June 2nd…“WHO, IN YOUR CHILDHOOD HOMETOWN, HAD A UNIQUE OR EVEN FUNNY NICKNAME?”

Every town in America, I’m sure, is populated with unique individuals that bring character and ambiance to the everyday life of a community.  My childhood hometown of Kiester, Minnesota was no exception.  In previous stories, you heard me tell about a person in our town with the nickname of “Lightning”, but today, there’s an individual that I’m happy to share a story about with a smile.  We children knew him by the nickname of “Pud”.

Born into this world in 1914 as Vern Bufkin, “Pud” and his father, Ed, were quite a team when it came to cleaning our school.  I remember “Pud’s” dad as being a very stoic, straight-laced and straight-faced person.  Mr. Bufkin Senior, being from the old school type of generation, Vern’s father wore a standard tie and, in latter years, he even sported a bow tie on his fully-buttoned, long sleeved shirt.  “Pud”, on the other hand, was pretty laid back in his dress code and his “take it easy” attitude.  I can only theorize where “Pud” may have acquired his nickname, its actual source I do not know, yet I enjoyed him just the same.

“Pud” was sure a kind soul to me.  He was gentle in his ways and always had a few minutes to chat to this super energetic, zip around each corner kinda kid!!    It was easy for him to discern that in those days, I was little hot-wired tiker a buzzin’ around those echoing halls and stairwells of dear old Kiester Elementary School.  I knew I could always approach “Pud” and receive a smile and a pleasant greeting.

Vernon’s parents, Ed and Marge Bufkin were fellow saints in our local church’s  congregation and worshiped the Lord at my childhood church (Grace Evangelical United Brethren Church) there in Kiester, Minnesota.  Vernon, himself, was the middle sibling of the three Bufkin brothers (the other two being Dale in 1912 and Clyde in 1920).  As it turned out, Vern outlived both brothers when he finally passed into Glory in 1994.

It’s highly probable that “Pud” may have been a subliminal inspiration for my own many decades as a custodian in the Battle Ground School District and now here in the school systems of Hawaii.  Maybe, in the back of my heart, I’ve also wanted to show kindness and a smile to the thousands of children I too have had contact with in my lifetime.  Either way, I’m glad that “Pud” was part of the young life of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

June 1st…“WHAT WAS YOUR MOST EMBARRASSING DATING EXPERIENCE?”

Hollywood and my dating life coincided in the early 1970’s and they both led to the same outcome…….DISASTER!!!  The distinct difference was, Hollywood raked in the dollars from their type of disaster, but I raked in one of the worst dating experiences of my young life!!!  Little did I realize that attending one of these films would be a portent to a personal disaster in my dating experience with a lovely fellow classmate there at Battle Ground High School in Battle Ground, Washington.  Everything that COULD go wrong that night DID!

It was 1972 and my Senior year at Battle Ground High.  I had admired Joan Brosius from a distance as we fellow classmates passed each other in the long hallways of our alma mater and pursued our final year of public education within the portals of these instructional corridors.  Self confidence was NOT my forte at that zit-faced stage of life.  I had an enormous fear of being rejected by this beauty if I even attempted the courage to ask her out for a date.  Nevertheless, from the dregs of my boyish insecurities, I actually managed to muster out the words one day, “Hi Joan!  Would you like to go see a movie with me and have some supper afterwards?”  “How’s about going to see the re-showing of the disaster flick called Airport at “The Broadway” in Vancouver?”   Whether she felt sorry for this quivering blob of boy flesh, or whatever her inner thoughts may have been………she actually said, “Yes!”  I was catapulted to Cloud 9!! 😉

I pulled our 1967 Dodge Coronet 500 into Joan’s driveway that evening and was welcomed into her quaint home for the customary meeting of her parents and family.   After escorting her to my family’s car, we began our journey into Vancouver and the evening ahead of us.  I began to perceive that the evening was not going to gel for “love” in that we only seemed to touch on very generic topics of conversation, such as the weather and other superfluous topics that just didn’t spark any deeper interest of one of us towards the other.

Popcorn and drinks in hand, we shuffled into the darkness of “The Broadway” movie theater and took our seats for the first of the ‘Airport’ disaster movies that had initially come to the nation’s screens in 1970, but was making a second round through movie theaters again.  Unbeknownst to me, my own disaster was about to unfold before my very eyes.  My young, bony gluteus maximus (my butt) was sending me discomfort messages as I sat down.  My wallet was too fat!  It sure wasn’t because it was full of money, but instead was full of just a bunch of paper junk that made it a giant wad in my back pocket and painful to my posterior premises to sit on, so, I removed the wallet and put it on my lap.  The intensity of the movie’s plot had my rapt attention for what was happening up on the screen and I soon forgot all about the presence of the wallet.  The climactic movie came to “THE END” up on the screen, but what happened next made it “THE BEGINNING” of trouble for me and my ego AND for my poor date, Joan.

As I and my date stood up to leave the movie theater that evening, my wallet quietly slipped to the floor without my slightest knowledge.  Part of my promise that night was to treat Joan to supper at the Portland International Airport just across the Columbia River from Vancouver.  Yup, you guessed it, I’m now penniless and without a driver’s license and am totally oblivious to both points.  Once parked, we made our way into a nice restaurant inside the airport and we sat down to a delicious dinner as we chatted about the movie that we had just enjoyed together over in Vancouver.

After the meal was completed, we both stood up to get our jackets on and walk on over to pay the bill for the nice meal.  My hand reached back to my back wallet pocket and a look of horror lit up my face!!  Sensing my shock, Joan asked, “What’s wrong?”  to which I replied with great angst, “I lost my wallet!!”  “You’re KIDDING ME?!”, she said.  My reply to her was classic stupidity……..“I thought this only happened in the movies??!!!”  I slapped all over my body to every pocket I had on me that night, but no wallet.  NOW what do we do?  Sheepishly, we walked over to the cashier told her our plight.  At first, she thought we were teasing her, but she then turned serious quickly and threatened to make us go into their kitchen to begin washing dishes to “pay for our meal”.    Like a kidnapper, I bargained with the cashier…….“How about if my date will stays here while I run back to the movie theater for my wallet!??!”  Deal?  Deal!

Poor Joan was now a hostage while I drove, sans license, VERY cautiously back across the river to Vancouver and “The Broadway” theater.  As I exited my car just up the street, I see the movie theater staff are literally closing the double doors for the night.  I race down the sidewalk crying out, “WAIT, WAIT!!!  I lost my wallet inside!”  After pleading with the manager, he allowed me to look in the seating where we had sat.  Some low life person had stolen my wallet and it was gone!  It’s now about 1:00 AM and I asked to use the manager’s phone.  In those days, families usually had only one phone and, for the Noorlun family, ours was out in the kitchen.  The phone rang, and rang and rang until my mother finally had walked down from the bedroom and answered it.  After sharing my dilemma and need, my mother roused Dad out of bed and they were on their way to save the day…….which it was in this case, the night.  In the meantime, “prisoner” Joan is languishing at the restaurant and suffering the drunken passes of numerous men who are barely able to stand up in their slovenly state of drunkenness as they exited the bar there.   Later, Joan related that a very handsome and generous man had offered to pay her bill and take her home, but these were the days before cell phones and she kindly declined his offer out of respect for my being sick with worry for not knowing what had happened to her if she DID leave with that handsome man.

My folks eventually rolled up to the movie theater, there in Vancouver, (with cash in hand) and my father took home the one car while Mom (who actually HAD her driver’s license with her) drove me back down to the airport to pay the bill for the meal and set poor Joan free from her bondage.  To exacerbate an already acrid situation, the night sky began to unload a torrential downpour of rain on us as we sullenly rode home, without speaking a word, to Joan’s place with my mother as our chauffeur.   Upon arrival at Joan’s family home, Mom pulled our car to the end of the graveled driveway that was littered with potholes full of water from the pounding rain.  Joan’s yard-light was burnt out, so as we half ran from the car to her back porch, we both stepped into deep puddles and got our feet soaked.

In a vain attempt to rescue this first date (which, by the way, was our LAST) I attempted to give Joan a kiss goodnight.  Normally, as most of you know, a gentleman tilts his head to one side to facilitate a nice kiss on the lips of his lady.  NOT ME!!!  In a clumsy act of total doofishness, I came straight on towards her face.  We connected nose to nose, chin to chin and teeth to teeth……CLANG!!!!……it was horrible!!!  And, on top of that, I had the gall and audacity to say, “I hope tonight won’t affect our future dating!”  (OF WHICH THERE WAS NONE!!)  Holy Guacamole, I thought to myself, what a loser I am!!!! 😦

Needless to say, in the next few days at school, I heard reports that Joan was intensely livid in anger over what happened that night and told the whole world about her absolutely worst date ever she had had with that stupid guy named Elliott!!  And, you know, she had every right to be angry with me.  I was so embarrassed about that night that from that moment on,  I refused to date anyone for the next three or four years because I was so crushed by this failure.

Fast forward to about 1979.  My wife and I have our two year old son with us and are shopping for some toddler clothing at the former “Tower Mall Shopping Center” on Mill Plain Boulevard there in Vancouver, Washington.  LO AND BEHOLD……guess who the cashier/clerk was in that store???  Yuppers, Joan Brosius!!!   I stepped up to her and asked her forgiveness for having been her worst date ever in our High School days.   Being the gracious lady she is, we both smiled as she fully forgave me for my dating failure that night.

After almost 50 years having passed, I can now look at this incident in life and laugh about it.  Time heals all wounds, I’m told.  They say we learn from our mistakes, and if that’s the case, I sure get to learn a LOT, cause I make a LOT of mistakes!!!  Hopefully, the young ones of my family will learn from Grandpa’s mistakes and avoid the ooooops’s of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 31st…“DOES YOUR FARM STILL EXIST BACK IN MINNESOTA?

Sadly, no.  The only thing consistent in life is change, and with that change came the eventual demise of our family farm back there in my childhood State of Minnesota.  First, our barn mysteriously burnt down within a year, or so, after we moved out to Washington State.  Next, for a time, our beloved home had been rented but eventually was left abandoned and empty.  Tragically, it became a party house for local youths to have their beer parties in and they trashed the house so badly that it was offered to the local fire department to be used as a practice burn……..so now it was gone also.   Over the decades, building after building succumbed to the aging process and fell under rot and heavy snowfall on its roofs.  The beautiful windbreak of trees were cut down and sacrificed for a few more acres of land to plant crops on by the new owners.  One of the oldest buildings was the last to go………the granary and remaining buildings were bulldozed, till now, nothing remains of our farm except a hint of where the driveways used to be.  I’m sharing a poem I wrote to convey some of the feelings I experienced when I heard the home place was completely gone.

POEM – “Quiet Now” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Quiet now, except for the wind, Coursing ‘cross the soil,

No longer a farm or family, Where once our father’d toil.

T’was a glorious time, When voice and sound, Of family did thrive,

As daily symphony of life, Would bring our farm alive.

Yet came the day, When destiny, Called our family West,

To new horizon that our father felt, For us would be the best.

Thus as our tires exited, The graveled driveway fine,

One could almost hear the sound of pain, Of a farm in lonely whine.

From renters to vacant, One could muse, As our home would silent mourn,

Until a fire would see it gone, And from its moorings torn.

Other buildings stood valiantly by, As decades came and passed,

But in the yearning for productive land, We knew they could not last.

Returned now to the soil, Which Indians once did roam,

Yet our memories burn faithfully, Of our dear childhood home!!!

May 30th…“WHEN YOU WORKED AS A CUSTODIAN AT GLENWOOD HEIGHTS ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, WHAT DID YOU DO TO HAVE FUN WITH THE STUDENTS THERE?

Clark Kent (mild-mannered newspaper reporter) may have jumped into a phone booth to emerge as Superman, but me?  I jumped into my Custodian Work Room and emerged as “CUBBIE”, The Glenwood Heights Elementary School baby lion mascot!!!  Of course, I wasn’t all THAT mild-mannered around the school each day, cause I was always on the hunt to have fun in any way possible with the Kindergarten through 4th Grade boys and girls that came to see us each day for education and a grand old “Sharing And Caring” time…….Shooowahhh! 😉  You see, our Grade School level mascot was the younger equivalent of the Laurin Intermediate School mascot, which was a full grown Laurin “Lion”…….therefore, we were the “Lion Cubs”; and thereby “Cubbie” was born.

Our school was so blessed to have among us the one and only Sylvia Wiser.  Not only did her children attend that great school, but Sylvia worked in various capacities of service over the years.  She was a beloved Playground Monitor for a long time and eventually even moved her talents inside the school building to being an Office Assistant to our grand secretaries.  Another of Sylvia’s many talents was the ability to create a full length Lion Cub costume for supporting our many award assemblies and other school events.

All work and no play makes Elliott a dull boy, so rather than just sweeping and cleaning, I had the pure joy (and a little mischief) in becoming the mystery person inside that Cubbie costume on a regular basis for the kids to enjoy.

It was decided, at the inception of this new personality, that Cubbie should have an air of mystery about him.  The students were never to know who was actually in the Cubbie costume at any time.  The “lion cub” person inside that costume was to remain mute and not say a word, so as to give away the identification of who was making the mascot “come alive” at any occasion of his appearing before the students.  Whenever it was my turn to make Cubbie come alive, it was total elation on my part, in allowing me to take on a completely different persona that could do almost anything and get away with not being chastised as I WOULD have had done to me in regular circles of social etiquette.  The costume was complete with furry slippers, mitten “paws” and a long tail.  The head of the costume had been built over a construction workers hard hat and the only way I could see out of the “face” was via a small, black-screen “nose” in the front of the snout.  This tunnel vision necessitated that I constantly had to keep my “head” on the move so as to see where I was going AND to see if any kids were sneaking up behind me to pull a prank on this poor ol lion cub.

“Curiosity kills the cat” and sometimes, the curiosity of some students just got to be too much about WHO was inside the Cubbie costume.  So much so, that I’d have little ones come for a hug and they’d then grab the face of the costume and look inside the little black-screened “nose” to do an attempt to see who was inside the costume THIS time.  “Heyyyyyy everybody, it’s Elliott inside Cubbie!!!!”   Well, well, the jig was up and so I’d just continue the fun as best I could 😉   I almost fainted, on a number of occasions, because there was no way to really get a sufficient supply of oxygen into the costume’s “head” for an oxygen fueling for all my wild antics and cavorting.   Necessity being the mother of invention, I came up with a way to breath by drilling a hole in the “mouth” of the costume and then cutting a large plastic tube that I held in place with my teeth while the front of that tube barely jutted out the mouth for enough fresh air for me to breath and keep up the fun.

I was so thankful for our sweet-spirited Principal, Esther Baker (and later Carol Anderle and Jeff Newport) for allowing me to get “wild and woolly” during our Cubby Awards Assemblies while in my Cubbie Costume.  In my days of wearing the lion cub costume, “Cubbie” wore a Triple Extra Large school T-shirt over the costume.  This way, I could put my “paw” up under the T-shirt and imitate my lion heart beating heavily from physical exertion or from showing I loved someone.  As I stood out in the school hallway, our Principal, Esther Baker, would welcome the entire student body to the awards assembly and get them quieted down a bit.  Then, like the master of ceremony at a circus, she’d give me the grand entrance by saying, “Come on in, Cubbie!!!”.   That was my cue to come running, full speed, into the gymnasium and make a slide “into Home Plate” and end up laying on my side in front of Esther and waving at the crowd.

Jumping up from the floor, I’d then prance around the gym and play “peekaboo” with the kids by placing my “paws” up over the big eyes of the costume and then, lifting a “paw”,  pop one “eye” open and then the other.   Swinging my lion’s tail, I’d saunter over to Esther and give her a side hug and THEN, I’d even have the audacity to sometimes take my “paw” and mess up her hairdo.  THAT was when the kids really went wild with giggles!!!  Esther would chastise Cubbie with “Behave yourself, Cubbie!!  Now you just go over there in the corner till you can be good!”   Oh boy, this was too fun!  I’d mimic being sad by slumping my shoulders and hanging my lion head down low and drag my lion’s slippers along into the nearest corner.  Kids loved it and so did I!! 😉  Pretty soon, Esther would ask, “Can you be good now, Cubbie?”  I’d silently nod my lion’s head and, with a shrug of my furry shoulders, we’d then get on with the awards ceremony.   At other awards assemblies, someone else would get inside the Cubbie Costume.  Many of the kids would see me standing nearby and realize that I wasn’t making the costume “come alive” on that occasion.  A number of the little sweethearts would say to me, “We knew it wasn’t you inside Cubbie this time, cause that person just sits there and doesn’t do anything funny like you do!”

“Whoever has the most FUN, wins!”   That was my motto then…..and now!  The energy of a child’s smile still lights up the face of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 29th…“WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS OF AND HOW DO YOU OBSERVE THE HOLIDAY KNOWN AS MEMORIAL DAY?”

It took 43 years of living in the Pacific Northwest before I finally grasped the opportunity to enter and visit the Fort Vancouver Barracks Post Cemetery (in Vancouver, Washington) on a Memorial Day weekend.  I had driven past this historical site many times over the years, but the “tyranny of the urgent” usually kept the car rolling towards another destination.  Unlike today’s holiday, the gates to this venue of veteran’s graves are normally closed to the public for most of the year to protect these hallowed grounds from unwanted scoundrels who would cause harm to these honored 1,400 monuments to the lives of soldiers and their families who have served so gallantly in our nation’s military past.  I’ve read that this cemetery resembles “Arlington National Cemetery” (located in the State of Virginia), in that it has white, above ground markers where most cemeteries , in today’s modern world, prefer flat grave marker stones to make it easier for landscaping crews to mow and trim the lawns.

I discovered that there are four servicemen buried here that were recipients of The Congressional Medal Of Honor.  I had the pleasure of locating three of those four headstones that day on my visit.  Their white marble headstones are specially honored  with a gold emblazonment of a star to bring glory to their special place in our country’s memory.  Upon one of those Medal Of Honor graves, someone had paid homage by leaving a photograph of that soldier leaning against his headstone with flowers and a blue ribbon gracing the photograph.  Very poignant and touching.

Having parked at the back of this patriotically decorated acreage, I slowly and meditatively strolled up and down the rows of grave markers and gave thanks to God for each soldier who served our nation from the Indian Wars on up to the present day.

Thanks to local Boy Scout troops, each grave was bedecked with a handsome American flag.  These small banners of Liberty were lovely, and symbolically, were a thought-provoking sight in themselves.   Suddenly, as if summoned forth from the treasuries of Heaven, a stiff wind blew briskly through the graveyard and brought each of the miniature “Old Glory” flags to a sharp and horizontal type of “salute”.  I mused within myself that each eternally quieted soul beneath this sod was being saluted for his service to this fine nation of ours.  Even above the din of the nearby freeway, these white marble sentinels were silently, but distinctly, lauded as all those American flags across over a thousand graves were now “alive” with praise, in their crisp, whispered flutters for what each soldier had accomplished in military service, in both his daily duties of soldiering to valiantly conducting himself on the field of battle against our foes.

Having paid tribute to the local patriots in the Vancouver Barracks Post Cemetery, I then traveled eastward to Evergreen Memorial Gardens Cemetery (there in Vancouver, Washington) honor my own family’s serviceman, my Uncle Robert S. Sletten.   Uncle Bob, who is buried near our parent’s grave, served in the United States Army Tank Corp in the European Theater of Operations during World War II.  As I pondered upon his life, I recalled Uncle Bob telling of how he had found an accordion in a bombed out house in France.  After the war had ended, Bob brought that accordion back to the United States with him and learned to play it quite well.  As a boy, I remember him entertaining our family with a song or two at family picnics.  Our mother’s other brother, Del, was an infantryman in the United States Army and was stationed in Italy.  Uncle Del’s Division fought valiantly in the mountain warfare of Italy against the Germans and had even won the Presidential Unit Citation Award for gallantry under fire.  Uncle Del’s place of rest is at a cemetery in our Home State of Minnesota.  God, in His mercy, brought both of our uncles back safely from that war to live out long lives and enjoy seeing families grow up as well.  Even though both of these family soldiers now reside in Heaven, on every Memorial Day they receive their due honors from this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 28th…“IS THERE ANY ITEM YOU OWN TODAY THAT IS TREASURED AND PRESERVED FROM YOUR CHILDHOOD?”

To an impressionable little farm boy, like I was, a visit from my father’s sister, Lillian, was like touching base with royalty.  She, and her handsome husband, Gene Greenspun, were like “Prince” and “Princess” to me whenever they could make the long journey to our Minnesota farm from the steel and concrete canyons of the legendary New York City, New York.  In my little boy eyes, my auntie held every attribute that a princess could possess.  Hers was a tall, slim and gorgeous figure that was framed in her long, Norwegian blond hair.  Those golden locks framed the most feminine face that Hollywood, itself, would beg for.  So impressive was her beauty that, one day, she left her Home State of Minnesota to begin a modeling career in New York.  While living there, she encountered and grew to love her very talented man, Gene Greenspun, who was a dynamic business man in the booming toy industry there in the “Big Apple”.

I absolutely idolized both of these precious family members!  Both of them gave me their rapt attention whenever they’d vacation with us on our farm.  It was upon the occasion of one of those magical visits that Uncle Gene handed me a gift.  It was my very own Jeweler’s Loupe (which is a magnifying monocle).  I was shown how to carefully unwrap the spring wire so that it would allow me to put it around my head to hug the monocle in place over my eye.  Needless to say, I was thrilled to have this new toy that allowed me to see the world super close up!  I found myself exploring in a whole new realm I never had the chance to do before.  You could often find me on my knees somewhere crawling along the gravel driveway looking for “gems” or in the weeds inspecting tiny bugs that had, up to this point, evaded my exploratory eyeballs.  That little jeweler’s magnifying loupe has followed me for over 60 years now.  I carry daily, even now in my retirement, so when people have tiny writing that they can’t see properly I offer them to use my loupe.  Every time I touch this gift from Uncle Gene and Aunt Lillian, I say, (in spirit to them) “Thank you for your love and my closer look at the world that surrounds this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.”

May 27th…“DID YOU EVER PLAY A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT?”

The famous guitar player, George Harrison (with The Beatles), would’ve been proud of me as I imitated him to perfection there in front of our Holstein dairy cows in our barn on the farm back in Minnesota days.

I was in love with guitar music from my earliest days and, since I didn’t have an expensive Gretsch guitar to play, like his, I used one of my father’s five tine pitch forks.  The hardwood handle of the fork was my pretend guitar “neck”, and the five tines of the fork were my guitar “strings”.  As The Beatles songs rang out on the barn radio, to the screams of thousands of girls, I pretend ‘played’ for our 15 head of Holstein dairy cows and responded to their feminine mooo’s of appreciation for my pretend talents. 😉

From the reaches of my farm boy memory, I had always been enthralled with the lovely music that came from a guitar.  The charisma of a guitar’s aura has always permeated some part of my existence to this very day.

The year 1967 saw a dramatic paradigm shift for our family as we sold the farm in Kiester, Minnesota and moved clear out to the West Coast, landing in the southwest corner of the State of Washington in a town called Battle Ground.

I was one VERY lonely boy without our extended family and friends nearby from our past life in Minnesota.  I was a wandering soul in a new land with no buddies and not much to do now that we were city dwellers ‘in town’.   Other than daily chores around the house, life was pretty boring when you’re a stranger on the block.  One day, as I was cruising the neighborhood on my bike, I came across a local garage sale.  Inside that garage, beckoning to me, was a Harmony “Stella” model guitar.  The family wanted $20.00 for the instrument, so I buzzed home on my bike and returned with the cash and, for the first time in my young life, I now owned my very first guitar.  Next question on my mind was, “Now, how in the heck do I PLAY this thing?”

A few days later, as I was watching our local educational television station, I happened to stumble across the local PBS (Public Broadcasting System) channel, out of Portland, Oregon, known as Channel 10.  There, to my elated joy, was a beginner folk guitar course called “Folk Guitar with Laura Weber”.  That program repeated three times a week.  It was taught by a sweet lady with a big smile whose broadcast studio was based out of San Francisco, California.  My television teacher’s name was Laura Weber.  I sent away for the first edition of what would be a total of three lesson books and they were only $1.00 each (plus shipping).  I was thrilled and watched all three episodes each week as I’d practice the rudiments of basic guitar playing.  I practiced so much, that I garnered blisters and a little blood on my finger tips in order to acquire the callouses that Laura Weber said would eventually accumulate over time.

Within the first year of life there in our new town of Battle Ground, I had met a new friend that lived down the street from me by the name of Dennis Fleming.  He had a Gianinni Classical Guitar that he was willing to sell to me.  The neck was wider, for ease of playing, and the “action” on the neck, along with the soft nylon strings, was MUCH easier for me to make chords with than my old “Harmony Stella”.  DEAL!!!  I bought the guitar and set my “Stella” aside for the next generation of guitar music to commence.

Musical time marches on and it’s now 1972 and my 18th year of life and I am ‘freed’ from High School’s bonds.  That summer, I paid $340.00 cash for a beautiful new Hernandez Classical Guitar.  The music store that sold me that beautiful instrument also provided classical guitar lessons,(for a price, of course) so I began to move into yet another phase of enjoying this type of music in my life.  Although not professionally proficient, I had acquired enough general knowledge in the classical guitar and note reading to be able to pick out a sampling of classical tunes and deepened my love for this instrument even more.

Thanks to Beacock Music in Vancouver, Washington, I was introduced to the “Oaks Brothers” Guitar.  It was a handmade, one of a kind musical wonderment made by two brother who lived there in Vancouver.  Mine was the very first edition of what I think was the M1 or M6 model and it’s sound was phenomenal!!  For the late 1970’s, its price tag of $600 was a bit steep, but you know……you get what you pay for and I wanted to have that “Oaks” sound in a big way.  For a steel string guitar, its tone was rich and mellow……just what I enjoyed!!  I took that guitar with me everywhere!!  School, church, home; you name it, that guitar was like my shadow.  Sadly, it was stolen from my car in 1988 and never recovered.

Sadly, my insurance company, at the time of the guitar being stolen, gave me less that $200.00 to replace what was, in my opinion, a ‘Stradivarius’ valued guitar in that one of a kind “Oaks”.  So, at the time, I gave up guitar all together until I could save up the $1,000.00 I needed to purchase my next dream which was a “Guild” Jumbo Body acoustical guitar.  A very generous friend at our church said, “Elliott, I just can’t see you without a guitar……..here’s the $800.00 you need to go out and buy that “Guild” that you want.”   I shed tears of thankful joy at this dear man’s generosity and became the new owner of an instrument that was the epitome of mellow sound.  The gorgeous black finish on this marvelous guitar led me to call it my “Black Beauty”, and that she was!!!

In my personal reflections, I see that John Denver’s song, “This Old Guitar”, sums up my feelings about this fine instrument of pleasure.  Similar to Mr. Denver, playing guitar has brought innumerable blessings to me over the years!!!  It has helped introduce me to new friends, enabled me to express my given feelings at any moment of life.  Guitar playing has even been an avenue of expression of my very soul (whether that is joy or sorrow) and has been a tool for me in my simple attempts at creating lyrics and poetry.   I’ve also been able to bring praise to God in many venues of worship, AWANA children’s ministry and at the Royal Ridges Retreat Horsemanship Camp to name a few inspirational outlets for singing His praises.

It’s nothing fancy that I do, but I enjoy being “just a strummer” as the Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 26th…“DID YOU EVER RECEIVE NICKNAMES FROM FAMILY AS YOU GREW UP ON THE FARM?”

POEM – “He Called Me Alley Oop!”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

When Uncle Erwin, Came to call,

With family close in tow,

I could always, Count on him,

To tease me, This I know!!

While he and Dad would visit,

Us kids would play nearby,

And sure enough, my clever “Unk”,

Came up with something sly.

“Ya know lil nephew, Your name kinda rhymes,

With character from comic book days.

I’ll give that burly guy’s name to you,

And let’s see just how good it plays!”

So from that time, When’er they’d come,

From Colorado o’er many a mile.

To that jester “Unk”, I became Alley Oop,

As I’d hear him tease with a smile.

May 25th…“DID ANY OF YOUR ELDERS EVER SAY SOMETHING THAT, AS A CHILD, MADE NO SENSE?”

During World War I, John P. Madsen was a soldier in the “Battle Of The Spruce”……..trees, that is.  As a young enlisted Army G.I. of that Great War, John was deployed from his Home State of Minnesota to the destination that his “Uncle Sam” sent him to almost 2,000 miles west to Fort Vancouver, Washington to work in the Spruce Lumber Mills on that base.

The thousands of fighter aircraft used during that war needed a strong, yet light, wood in their construction.  So, rather than fight in the trenches of France, these young soldiers, alongside John, “fought” in the forests and lumber mills to cut, saw and send that Spruce lumber to factories for those planes to be built.  When peace finally returned to the world in 1918, John Madsen was released from military service and returned to his treasured Home State of Minnesota.

Quaint are the ways of the dear generations who came before us and we were about to witness that gentility first hand.  You see, our ‘Grandpa’ John was one of those tender souls who we enjoyed, loved and admired for his effervescence and joy for life.  Even in the midst of his senescence, John Madsen held the joys of youth within him even as his mortal body succumbed to poor eyesight and the common maladies of old age.   In John’s mid to later years, he had helped out as a hired hand with our father on our farm there near Kiester, Minnesota.  With time, we became so enamored with him, as a family, that he was revered and adopted into our hearts unanimously.

Having served his nation in World War I, John, in his encroaching senior years, was able to take up residence at the Minnesota Old Soldiers Home in Minneapolis.  While health was still with him, and now being well into the age of his 80’s, ‘Grandpa’ John would put on his thick, “coke bottle bottom” eye glasses and point his handsome 1953 Chevrolet in the direction of our farm for many a happy visit.

As if it were yesterday, I can still see ‘Grandpa’ John’s green Chevy banking down into the graveled north driveway of our farmyard.  With his driver’s window rolled down, I could see John’s thick, “coke bottle bottomed” eye glasses looking down to grab his columned gear shift and place it into a lower gear as he circled around to the backside of our home for parking near our back pantry door of the kitchen.

We all loved this sweet man for his youthful exuberance for life, even though, at the time, he was well into his 80’s as far as age.  In the mornings, after a hearty farmer’s breakfast, I’d be watching him do some arm swinging calisthenics to limber up for the day.  With food in our tummies,  Candi and I’d step out the back door of our home with ol’ John to accompany him for one of his walks.  Having taken a few steps into the morning’s fresh air, John would lift up his arms (as if to God Himself) and say out loud with gusto to the world in general, “GOOD MORNING!!!!”  It was just us and John, but he enjoyed life so much, he just wanted to tell the world around him how grateful he felt for another day!!! 😉

On one of those daily strolls, we noticed that John had stopped in the middle of our farmyard and perplexed our little minds with what he said next.  “You children wait here for a little bit while I go visit ‘mrs. jones’ in the woods.”  Now the woods John was referring to consisted of the deciduous trees that made up our farm’s windbreak that sheltered us from winter’s blast of wind storms and snow.  Sister Candice and I had explored those woods thoroughly during our childhood and had never seen a lady that lived out there.  In our innocent ignorance, we had no idea that John was referring to the outdoor family outhouse (toilet) that was in the form of a tiny building next to our chicken house.  That tiny building had a deep hole dug into the ground under it and we all sometimes went in there to “doo” our “dooty” (to say it gently)….hehehe 😉  Operating out of the paradigm of his earlier generation, John must have thought it too crass for our young ears and minds to simply say he was going to GO POTTY!!  Instead, he chose to gently separate himself from us in order to answer ‘nature’s call’ and then would return to continue our walk together.  In retrospect, I surmise that old John must have suppressed a giggle or two as I pressed the issue regarding his departing our company.  I asked him, “Can we go, too, with you and meet “mrs. jones”???  To which “Grandpa” John wisely replied, with a smile, “No I don’t think so………she ONLY talks to me!!”

Reminiscing about the ways of learning life still create a smile for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son  😉

May 24th…“DESCRIBE A VERY PROUD MOMENT IN YOUR MINNESOTA CHILDHOOD.”

I don’t know about other little boys, but ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper, I would do anything to please my father.  I categorically idolized my dad, Russell Conrad Noorlun.  He was that handsome Norwegian patriarch who helped bring to me the very gift of life and inclusion into this fine farmer family.  To me, in my innocent childhood frame of mind, Dad was like “Paul Bunyan”, “John Wayne” and “Clark Gable” all rolled into one very handsome man who saw to it that we had food, clothes, shelter, and above all, a desire to have us live out, like he did, an honest and integral life among those who knew him there in our village of Kiester, Minnesota.

Impressed I was, from the stylish way Dad combed his hair to how wonderful his “Old Spice” cologne emanated from his masculine frame whenever our family would be on outings together.  Then, of course, there was the awe of seeing how strong he was in the manly art of farming each day there on our 120 acre agricultural realm.  All these attributes and more combined to make our father my everyday hero.

In my adulation, it is without a doubt that I was constantly ‘on his heels’ and an ever present little shadow to his coming and going whenever I possibly could.  And even though he was the Prince of Pranksters, when it came to teasing everyone of us, I still thought that there was nobody more suave and debonair than our fabulous father.

With the above paragraph as a setting to my feelings, I traverse, in my time machine, back to the summer of 1965.  I’m now 11 years old and Dad is teaching me more about the care and daily grooming of my lovely Shetland pony, “Little Lady”.  Even though at times, I had my failings in her daily upkeep, I truly cherished that sweet little mare with her mild mannerisms and heart of gold.  Those very equine attributes are what brought us to bequeath her with the title of our “Little Lady”.

In our father’s wisdom of growing up with horses in northern Minnesota, he decided that my little Shetland pony had the potential to possibly glean a ribbon at our local Faribault County Fair that summer.  In the months prior to the popular event, Dad would spend time in the evenings with me training “Little Lady” after routine chores and the milking of our dairy herd was completed.  The expansive, graveled yard between our farm home and the barn took on the amber tones of the setting Minnesota sun as father would show me how to lead this little equine princess around the yard and to make her take and hold certain posing stances that beneficially would show off the best of her dappled brown coat that was complimented by her luxurious white mane and tail.

Each summer to just attend the Faribault County Fair, was like going to ‘kid heaven’ as far as I was concerned.  And to think that THIS year (of 1965), I not only had the joy of attending such fun-filled festivities, but I had the added thrill of registering our pony to take part in competition with others of like category.

The expansive fairgrounds were located in the city where I first saw life at the local hospital there in Blue Earth, Minnesota.  As our 1956 Chevrolet pulled off the highway and into the front gate, the inspiring scene, to me, resembled a frame from the classic 1946 movie musical “State Fair”.  My anticipation of boy-related adventure was almost overwhelming as we were surrounded by sights, sounds and smells of agricultural wonderment and the delicious scents of tasty opportunities of food and fun.  I could hardly wait to climb outta the car and begin my wanderings.

After my initial boy joy explorations of the fairgrounds, it was time to put the fun of the fair aside for awhile and focus on trying to win that blue ribbon of FIRST PLACE.  With our little equine ‘queen of the hour’ safely in her horse barn stall, it was time for our family team to begin the dressing up of our blue ribbon contender.  Out came the brushes, curry combs, rags, lotions, etc. to make “Little Lady” look the very best that she possibly could.

Dad had witnessed what Amway Shoe Spray could do on our family shoes to make them sparkle.  So, here at the fair, he had a brainstorm that happily intrigued me.  He felt that we should use this new product to help enhance our pony’s looks for competition.  “Little Lady’s” hooves were all sanded till they were smooth and uniform all around.  Next, Dad sprayed that clear shoe polish on that little horse’s hooves and the result was amazing!!  The spray not only left them glistening, but also brought alive the natural marbled coloring of the hooves.  She was a real princess now!  When finished with treatments, “Little Lady” looked like she had just graduated from the Army Boot Camp for horses in the way she sparkled from head to hoof.

The moment of glory had finally arrived as we led our Shetland into the outdoor arena where the great ‘spotlight’ in the August sky could bring out all the luster our little mare could offer.  Serious faces were worn by the judges that day as these time-tested horsemen would now scrutinize this little mare to see if she would qualify for any recognition before the crowd that had gathered in the County Fair Grandstand.  Being obedient to the way Dad had taught me, I led our Shetland pony to perform whatever the judges required of me.  That little beauty, at the end of my lead rope, seemed to be able to read my mind and will in how well she responded to each command given her.  This little doll, who’s ancestors originated from the Shetland Islands of Scotland, behaved perfectly for me that day as I knew inside myself that she would.

Having completed the drills, and breathless in anticipation, I could only stand there in that sunshine spotlight and pet my equine pal on her lovely white mane as it floated regally on the winds of that August Minnesota afternoon.  After what seemed to be an interminable amount of time, the main judge approached the various ponies and owners who had received some sort of recognition for their efforts.  One pony received an “Honorable Mention” ribbon.  Another, the “Third Place” white ribbon and then there was the recipient of the “Second Place” red ribbon to another smiling owner.  Lo and behold, the awarding judge approached myself and “Little Lady” to offer us the beautiful “First Premium” BLUE RIBBON for having WON the Junior Exhibition Class!!!  I seemed to be actually floating on air as I told the kind judge, “Ohhh THANK YOU, SIR!!!”

Turning from the show ring, and with lead rope in hand, I led our little winner over to where Dad was standing.  Tears of joy were welling up in his eyes and spilling over onto those chiseled and tan farmer cheeks of his.  Haltingly, with great emotion, the first words to come of his mouth were, “Ohhhhh, if only Grandpa Ed were still alive and could have been here to see this horse judging today!!!…..He would’ve been SO PROUD of you, too!!!”  

You see, my Grandfather, Edwin A. Noorlun, had done all his farming with horses over the years while my father was growing up in northern Minnesota (and later in northern Iowa).  My dad and his father were true kindred spirits when it came to working the land and they both harbored a love and appreciation for the horses that provided them power for farming in those days.  Dad knew that Grandpa Ed would have deeply appreciated seeing ‘the next generation’ working with horses, too.  Our dear Grandfather Noorlun had died only a year earlier (in 1964) and I could sense that our father was still in mourning for the loss of his beloved father.   The special moment with “Little Lady” may have been a bittersweet time for my Dad,  but it was a very proud moment for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.