never even knew her name.   And, in my sickly blurred vision, I never even saw her face.  Yet, I pray that our good Lord gave her extra jewels in her crown when she got to Heaven because of the godly kindness she had shown to me that day!!!  A true angel of mercy, she was.

For the next three days, I was under constant surveillance in my hospital bed.  Nurses woke me up every half hour, or so, to make sure I didn’t slip into a coma and possible death.  One day, as I was feeling a little bit better, I realized my parents were in the hospital room with me and were talking to my doctor.  The three of them thought I was asleep, but I actually was half awake and listening to their conversation.  The doctor told them, “If Elliott ever suffers this kind of injury to his head again, one of two things will happen.  Number one, it may kill him instantly, or, number two, he may end up a “vegetable” for the rest of his life”!!!  Even though I have incurred other head injuries throughout my days, I remain so grateful to our Lord Jesus that He has allowed a long life for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.  ><>  😉

 

June 23rd…“DID YOU EVER GO SKINNY DIPPING?”

Boy plus boy equals mischievous joy!  That’s exactly the genre of fun that awaited for myself and the new friend I had met in the summer of 1965.  Dirk was, to the best of my knowledge, a grandson to our farmer neighbors, Charlie and Mable Heitzeg.  Dirk had come to enjoy some vacation on his grandfather’s farm that year and we enjoyed each other’s company immensely as we turned on our imaginations for fun times.

That summer was so full of excitement and mayhem.  For one thing, Dirk loved to ride my pony, “Little Lady”.  Sharing turns in her saddle, we saw many happy hours pass daily as we’d play Cowboys & Indians throughout the large, treed windbreak surrounding his grandfather’s farm.  We’d climb to the upper reaches of the family’s wooden corn crib and pretend that that sturdy structure was our ‘cavalry fort’.   From that wooden bulwark, we’d fend off hordes of imaginary savages that were clamoring for our blood.  We’d shove our long ‘stick rifles’ through the venting slats, of that edifice for drying field corn, and fire away until our imaginary enemies knew they’d had enough of our blazing lead and rode their Indian ponies off in retreat.

Sometimes, our blood and guts of little boy pretending became a reality.  All was fun and games that day in the wooden corn crib until I decided to take an exiting leap from the tall structure to the ground below.  While in my ‘flight’ back to earth, I noticed a board on the ground with a long, pointed rusty nail protruding up into the air.  It was too late for me to change course as my ankle-high tennis shoe connected with that vertical, metal ‘spear’.  The impact forced the nail right through the rubber sole of my shoe and deep into my foot.  I hollered a painful, “YEEEOWWWW!!!!”  When I picked up my stricken appendage, the board along with the nail came up off the ground, too.  Stepping on the board with my ‘good’ foot, I yanked my skewered lower member off of its attacker nail and could feel my socks filling with blood inside my gushy tennis shoe.   Playtime for that day came to a quick end as I headed for our farm and medical attention from our mother who applied a poultice to help draw out any infection from that rusty nail.

With my foot happily healed, a more humorous adventure awaited us two little stinkers at Brush Creek.   This gently-flowing stream meandered along the southern border of our family’s farm property and ran from east to west as it meandered its way, eventually, to the Blue Earth River and then on down to the mighty Mississippi River.  That flowing creek, over its lifetime, had cut itself deeply into the surrounding agricultural landscape, resulting in a type of topography where two conniving boys were able to ‘disappear’ beneath its tall embankments.  On one of those classically beautiful Minnesota days, Dirk and this Norwegian Farmer’s Son were having a grand time catching crawdads, tadpoles and enjoying the overall pleasures of mud, water and just being a boy.  Being a normally humid Midwest summer, we minor males pulled off our shirts and had rolled up our blue jeans to the knees so we could enjoy the coolness of the creek water.  One of us came up with the idea of, “Heyyy, why not peel off these blue jeans, too, and just go skinny dipping?!!!”  So, off came the last vestige of human coverings and we guys were as naked as the day we were born.

There we were…..two brash, brazen and bare-bottomed boys frolicking in the creek while hidden from any cars or tractors that would pass over the nearby bridge.  Fun and frivolity ensued until Dirk blurted out, “What happened to my jeans???  Where’d they go???”  Poor Dirk!!  His blue jeans had become a type of denim ‘submarine’ that had submerged into the depths of that murky water and, for all we knew, were now possibly being carried by the current to the Mississippi River.   Naturally, we were both becoming a bit frantic over this unfortunate incident.   If Dirk had to go back to his grandfather’s farm NAKED, there’d be a ton of questions as to why and how this skin-exposed situation evolved in the first place.  While visions of embarrassment, spankings and scoldings danced in our guilt-ridden minds, we reached deep down with our arms and legs sloshing from one side of that creek to the other in a radial searching for those underwater body coverings.  Finally, one of us rose up with a happy holler, “I GOT ‘EM!!!!!”  Both of us little nudists breathed a collective sigh of relief that we could finally go home to our respective farms that day in a respectfully acceptable way……….CLOTHED!!! 😉

Oh the skinny-dipping times of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son