June 22nd…“DID SOMEONE EVER PLAY A PRANK ON ONE OF YOUR FAMILY MEMBERS?”

Some babies are born with a wink and a giggle at the first slap on their bottom from the doctor at birth.  Our fun-filled family friend, George Morris, was one of those babies.

From just a few of the stories I’ve gleaned about this pixie-spirited soul, I knew our dad had met a kindred spirit in the realm of making smiles when they first met, in 1967, at Glenwood Heights Elementary School.  For you see, up until that point in time, we, as a family, had known the brunt of many of our own daddy’s teasings and pranks on us over the years.  In his new buddy, George, Dad had not only met his match, but he would be bettered on a number of occasions when it came to silliness and guffaws!!

For one thing, these two friends had come from the same generation.  George had fought with the United States Marine Corps in the South Pacific during World War II.  Our farmer father, Russell, fought his own type of war with the plows n cows on the Home Front in Minnesota during that global conflagration.  Decades later, for the good Lord to bring these two pranksters together in Washington State in 1967 was kismet.

Part of our father’s duties, as a Head Custodian for the Battle Ground School District, was to deliver Inter-District mail and supplies from the main District offices in Battle Ground down to the schools of Glenwood Heights Elementary and Laurin Intermediate School each morning.  To accomplish this task, he’d park our family car on the school grounds and drive a 1958 Chevrolet pickup truck that belonged to the school system.  Inside the canopy of that truck, he’d haul everything from mail to boxes of books, to cases of food, etc..  He’d return that truck to the District campus each evening and then take our family car home.

George, in his prankster glory, knew that our dad was faithful to the minute each day as he’d swing around behind Glenwood to drop off the Laurin School mail via an access road that went between the two schools.  So, like a spider setting a trap for a fly, George began to “weave his web” to catch our father in a choice prank.  Both of these fine men were raised in God-fearing Christian families that honored what was the right thing to do in any given life situation.  George had a strong notion that our dad would want to do the right thing if he saw what he THOUGHT was some poor lady’s lost purse in the roadway.  The “bait” purse was placed, by smiling George, right in the center of that access road between the two schools.  That was the same access road that Russell would soon be driving on in a few more minutes.  George then tied some clear fishing line to his “bait” purse and let the spool, of almost invisible line, unravel as he played it out for quite a number yards in the distance until he could then hide around the corner of the school building.  Now, with spider stealth, George quietly peeked around the corner of the building as he waited for his “fly” (our daddy) to drive up and see the “web” of this purse scene.

Like the faithful tick-tock of a clock, here came that old 1958 Chevy pickup as Dad cruised in between the two schools.  “Uhh ohh!”, is likely what Russ thought, “Some lady must’ve lost her purse.  I’ll pick it up and take it to the school office so they can return it to her.”   I can just imagine the metallic sound of that old truck door popping open as Dad climbed out to see if he could do a good deed of returning this purse to the lady who had lost it.  All the while, that six foot tall pixie of a George is peering around the corner of the gymnasium building just waiting to give that fishing line a hefty yank!!!   Russell begins to bend over to reach for that purse, and gets within inches of it, when dear ol’ prankster George gives a mighty YANK on that fishing line and the lady’s purse, like a streak of lightning, goes flying off into the grass!!!!  Our shocked father must’ve jumped clear outta his skin (and maybe left a puddle on the ground) as that magic purse took on a flying life of its own!!!   George, unable to contain himself with laughter, begins his stifled chortling from his hiding place around the corner of the building.  After our father’s heart rate came back to normal,  I’m sure he joined his fellow prankster kinsman in a hearty howl of laughter and ribbing!!!

For many years to come, George Morris and our father injected each other’s lives with many more times of endorphin-laced laughter.  They teased, talked and tricked each other with glee over their many years of friendship together.   These moments of happiness will forever remain in the happy heart of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 21st…“WHEN GROWING UP ON YOUR FARM, DID YOUR FATHER MAKE YOU ANY SWINGS TO ENJOY AND PLAY ON?”

“It is a happy talent to know how to play”…….so said the great writer and poet, Ralph Waldo Emerson.   On our farm, there in the beauty of southern Minnesota, our hard-working father must’ve recounted his own “happy talents of play” when he was a youth in northern Minnesota.  And, to encourage his next generation to enjoy playtime also, he constructed two very different types of swings for we four siblings to go “flying” upon.

Our first swing, that Dad created, was located in the center aisle of our barn.  Now, if you will, I’d like to paint a picture in your mind of our 15 Holstein cows, inside our barn, lined up, side by side, in a long row of stanchions (head holding devices).  This arrangement was where they’d stand each morning and evening to get their food and wait to be milked by our father, Russell, or our brother Lowell.  In front of these bovines was what we called a manger (a very long feeding box that ran almost the entire length of the barn.  That manger, in our barn, had a wooden wall (about 3 feet high) in front of the manger to help keep the hay and grain meals close to the cows so they could eat.

Dad created a wonderful “horse” swing and used heavy ropes to hang our special swing from the barn rafters, in the aisle way, in front of that manger I described earlier.  Basically, the swing consisted of a long beam of wood that was the “body” of the horse and then a vertical “head and foot” section, in the front, that was linked into the “body” of the horse by long bolts with doweling pegs sticking out of each side of the “foot” for our feet to rest on.  Protruding wooden dowel handles by the “ears” of the horse-shaped “head” were for our hands to grasp as we pushed and pulled to bring this equine toy to “life”.

After my chores were done in the evenings, I could unhook the “pony” swing ropes from the storage nails, next to the calf pens, and let down my “Pegasus” so that I could mount my wooden stallion and “sprout wings” as I’d build up swinging momentum in that aisleway air in front of our cows.  My flying “horse” and I would then ride off into adventure land chasing the “Black Bart” scoundrels of the West while our dairy cows continued to crunch their meal in the manger, contented with watching this little human “do his thing”.

My little sister, Candi, and myself, were the “second family” to enjoy the pony swing in the barn.  Our older sister and brother (Rosemary and Lowell) had played on that beloved apparatus so much, in their day, that the wooden beam “saddle” that Sis and I sat on had been “polished”, over time, by the countless hours of happiness that our older siblings had enjoyed before we two came along in 1954 and 1955.

My youthful exuberance on that swing sometimes got me into “hot water” with my Dad AND the cows.  In joyous abandon, I’d be urging the “wooden warrior” beneath me to swing so very high, that I’d be almost touching the ceiling rafters of the barn with each pendulum of motion.  Problem with that, was that the wilder I’d pump that swing, the more “off course” I was from a centralized location.  Sometimes, going askew from my course, I’d come into my down swing with a crooked angle and KAHHBAMMM!!!!, I’d land right on top of the manger, or even inSIDE the manger!!!!  The poor cows were horrified by my intrusion into their eating domain and would wildly yank backwards against their holding stanchions that held their heads in check.  That resultant chaos brought an eruption of a loud rebuke by my father saying, “HEYYYYY!!! CUT THAT OUT, YOUR SCARING THE COWS AND THEY’LL BREAK THEIR STANCHIONS……..OR WORSE, BE INJURED!!!”

Our thanks for the second swing in our playtime lives went to both our Dad AND our Uncle Doren Noorlun, for providing an item that would become our wonderful tire swing.  Uncle Doren owned an airplane and when one of his tires became too worn for use, he gave it to our father to use as our tire swing.  Our ever inventive daddy used that very large tire to fashion our next “flying machine” that was then hung under our giant Elm tree that graced the southern end of our large, sloped front lawn on our farm.  Dad cut away the “top” treads of the airplane tire, but left the tire’s side rims.  The remaining “bottom” of the tire was then our “seat” to sit in.  We’d use the upper side rims of the tire to use as “handles” to push and pull on as we’d build up swing momentum and height.

During times of reminiscing, our sweet elder brother, Lowell, would share how our father wanted to enjoy an afternoon nap each day after our family noon-time dinner.  In order to keep the house quiet for his nap time, brother and sister would exit our farm home and race across the large lawn to see who could be first to the shade of that tall Elm tree and be able to play on that tire swing.  Seeing that that swing originated from an airplane, it was only natural to see how high we could “fly” in those cooling Summer time breezes.

In what appeared to be a complete escape from the bounds of earth, we felt we could touch the sky…..or at least a butterfly that floated by as we’d come to meet each apex of flight and each pendulum of positive joy.  Ours was the zenith of happiness as we’d either rocket ourselves into the “blue yonder” on that swing, or, in a gentler mood, lazily let our feet drag across the finely-pummeled Minnesota soil under that swing area as we’d wile away the day in the Summertime while a refreshing prairie wind floated through that shady place to cool us in our childhood wonderment.   Whoever has the most FUN….WINS and those times were blissfully winning moments for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 20th…“WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, ON YOUR FARM IN MINNESOTA, DID A NEW ADVENTURE START OUT FUN, BUT END UP AS A DISASTER?

The Cessna flew low over our farm as my four year old legs catapulted me out of our home’s back screen door and to the center of our yard to get a better peek at this amazing “bird” called an airplane.

Of course, at the tender age of four years old…everything around me, in those early days, was amazing as I drank in each new adventure that life offered to me there on our farm in southern Minnesota.  With rapt attention to the sky, I noticed that that magical craft in the up above was making a sharp, descending and banking turn that enabled it to now ease itself down for a landing on our long alfalfa field.  My little boy body shot like a streak of lightning in that general direction as I climbed to the top rail of our barnyard fence and stretched my neck as high as I could to see the plane’s front tires connect with the ground.   The large aircraft tires, bouncing against the rough soil, caused the Cessna’s struts to quiver with joy as Mother Earth welcomed this metallic angel back to gravity and home.  With the tiny rear wheel of the aircraft following suit of its big brothers up front, that sky horse then taxied down the field a ways.  Next, I heard that powerful single engine rev up the propeller one more time to be able to spin the aircraft around to park it a bit closer to our cow-yard.

As the propeller of the Cessna rotated to silence, out of the cockpit door came our dad’s brother, Uncle Doren Noorlun.   From my munchkin perspective, I thought Uncle Doren was a bit on the wild side.  He seemed to thrive on adventure and appeared to enjoy some mayhem along the way.  Turns out, the incident in today’s story turned out to be no exception as Doren, with a wink, invited Dad, my brother Lowell, and myself to go with him for a ride up into the sky in that single-engine Cessna of his.

As we four aerial adventurers approached his sky-worthy machine, Uncle Doren popped open the pilot’s door for brother Lowell and I to climb into the cramped back seat of this metal bird.  Having climbed into the cockpit themselves, Dad and our uncle buckled up their seatbelts, too, for what would be my very first ride in an airplane.  That long, wooden, two-blade propeller slowly chugged round and round until that aircraft’s engine popped to life.  Then, the propeller went from a seeable spin to a large, powerful blur as Doren revved up his engine to move us across the alfalfa field.  The churning of that engine and propeller blade spinning caused a cacophony of sound and vibration inside the aircraft that both transfixed my four year old mind with wonder yet also fright, at the same time.  The metal creature that surrounded us began to move as Uncle Doren increased the speed of the engine and that propeller generated an airflow that pushed us along.  Looking out my side window, during the taxi, I was mesmerized by the lurching, up and down movement of the long span of metal wings as we moved to the end of the alfalfa field for what was known as a “take off”.

Small talk, between our uncle and Dad dwindled as Doren spun the craft around to face that Cessna into the wind.  Like a cowboy cracking a whip, Uncle Doren quickly gave the engine a full throttle of power as we began our “race” into the air.  With our ground speed increasing, it was, all of a sudden, as if a magician called out, “Ala kaZAM!!!”, and the airplane slowly lifted into the summer Minnesota sky.  My saucer-sized eyes witnessed the ground below us getting smaller and smaller as we climbed to meet the clouds.  Up till now, in my tiny life, I had only seen birds do this type of thing and here I was actually in the clouds alongside them.  So far…….I really LIKED this thing called flying!!!

In light of this story, I mention here that my potty training was now far behind me, and at a whole four years of age, I had been a “big boy” for quite some time.  No more diapers for me, ya?  I’m just like the grownups, ya?……..NOT!!!   I’ll tell you why!  Uncle Doren, a seasoned veteran of World War II, decided he was going to have some fun with his “captive audience” inside that plane.

Doren began putting his aircraft through some aerial acrobatics.  I handled most of the maneuvers fairly well until he put that Cessna into a steep nosedive towards the earth below us.   I was terrorized seeing that ground coming up fast in our vision.  Doren then gave a hard yank on the yoke (steering wheel) of that “bird” and we abruptly shot back up into the sky!!  Well, my itty bitty bladder just couldn’t handle the G-force shock of that experience and I emptied my boy bladder right there!!  😦  Beginning to cry, I tapped my uncle’s shoulder, from my place in the back seat, and said, “Unca Dowen, I wet my pants!!!”

Well, there was to be no sympathy from THAT pilot, cause he, my dad and brother just howled with laughter thinking this was a good funny moment……..at my expense!  For them, maybe it WAS funny, but for me?  Well, I was mortified that I had embarrassed myself in such a way 😦    After all, it was MY britches that were soaking wet and now I was suffering the embarrassment of being thought of by my fellow airplane passengers as a baby once again.

After my uncle brought the plane safely once again to earth, the side door was popped open to allow this Wee Willie Wet Drawers to slither out of the aircraft and waddle away with my urine soaked clothing.  Crying all the way up to our farm house, my mother heard me and met me at the door wondering what had happened.  Through my tears, I had shared with her (including hand movements) of how my uncle’s plane had swooped towards earth and I had lost control of my bladder.  Sometimes fun was NO FUN for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 19th…“DID YOUR FATHER HAVE A MISCHIEVOUS SENSE OF HUMOR?  DID HE USE THAT STINKERISM TO HELP TEACH YOU SOMETHING ABOUT CUSTODIAN WORK?”

Our family’s new life in Washington State was a lot like the title of a popular television show from the 1960’s called, “A Family Affair”.   In 1967, since we knew very few people in our new surroundings, we did almost everything together…….Dad, Mom, sister Candi and myself.  When Dad became Head Custodian at Glenwood Heights Elementary School (as it was known then), we, as a family, would come down to help Dad complete his cleaning chores quite often after finishing our schooling for the day.   On Friday afternoons, especially, Mom would load sister and myself into the car and away we’d drive down to Dad’s school to help clean the old-fashioned slate chalkboards in all the classrooms.  Afterwards, Sis and I would then have the fun task of running those “dirty” chalk erasers over the spinning brush vacuum machine to clean the chalk erasers for the same procedure on the coming Friday evening.   Our “payment” for helping Dad was usually some delicious Double Delight Fudge ice cream bars and be allowed to play basketball in the school gym till it was time to drive home.

I’m not sure if it was part of Daddy’s Norwegian bloodline, or just the proclivity of his own gene pool, but that father of ours LOVED to have fun…….whether that was a sly word used, a sneaky toy to embarrass you when you weren’t expecting it, or just his playful attitude of GOTCHA!!!   He seemed to get the biggest giggles when the joke or trick played was at the expense of someone else and I was about to find THAT out, first hand!!!

During his first nine months, as Head Custodian of that school, Dad had to learn a trade that was completely opposite of what he had done in farming all those decades in his past.  By the time summer rolled around in 1968, our father had mastered many of the procedures that he’d need to clean and repair Glenwood Hts. Elementary for the coming school year of 1968-69.  One of those new, learned skills was how to operate what’s called an electric, rotary-powered floor scrubber/polisher.  At the squeeze of that T-shaped handle on the buffer, the big electric motor would spin the round, clutch plate at about 175 revolutions per minute (or RPM).  A circular black scrub pad could be used for stripping wax off the floor, but, in the case of today’s story, a circular, horsehair bristle brush was to be used to polish the newly waxed hall floors.

Being now a young buck of 14 years of age, I was informed that it was to be a family expectation to help Dad with the daily summer cleaning of the school building at his new job.  Every summer’s morning, father and I would shake ourselves outta bed, fix us a lunch and then jump into his 1967 new, white Chevy II Nova for the trip down to his school.  After the general school cleaning had been accomplished that summer, Dad applied a number of layers (called “coats”) of wax on the very long hallway floors.  In those days, the floor wax was more of a natural carnauba and softer than today’s varieties.  As a result of that soft wax on the floor, a horsehair polishing brush on the old 1956 Clarke Floor Scrubber/Buffer would shine it nicely.

“Elliott”, said Dad, “It’s time to give me a hand here so I can get this floor polished.  Come over here and start buffing that hall floor.”  With a smirk and a grin, Dad stood back a safe distance, as I, with complete ignorance, grabbed hold of that T-handle on the buffer and squeezed the handle trigger to click the motor to the ON position.  You’d think I just came out of the chutes at a rodeo on an insane bucking bronco horse as that floor machine came to life!!!  My teenage arms wrestled that monster like it was a live creature “on the loose”.  Sure enough, that crazy machine acted just like a runaway horse as it went KAHBLAM against the hall wall!!!!  My eyes were as big as saucers at what had just happened in an instant and Dad was rolling with laughter to the point of almost “melting” down the wall, where he leaned, from his hysterics.  I pulled the trigger handle and KAHPOW, it flew against the OTHER wall!

Our funny father was busting a gut laughing at his bewildered young son, and rightly so, since I had been given NO IDEA of how this machine was SUPPOSED to be run.  When Dad’s laugh quota had been reached and when he saw that this teen-aged body of mine was completely exhausted from machine wrestling……then, and only then, did he begin to teach me how to properly run that rotary floor scrubber/buffer.  In a small amount of time, I became proficient enough to be able to run the floor machine with just one hand.  The hall floors were now shiny and so was my forehead from major sweating.  But, even though I was the “victim” of Daddy’s teasing ways, it was, overall, GREAT FUN for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!

June 18th…“WHEN ON YOUR FARM, DID YOUR FATHER HAVE A PLAYTIME WITH YOU THAT STOOD OUT FROM ALL OTHERS?”

Long and heavy icicles speared the snowbanks below as I knocked them off the roofline of our old green chicken coop with a stick.  Having been warned of their deadly points by my parents, I kept a respectful distance as those ice javelins came plummeting to earth and disappearing into the snowbanks.

The chilling power of “Old Man Winter” had slowed down the pace of life on our farm considerably.  Therefore, being freed from the rigorous schedule of farming by winter’s chill, Dad had some time to spare and was about to treat me to a thrill ride that, in my opinion, rivaled any mechanical ride at the local Faribault County Fair.

“Grab your sled, Son, let’s have some fun!!!”, said our handsome Norwegian daddy.  Being acclimated to his usually hectic farmer’s lifestyle, any time spent with Dad was like GOLD for me.  Grabbing our family snow sled, I happily obliged him and followed as he trudged through the snowdrifts towards our old, green chicken house.  After reaching the snow-choked doorway, we used our rubber winter boots to kick snow from side to side to reach the door itself.   The antiquated aperture was partially frozen to the chicken coop’s door frame, so Dad gave that wooden gateway a mighty yank and we stepped inside.  Our parents had built a larger chicken house nearby for our growing brood of laying hens, so this old building was now the home for our horse, “Biscuit”.  While Dad saddled up this full-sized hairy equine, our father and son conversation hovered in the air around us in the form of white vapors due to the frigid temperatures of this crystal clear winter’s day.

In the process of watching Dad saddle that tall animal, I had gotten too close to “Biscuit” as that humongous horse picked up his front leg and lazily plopped his heavy hoof on top of my rubber winter boot toe.  My response was immediate and LOUD as I flailed my little boy fists against his horse body and yelled, “GET OFF MY FOOT!!!!”   The ginormous gelding looked down at me, nonchalantly, and slowly lifted his heavy, hairy hoof off of my throbbing toe with a look that seemed to say, in an unspoken horse language, “Ohhhh, did I do that?”

With bridle and saddle now affixed on our steed, Dad led “Biscuit” outside into the diamond-sparkled world of a snowy Minnesota day.  Putting his boot to the stirrup, our father swung himself into the saddle as that riding gear sang out a creaking leather ‘song’ while Dad settled into place for the ride.  Before his mounting our steed, I saw Dad taking a long length of strong rope and he tied one end of that sturdy rope to my sled frame and the other end of that strand to the ‘horn’ of his saddle.  With giddy abandon, I launched myself happily aboard our sled as Dad gave a ‘chirrup’ sound with his mouth that made “Biscuit” move out for my sled ride.  With each lurch of the horse’s pull, the rope to my sled would snap taut and I was in kid heaven as we’d slip, slide n glide around our farmyard together.

Dad decided to up the degree of fun as he reined “Biscuit” out of our farmyard and towards one of our empty, stubbled cornfields.  Now we’d REALLY have a sled ride to remember!!!!  For Grandpa’s young readers information……after the fall season harvest of field corn each year, there were shorts stubs of corn stalks still left in the ground after the corn picker machine had chopped them off at a length of six inches high.  Those stubbled plant remnants were left on top of ridges of dirt.  Therefore, there would be a repetitive hill and valley, hill and valley effect; kinda like a wavy washboard effect.

Once “Biscuit” pulled us down to the former corn field, Dad turned in his saddle with a look towards me that was ignited by his own boyhood winter sledding memories.  He called out, “Hang on tight, Son, here we go!!!!”   Squeezing the horse in its flanks with his legs, that hairy equine of ours took off across that old cornfield like a streak and the wild ride began!  I hung on extra tight as my sled jumped from row to row of corn stubbled hills n valleys.  Many times, the lurching had me literally flying in air as my sled reconnected to earth with a whump of wildness and glee for me!!!!  It was truly a happy, hectic and horsey winter fun time for my father and his Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 17th…“DID YOU EVER LEARN TO SWIM WHILE LIVING ON THE FARM?”

The answer to today’s question is……..NOPE!!!

The sparkling blue lake was smooth as glass when a lithe-bodied youth confidently strode to the end of the dock.  With a muscular leap, he sliced into the water with a clean, knife-like dive.   Timid me, watched from the safety of the shoreline as we had gathered to celebrate someone’s birthday at this aquatic rendezvous.   Minnesota touts itself as the “Land of 10,000 Lakes”……yet it was THIS one lake that almost saw the end of me.

Other than pretending in the bathtub, or wading in shallow Brush Creek near our farm……..I could not swim ONE stroke.   This supposedly happy day, for the birthday kid, ended up cementing the fear of drowning in me for the rest of my life.

“Birthday Brat Boy” (rather than use his real name) was on the loose as he rampaged all over everything and everyone that day; terrorizing his way from the picnic tables to the water’s edge.  Boisterous and bullying are two fitting adjectives that capitalized his raw-natured exuberance.  For the most part of that day, I had tried to keep my distance from the birthday tyrant who was a year or so older than I was.     I kept to myself, mostly, as I peacefully waded along the shallow shores of the lake.  Later in the day, I made the mistake of wading out to chest-high water when the “Birthday Brat Boy” chose ME for his next target.  He launched himself onto my back and proceeded to ‘bury’ me beneath the water’s surface.  In his mean spirit, he was not letting me up for air.  I took in major amounts of water and felt myself ‘blacking out’.   With a last burst of survival strength, I managed to fight off this brash bully and shot to the water’s surface to puke out my water-logged stomach and gasp for some precious air.  “Birthday Brat Boy”, in his calloused ways, thought the whole deadly incident to be funny and sloshed off to find another victim to attack.

Later that same day, I was guilty of almost drowning myself!!   I had waded out too far into the lake to the point where the lake bottom dropped off suddenly.   Terror consumed me!!!  There was very little sandy bottom for my toes to grab onto for traction back towards shore.  I wanted to yell for help, but was too embarrassed by my own stupidity of allowing myself to get into another water dilemma.  I truly believe that the good Lord had mercy on me and sent one of His angels to gently push me just close enough towards shore so that I could once again touch bottom and regain my composure…….and live yet another day.

Fear can have an incredible power over our lives.  I once heard that the definition of courage is nothing more than fear moving forward.   To counteract my fear of drowning, I decided to move forward with it when I joined Boy Scouts after our family moved to Washington State in 1967.   I had passed the Tenderfoot Scout test and the Second Class Scout test, as well.  In order to pass the test for being a First Class Scout, I would have to learn how to swim.  With much trepidation, I revealed to my Scout Master my intense fear of drowning.   He kindly assured me that he would personally teach me to swim so that I could achieve my rank as a First Class Scout.  How? I asked!  I was told we’d be going out to the Lewis River and that I would be suited up inside a “wet suit” for buoyancy.   Upon arrival, on that dreaded day, that dear Scout Master started pulling all kinds of scuba gear from out of his truck.  As I tugged and yanked that black rubber skin over my body, I was being assured by the Scout Master as he said, “Elliott, you can NOT sink in a wet suit!”   I guess this was his way of bolstering what little courage I had at the moment, cause I was scared spitless!!   Sure enough, like I mentioned earlier here, the power of fear took over and my body became one rigid block of flesh that didn’t trust myself, say nothing of trusting this stranger that was trying to do his Scouting ‘good deed’ of attempting to teach me how to swim.  He had me lay back into the water to allow my ears to be under the surface so that, presumably, I’d then float.  Welllll,  in my rigid fear, I’d go to the bottom like a rock.  Glub, glub, glub!!!  After an hour or so, my flabbergasted Scout Master said, “I thought I’d never see the day, son, but, Elliott, you SANK in a wet suit!!”  Needless to say, being unable to learn the sport of swimming, I also never achieved the rank of Scout First Class and eventually dropped out of Scouting.

********************

I rejoice for all, Who know how to swim,

And frolic in water, At the drop of a whim.

But his leaden body, Will stay on shore,

Where those nasty waves, Can’t get me no more.

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So says a land-locked Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 16th…“RELATE YOUR HAPPIEST MEMORY AS A YOUNG BOY ON THE FARM!”

Since my earliest days as an infant, looking up into the kind eyes of my brother Lowell, I automatically placed him in the category of my hero…..and I STILL do (even,    at his age of 80 here in 2023)!!!  Big brother came to be my mentor, muse, confidant, protector and overall life example.  Beloved is his status in my life!!  I can see why some of the early definitions of “hero” were related to a being born from one mortal and one immortal union; a cut above the rest.  And, although he came from our precious, very human, parentage, I placed him on a well-deserved plain of wonderment.  Today, I’ll share one of my reasons why he means so much to me.

With the age span of eleven years between us, my elder sibling was, in many ways, like a young father to me.  He saw to it that this little waif was included in many of his life adventures, when possible.

One comfortable summer’s evening in 1961, we two brothers lay sprawled on top of the comforter of Lowell’s neatly made bed.   We were discussing, in the glow of his bed-lamp, the possibility of allowing me to be ‘part of the gang’ on a trip up north to see the Minnesota Twins baseball team play at the newly opened Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota.

My excitement was so intense, it was to the point of being almost palpable at the very thought of being allowed to enter the ‘inner circle’ of my elder brother’s next ‘big grownup guy’ adventure!!  The amber glow of his reading lamp, in the bedroom that evening, seemed even warmer as I was now granted permission to be part of this mature, manly outing.

Knowing that I had the proclivity of being a ‘Garrulous Gus’ with up to 1,000 mph (mouthings per hour) blasts, big brother began to lay down the rules of expected behavior on this special trip with the big guys.  Big brother Lowell had my rapt attention when he said, “Little boys are to be SEEN and not HEARD!”  “You will sit quietly in the back seat of the car and not speak unless you are spoken to, is that clear?”  Geeewhillickers, that was fine with me!!!!  Heck, if necessary, I would’ve put my itty bitty hand to swear agreement on a whole stack of Bibles…..just let me come along.  I happily agreed to all conditions to be able to be allowed into the grownup guy’s inner sanctum.

Lowell’s two buddies rolled into our farmyard on that marvelous early morning as we all climbed into brother’s sleek, baby-blue 1957 Ford Fairlane.   My mute little body, with grin from ear to ear, sat as quiet as a mouse on the passenger side of the back seat as I was instructed.  There I was, midget man, among these giant grownups who I admired so much.  I was honored to be included in this special day!!!  The two hour drive took us through rich, black-soiled Minnesota farmlands in what seemed like a blink of time.  Before you knew it, we were pulling into the massive parking lots of that 160 acre baseball campus.  Brother Lowell had done his planning well, for we had terrific seats just behind and to the left of the Twins home plate.

One of the ‘kings of swat’, on the Twins team, was Harmon Killebrew.  My little boy mouth hung open in awe of seeing this baseball hero play that day.  Later, in 1967, Mr. Killebrew clobbered a home run ‘out of the park’ for a record length of 520 feet in distance.  This was not only his all-time best hit, but was recorded as the longest home run ever hit in that stadium.   As the summer sun played out its arch in the sky, that sporting extravaganza came to an end.    After getting back home to the farm, from this amazing baseball day, I began to collect all the baseball cards that I could get of that super slugger…….Harmon Killebrew.

There I was, beyond blessed just to spend time with my hero brother.  On top of that, I had been given a free ticket to the game, fed hot dogs and a soda drink and even sat right behind home plate on a sparkling summer’s day.  But, wait!  That was not all!  The ‘icing on the cake’ was that brother Lowell felt that I had behaved well in living up to my ‘end of the bargain’, so he bought me my very own hard-shell Minnesota Twins batting helmet AND a new baseball glove!!!!  This tiny farmer boy was almost in tears from the height of elation that I felt at that moment!!!  I cherished and wore that helmet for years.  Each time I put on that helmet, I thanked our good Lord that I was ….and still AM….blessed to be the little brother of another Norwegian Farmer’s Son!! 😉

June 15th…“WHEN YOU WERE A LITTLE BOY ON THE FARM, DID YOU EVER DO SOMETHING THAT MADE SENSE TO YOU, BUT NOT TO YOUR PARENTS?”

POEM – “Just Like A Cow”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

As a farmer boy, I’d oft say “WOW!!!”,

At the how and now, Of a black n white cow.

Especially when, It was time to eat,

Cause they’d use their lips, And not their feet.

Unlike us humans, Who used a hand,

To guide a fork, To make food land,

Inside our mouth, Where it should be,

But just like a cow, I wanna be.

So at our farm table, One fine night,

With family around, And in plain sight.

I lowered face, Into my plate,

To eat with lips, Like those bovine great.

Well, Mom was sitting, Next to my place,

And saw that food, All o’er my face.

She gave my collar, An upward yank,

And scolded me, With threat to spank.

“But Mom, I wanna be, Just like cow!”

“Well, you’re a little boy, So behave, and NOW!!!”  😉

June 14th…“GROWING UP ON THE FARM, WHAT ARTICLES, BELONGING TO YOUR FATHER CAPTURED YOUR ATTENTION AS A CHILD?”

POEM – “Those Gritty Grisly Gloves” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Our farmer father, Owned some gloves,

Of weathered leather hide,

And lifeless they were, until he pushed,

His muscled hands inside.

They then revived, and came alive,

To offer him protection,

From coarse farm work, that he didn’t shirk,

In his vocational election.

Then came the day, that I did play,

Upon our father’s tractor,

And found his “leathers”, baked by sun,

And decided to play actor.

So I pushed my soft-skinned little hand,

Inside those leather wrappings,

So brittle they were, against my flesh,

Caused me some kid-like YAPPINGS!!

Though later in life, whene’er it came,

To the roughest push n shoves,

I too, like Dad, Have my own pair,

Of some leather gritty grisly gloves.  😉

 

June 13th…“WERE YOU EVER IN A PARADE?  WHERE? WHEN? 

In the rarefied chill of that fall dawn, the frigid wind tore crisp, dead Maple leaves from their tree stems.  Pawns now, in a game, they ricocheted off the frozen glass of my farm house second-story bedroom window.  God was putting our rich farmlands to bed for the winter that was soon to be upon us.  Yet, our wonderful community of Kiester, Minnesota was actually coming awake for another season, of sorts; the season of football, food, fun and family!!   Like a coiled spring under pressure, I catapulted out of bed to soak in the excitement of this special day!  Not only was I racing to begin this festive occasion, but, since there was no form of heating in our upstairs bedroom, I was freezing cold and racing as I yanked on warm layers of thick clothing, as quickly as possible, before my poose gimples…..(goose pimples) got too big 😉

I was giddy about this day for at least two reasons.  The first reason was that our beautiful sister, Rosemary, had been selected by her classmates to be Homecoming Queen that year.  The second reason for my thrill, was that I was going to be part of the parade through our village that day to help celebrate our “Queen” and to cheer our “Bulldog” football team to victory over our arch rival football team from Frost, Minnesota.

The very essence of classic Americana was about to transpire in our beloved hometown as former students were welcomed home, once again, to enjoy their memories of education in the hallways of their alma mater (translated, it means “dear mother”).  Those, who now lived in those halls, encouraged the elder, former students to take in the joys of a parade, bonfire, cheerleading rallies, funny skits put on by various grade levels of the school, the exciting football game in the evening and even to attend the Homecoming Dance in the school gym.  These two days of festivities were going to be like slicing into a multi-layered cake of sweetness from top to bottom.

Big sister, Rosie, had gone on ahead of our family to prepare her regal self in crown and robe for riding in luxury on top of the back seat of a local citizen’s elegant convertible car throughout the parade route.  Our sister’s ‘king’ for that day was the honorable, and handsome, Mr. Warren Meyer.

As our ’56 red-n-white Chevy pulled into Kiester, you could feel the excitement in the air as the pinnacle of fun creativity was about to be shown off along the parade route.  Local farmers would donate their flat hay wagons (we called them flat-racks) or their family pickup trucks so that various Grade Levels of the school could then create their own “floats” for the big parade.  For my very young readers, these large artistic creations were likely called “floats” because their football-themed decorations would spill over the sides of the wagon and went to almost ground level, covering the wagon wheels and framework.  Therefore, those devices, when pulled or driven along the parade route, seemed to “float” on air…….thus the name “float”.

As each cog of a gear has its part in the overall operation of a machine, I too, as a little boy, had a part to play in this annual extravaganza.  Each Grade School and High School class was instructed to create a banner to announce their group, and, usually an individual piece of theme-related artwork would be created for each student to carry in the parade, as well.   The year that we created giant pencils to carry stands out in my memory.  We made sure to create the largest erasers on the end of those pencils, because our banner out front said that we were going to “RUB ‘EM OUT!!!”; meaning the beating our “Bulldog” football team was going to give to the “enemy” team from Frost, Minnesota.

Our town’s marching band was well known in the southern Minnesota area.  That fine reputation was due to the excellent leadership of the honorable Mr. Milton Glende who devoted many decades of his life to making music happen in the best ways for our community.  This Homecoming celebration was to follow that great tradition as our sharply-uniformed band members snapped to attention in the blue and white dress uniforms along with their gleaming white marching shoes.  As Mr. Glende’s whistle blast signaled the music to begin, each band member’s white shoes pulsated in perfect cadence as one rousing marching tune after another was played to the elated smiles and applause of our town’s population that had clustered along the entire street system of Main and Center Street and back around to the school grounds.  There I was, marching along with my class as we celebrated so many things that day.  Former students coming home to visit once again, the harvest of local farms being gathered in before winter, and our “Bulldogs” football team that always made us proud…….the list just went on and on.  The cheers of family and friends that day made everyone feel like a hero…..even this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.