May 23rd…“WHEN IN HIGH SCHOOL, DID YOU HAVE HOMEWORK TO DO IN THE EVENINGS?”

POEM – “Home-Torture” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Homework, you say?, In High School day?

More like Home-TORTURE, For me it did play.

For school and I, Never saw eye to eye,

When an armload of books, Was sent home with this guy.

Dyslexic, cross-eyed, It was all such a “pill”,

Too hard to swallow, With no kind of will.

Epidemics of worry,

And scratching my head,

Knowing tomorrow, I’d wish I were dead.

When teacher would call, For homework to grade,

I’d realize that, Another egg I’d laid.

Oh sure, there were some things, In which I’d excel,

Like Shop, or Ag, Where more talents fell.

I LOVED Concert Choir, Mr. Peru was the best,

And I always was happy, To put voice to test!

For the young ones that follow, Please heed my cry,

Study hard, be successful, And see your life fly!!!

May 22nd…“TELL OF SOMEONE YOU ENVIED AND WHY?”

POEM – “Envy Is A Monster Green” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Envy is a monster green, Who’s heart is pale and very lean.

Whate’er it sees, Its thoughts are mean,  It wants your stuff, And all that’s seen.

E’en as a child, And oh so young,  Can flow these feelings, When among,

Their playmates whose, Nice toys are flung, With greed and selfish song unsung.

So learn when young, Each girl and boy, To find contentment, And sweet joy,

Procure His peace, And then employ, A royal heart, Like true Viceroy.

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

I felt that rather than bring up names from my past, it was better to share heart here via the gentle communication of poetry so that our children and grandchildren can learn to shun this weak link of the human existence.  So muses this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 21st…“WHAT WISDOM AND LIFE LESSONS DID YOU LEARN FROM YOUR BIG SISTER BOTH ON THE FARM AND LATER IN LIFE?”

Even while my infant lungs were drawing their first gasping breaths of life, our big sister, Rosemary Arlone Noorlun, was already a seasoned veteran of 8 years of experience on this here earth AND a knowledgeable Second Grader at Kiester Elementary School, in Kiester, Minnesota.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that big sister loved me to pieces and was like a little mother to me in many ways.  For instance, when I reached school age and had to be transported from farm to school on that big yellow bus, it was Rosie who stood up and got everyone’s attention that first day of school.  She let it be known to everyone on that bus that if ANYbody messed with HER little brother and made him cry, they’d have to answer to HER!!

Our elder sibling sometimes became the adjudicator of issues between myself and younger sister, Candice.  Those life lessons could get downright painful with Rosemary wielding her power of being our immediate elder.

For instance, there was the winter day when I took a mean advantage over my little sister and was pummeling Candi with snowballs to the point of her beginning to cry.  With the stealth of a lioness, Rosemary had come upon this scene of injustice from behind me, so I wasn’t aware she had witnessed my cruelty. 

With my attention focused on the “target” of my little victim, I didn’t notice that big sister is now quickly creating and loading an entire arm length of snowballs with which to mete out the justice I so richly deserved. 

With her “Gatling Gun” of snowballs in the “gun web belt” of her arm, elder sister engaged her blitzkrieg flank attack.   Without warning, she’s now “machine-gunning” snowballs at me with lightning rapidity.  I can still feel the icy impact of each snow “bullet” as that frozen white stuff is rammed up my nostrils and my winter cap is “shot off” my head!!!  All during her attack, I can hear her yelling at me, “THERE HOW DOES THAT FEEL?  IS IT FUN NOW? HOW DO YOU LIKE IT???”  Of course, now little sister AND this mean widdo kid are both bawling our heads off  and a major lesson was learned about being more compassionate to smaller siblings who aren’t as quick or as strong as you are.

There’s the proverbial saying, “Time Flies!”, and that sure was the case in 1964 when our darling sister celebrated completion of her High School years there in our sweet hometown.  It wasn’t long after that, that sister married and our Lord blessed her with a beautiful family and a full life of activities and friends to love.

To help support her growing family over the years, our grand sister worked for a number of banking institutions as a teller/clerk.  I was soon to learn another life lesson from that precious sibling while we sat and enjoyed some refreshments one day. 

What she shared next with me, I found, has had a beautiful parallel in my spiritual life, as well.  I asked her, “Rosie, how do you, as bank tellers, know when someone attempts to use counterfeit currency at your bank?”  Her answer was quick and confident. “That’s easy”, she said, “In the banking business, we are taught from the very beginning to only study authentic currency (the REAL dollar bill, for instance)!”  “The bank never lets us see a counterfeit bill, if they can help it!”  “By always focusing, memorizing and KNOWING what a REAL dollar bill looks like, then any fake dollar bill easily “jumps out” with a “red flag” to us if it comes across the counter in a transaction.”  That was so simple, yet so powerful!

Our dear sister Rosemary’s wisdom on that topic has often spilled over into my musings on the spiritual journey or walk that each of us, as Christians, travel each and every day.  So many in this world are vying for our attention, time, devotion and following.  Some of those sources of attractants are benign or even of a good nature, yet if I devote my time to the study of the one Book of books………the REAL and AUTHENTIC Word of God; I will then know, automatically, when any counterfeit person, item or subject arises.  How will I know?  Because that “red flag” will pop up saying, “This does not match God’s Holy Truth from His 66 love letters (the Bible) that He penned just for us, as His children.

Our precious sister bid a “good night earth and good morning Glory” to us in July of 1989, yet I am daily grateful to the Lord for the big sister of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!! ><>

May 20th…“WHEN COUSINS CAME OVER, WHAT KIND OF GAMES DID YOU PLAY AND WHAT TYPE OF ACTIVITIES DID YOUR FAMILIES ENJOY TOGETHER?”

Uncle Gene careened that blue Bel Air beauty into the north entrance of our farm’s U-shaped driveway.

Aunt Beverly and their three daughters waved at me as the gravel beneath their tires gave off a happy sound of their arrival at our home for a day of fun and visiting.  Even as a kid, I mused upon the thought that our uncle must have had some magic invention that could keep that car so sparkling clean even after driving over the gravel roads that led to our homeplace.

It wasn’t much longer before excitement built up once again as Uncle Del’s handsome 1959 Buick Electra rolled around to the back of our home and came to a standstill as his three sons poured out of their family coach for fun and games at Uncle Russell’s farm near our sweet hometown of Kiester, Minnesota.

Our guest list for that joyous day was topped off by the gentle arrival of a beige 1956 Pontiac Star Chief that found its place among the other metal chariots and, upon opening of their doors, revealed our dearest maternal grandparents of Clarence and Amanda Sletten.

It was a given that, when we and our cousins, plus 120 acres of farmland were put together, well, anything wunnerful could happen, and it usually DID!!  Families living relatively close, in those days, had many happy benefits; and that was the case with my mother’s brother and sister and their families coming to visit often and with much enjoyment by all.  Mom’s other brother, and his family, lived up in northern Minnesota near the town of Mahnomen, so it just wasn’t conducive to have them drive clear across the State for only a day visit.

There were times when our clans would gather together to collectively accomplish a common task AND, eventually, to enjoy playtime.  Such was the case when our father, Russell, would plant two rows of sweet corn on the outside edge of his field corn (that he fed to our livestock).  I’m guessing that those two delicious rows of tasty corn ran for almost an eighth of a mile, or more, in length.  On that certain occasion, the families gathered at our farm and we’d all follow Dad as he drove our 1950 Ford pickup truck out to the cornfield.  Those two rows of corn were right alongside a smooth field of alfalfa, so Dad could drive the truck right next to our rows of corn to be harvested.  Dad installed high boards on the truck box so that we could fill that truck sky-high with delicious golden sweet corn.  Everyone pitched in as we’d rip the ears off the stalks and toss the ears of corn gently into the truck bed.  Move the truck, pick some corn, move the truck and pick some more corn.  Soon, there was a mountain, so to speak, of yummy corn filling up that Ford.

Now we all headed back to the farm yard and parked the pickup under the refreshing coolness of our giant shade trees.  As a clan, we shucked off the husks of the sweet corn and then cut the corn off the cobs to put into freezer boxes for all the families to take home to grace their dinner tables in the coming Winter months.  The whole process was made almost delightful by the brisk prairie winds that whisked past us all, cooling our brows from this worthwhile endeavor.

Now, it was playtime!!!  Under the sun-sheltering canopy of those same trees, my guy cousins and I would set up our own play farms in the fine, soft soil that had been pulverized by our feet dragging under the airplane tire swing that hung from long ropes tied to branches above us.

When I say airplane tire swing, that’s exactly what it was.  Our dad’s brother lived nearby and flew a Cessna Piper Cub aircraft that had some over-sized tires.  When those tires had worn down, he gave a set to our father and he created this awesome swing for us all to enjoy.  With assisting boosts from behind, we boys flew the spectrum from one flying arch of that swing to the other.  Sometimes we thought we’d tangle ourselves in the branches above by the wildness of each swinging movement.

On those happy days of family, we kids enjoyed playing a game we called, “Annie I Over”.  Half the cousins on one side of our farm house and half on the other.  The ball got thrown up and over the house to see if someone on the opposing team could catch it before it hit the ground.  If they did, they’d race around to the side of the house where it was tossed to chase and tag the thrower to bring them over to their team.  I’ll bet that dear old baseball must’ve closed his eyes and held on to his stitches as we’d fling that poor sucker wayyyyy over the house top and down to the team on the other side.  I’m sure there are many ways to play this game, but we had a LOT of fun blowing off our youthful energy that way.  With seemingly boundless exuberance, we cousins exploded from one childhood adventure to another and as the sun began to fade into late afternoon, we’d just shift gears for another type of playtime……after dark.

With dusk approaching, the sunset had bid us all goodnight, but rather than have the fun come to an end, the darkness just brought another chapter of further fun for us kiddos.

All of a sudden, a tiny light bulb flew past our eyes, blinking on and off.  Then another, and another.  For a second or two, we cousins thought, “Heyyyy, what’s going on!!???”  Then it dawned on us……….they were FIREFLIES!!  Excitedly, we all scurried into the house to ask my mother, Clarice, for some glass canning jars so each of us could have our own sparkling bug light show “under glass”.   Fire Flies preferred the tall grasses that  grew in the wide, shallow ditches of the gravel road that meandered past our farm.  In those grasses lived thousands of glittering Fire Flies (also known as “Lightning Bugs”).  We’d all capture a jar-full of those lil’ blinky bugs and then have our group sit down on the cooling grasses of the now dark front yard to watch those bright little dancers inside put on a sparking show for us.  Crickets chirped their song to us in the Summer moonlight while we’d ooogle in awe at the “living light show” inside those cylindrical “glass stages”.

Being of a Norwegian heritage family, there was always coffee brewing for the adults.  So, like a perfume to our olfactories, the aroma of evening coffee and cake floated out the front door of our farm home and signaled us kids that there was still time for at least one more game…………HIDE AND SEEK…….in the dark!!  One of the cousins would put their head to the corner of an outside doorway and begin the “hide count”.  With gazelle intensity, my powerful young legs launched my body across our expansive lawn and towards the gravel road that paralleled our farm property.  I remember racing down into the shallow ditch with such speed that upon reaching the almost vertical upgrade to the gravel road surface, my momentum caused my little boy body to go airborne with legs still churning as I’d land down upon the gravel road and then leap into the tall-grassed ditch on the other side.  With the “hide count” completed, the “IT” cousin cried out, “READY OR NOT, HERE I COME!!!”.    

Now on my belly and hidden in the tall grasses under the cloak of darkness, only the Fire Flies knew where I was as they’d blink “hello” to me with their built-in light bulb bodies.  Like a cat watching her mousy prey, I could see and hear the “IT” cousin hunting and chasing the others as they’d squeal and were now trying their darndest to make it to “homebase” and safety without being caught.  When the “IT” cousin had moved far enough away from “homebase”, I’d spring up from my belly position in the grass to make my move.  Using the darkness as my friend, to cover me with its shadows, my legs flew me like the wind itself as I made a mad dash for “homebase” and was one of the winners who would not have to be the next “IT” person.

Here in adulthood, I may not be the “brightest bulb in the box of life”, but I can tell you that memories of childhood days are some of the most glowing enjoyments for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 19th…“TELL ABOUT YOUR HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION EXERCISES AND/OR TRADITIONS.”

The skull cap, with its mortarboard square top, settled uneasily onto my 18 year old pate.

Unlike the ancients of old, who initiated this traditional garb in recognition of their place in life as academic elites, this accessory of my graduation experience didn’t seem to fit the moment.

My past four years within these halls of education had been a blur, and even more troubling, they had been like a wandering without a goal in mind as to my future.  Even though I was in a quandary as to what my next step in life was, graduation from Battle Ground High School was inevitably set in place and I was about to be a part of it, ready or not.  Ceremonies on that placid Spring evening of May 26th, 1972, took place in what was then called the West Gym of our large school campus.

As culminating Seniors, and officially robed, our young figures restlessly occupied the hallway just outside the entry point of the gymnasium while parents and guests visited within the chamber of that auditorium.

Mr. Detchman (our High School Band Director) received his cue from Mr. Wiggins (our Principal) and raised his baton to bring the Symphonic Band to attention.  Soon, the majestic musical notes of Sir Edward Elgar’s “Pomp & Circumstance” began to fill that cavernous gymnasium as Honor Society students (with golden shoulder cords) began filing into the room and taking their seats of recognition at the front near the presentation stage.  The rest of our Senior class, including myself, were alphabetically following the Honor Society until all had taken their proper place in anticipation of speeches and ceremonies to come.

Having received my diploma on stage, I returned to my seat and mused upon my surroundings and these past four years of academia.  One of my deepest regrets of that moment, and to this very day, was that I had failed to aim at a future career goal with my High School education.  Sadly, instead, I had aimed at nothing and had hit my empty target…..bull’s-eye 😦  To the positive contrary, other fellow students had used those High School years as a launching pad towards their goals and had taken classes to lay the foundation that would elevate them to positions of honor in our community and the world around them.

As an example of one who did High School right, there was an exemplary classmate and fine young man by the name of Artie Nauman.   Artie was a member of the Honor Society for his consistently high academic scores during those golden days.   Through his high intellect and perseverance, Artie actually achieved the goal of what had been my aspiration, and that was to become a doctor specializing in Obstetrics & Gynecology.   Through my High School years at Battle Ground School District, I always saw a pile of books under that young man’s arms as he moved from Chemistry, to Biology, to Trigonometry and other tough subjects during our years together at that dear alma mater.   Ten long years of college and medical school loomed before him, but he was steadfast in his mindset and succeeded through it all.

As we former “Tigers” came together for our 10 year Class Reunion in 1982, I enjoyed connecting with Artie as he was about to launch into his own medical practice in the Washington, D.C. area.  I sincerely identified and felt his passion for what was now his life calling and the joy I could see of it in his face and heart.  He told me that night, “In comparison to General Medicine, delivering babies is a BLAST!!  In the greatest percentage of cases, everyone goes home healthy and happy with a darling baby in their arms!!”  I’m so glad that Artie had the determination and intellect to make his dream come true.  It paralleled what would have been the dream of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 18th…“WHAT WAS AN INCIDENT IN GRADE SCHOOL THAT YOU FOUND VERY EMBARRASSING?”

POEM – “In Walked You Know Who” by N. Elliott Noorlun

She stood at least, About 9 foot 3,

Or so it seemed, To scared lil me.

With ferocious teeth, That looked like they,

Could eat a kid, For a meal each day!

The thunderous way, With which she’d walk,

Would scare the stones, Cold dead to talk.

When she’d come near, This kid would fear,

My skin would turn, From pale to clear.

One day the other, Guys and I,

We had our turn, To “let things fly”,

So to nearby restroom,

Where we’d “toot” n “boom”,

Finding “nature’s relief”, In echoing room.

While lined up standing,  At the “loo”,

In walked behind us was, You know who,

With us in the middle, Of trying to piddle,

Her bellowing voice, Sounded like a bass fiddle.

She began to growl, “Hey YOU and YOU!!”

“Hurry up and GET, Outside you two!!”

I began to shrink, Inside my bladder,

Cause she made me cringe, THAT’s what was the matter.

With “duty” done, I began to run,

From that mountainous woman, Who’s growl was NO FUN!!

May 17th...”SHARE ANOTHER MILITARY MEMORY INVOLVING A WAR THAT HAPPENED DURING YOUR CHILDHOOD OR YOUTH?”

“Sergeant Trash” was what the men under his command called him, but it was in no way a derogatory or punitive title.  In reality, Lowell Hasart was the antithesis of that title in that his men loved him as a wise and savvy Sergeant as they lived together within the terror-infested jungles of Vietnam.   Besides, in his own words to me later in life he said, “If you spell my last name backwards, it kinda resembles the word, “trash”, so it stuck as a nickname.”  Trash Hasart 😉

I had the great pleasure to know Lowell Hasart during my years at the Battle Ground School District as a Head Custodian.  Having retired from the Army at that point, Lowell was now a member of the School District Facilities Maintenance team.  In our many conversations over the years, Lowell shared how he used as much humor and laughter as he could to offset the madness of the war around them, there in Vietnam, and to break the tension of his young enlisted troopers as they all tried to survive yet another day in that war-torn, distant land.

For instance, on the terror side of the spectrum, Lowell shared of how  enemy Viet Cong soldiers were moving in to overrun his base camp one day.  Lowell saw his soldiers “freezing up” by what they saw.  The North Vietnamese had forced a group of young children to walk in front of their battle line and were using them as a human shield to get closer to the American camp to overrun and kill Sergeant Hasart and his company of soldiers.  “Trash” knew that if he didn’t do something, and QUICK, they’d all be dead.  Lowell jumped up to a machine gun nest and bumped the young soldier to one side.  Grabbing the 50 caliber machine gun, Lowell did his best to aim above the children’s heads (so as not to harm them) and let go a long burst of gun fire.   Well, naturally, the kids dropped flat to the ground, and now the G.I.’s around Lowell could be comfortable to engage the enemy in a fire-fight to hold their position.

In his years with our school district, I observed that Lowell Hasart was like a brother from another mother when it came to looking like and even acting like our own dad (who was many years his senior).  When it came to teasing, pranks and just enjoying life, Lowell and my dad seemed to have been pressed out of the same mold.   “Trash” was one of those dear soldiers who survived the rigors of combat in Vietnam, and came home to continue life with his beloved wife, Bernie.  Not only did he survive Vietnam, but went on to complete his full 20 years with the United States Army and took his retirement from that branch of military service.

On a lighter vein of daily military life in Vietnam, Lowell shared with me that in order to relieve some of the intense mental strain in between battles, he and his men would tell jokes or play pranks on one another to lighten the mood of everyone.

One of those pranks was a true classic, as far as I was concerned.  At a base camp in the jungle, one of the soldier’s latrines (also known as a potty/restroom/poopoo palace, etc.) was built over a stream that meandered through that camp.  A number of stalls were lined up in a row over that stream for fellow soldiers to ‘do their duty’ into the water below and allow the stream to float the goo away, hopefully.

Being the major prankster that he was, Lowell rigged up a small floating barge, so to speak, and anchored a tall candle to that tiny barge/boat.  I guess you could say it could be called a ‘Yacht Of YOWSA!!!!’  😉   Once the latrine stalls had been filled with G.I.s with their britches down, “Trash” lit that tall candle and sent the ‘Yacht Of YOWSA’ down the stream as it floated underneath the latrine where the guys were sitting on the ‘john’.  The HOT candle was at just the right height to give each guy a ‘hot seat’ as it floated beneath their gravity laden cheeky orbs.

In succession, you could hear each of those guys let out a VERY LOUD expletive (bad word) as their gluteus maximus, and other private protuberances, got ‘lit up’ from below.   Of course, all those “ground pounders” (soldiers) on the outside of the latrines, including Lowell, were howling with laughter at the hot prank that had just occurred.

Another funny incident that occurred later in Lowell’s military life was when he and his wife were stationed in the country of Turkey.   Mrs. Bernie Hasart had washed some of Lowell’s underwear, among other items, and had hung them up on the clothesline that was in their front yard next to the street where they lived.  Back home, in Washington State, this was just a commonplace function of everyday life.  But NOT in Turkey.  Lowell was out in the front yard that sunny morning with his wife when many of the local Turkish men walking by started to shake his hand, pat him on the back and seemed to be congratulating Lowell about something in their native language.  He and Bernie just kinda looked at each other and wondered how come all the fuss, ya?  Later, someone came walking by their house that spoke a fair amount of English, so Lowell inquired as to why the men of the area were treating him with congratulatory gestures.  It turns out, that in Turkey, if you had a ‘lovey dovey, romantic evening’ with your wife the night before, she would wash and display your undies the next morning as a means of bragging about her lover husband.   With a giggling smile, Lowell told me that Bernie was mortified over this embarrassing situation!!!   She was SHOCKED about what she had been conveying to the local populace, and that from that day on, while still stationed in Turkey, she dried all their ‘private’ kind of laundry INSIDE the house!! 😉

Military life CAN have its lighter moments………so says this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

Epilogue:   Here, in the year 2023, we have seen the passing of both Lowell (April 9th, 2023) and his beloved Bernie (January 20th, 2023).   They were High School sweethearts (graduating in 1955 and 1956 from Battle Ground High School in Battle Ground, Washington) and were the epitome of what deep love and devotion are all about.  Such a patriotic team they were in service to our great nation and her military needs over the many decades of their life together!!!   Many loving blessings to their memory!!! ><>

May 16th…“SHARE A MEMORY INVOLVING A WAR DURING YOUR CHILDHOOD OR YOUTH.”

Since the days of the Biblical account of when Cain killed his brother Abel, it seems that for every generation, there has been some sort of conflict or war.  Whether localized or global, man’s struggle with his fellow man has darkened the pages of history.

The year was 1965 and I had just turned 11 years of age.  With a bit more maturity setting in, I was beginning to be more cognizant of life out there in the wide world beyond the farm lands of Minnesota.  I began hearing bits and pieces about some distant land called Vietnam.  At the time, while helping Dad down in the barn, I’d increasingly hear news reports, over our old plastic barn radio, about more frequent fighting that was happening in this jungle-infested land.  Up till that time, in my young life, I couldn’t have even shown you the location of this place called Vietnam on a map without adult assistance.

For many Americans of that era, including my father, to learn about this current war issue, they turned to the trusted journalist named Walter Cronkite, who was the leading commentator on the television program called “The CBS Evening News”.   Almost every evening, it seemed, Mr. Cronkite revealed to us what was being called a “police action” in that distant land called Vietnam.  Not a war, mind you, only a “police action”.

In order to provide a bit of a setting for this story, I’ll share that in our hometown of Kiester, Minnesota, there was no concept of Middle School (in my humble, personal opinion).  If a young person passed the tests at the end of his 6th Grade year, then the next fall, he started High School in 7th Grade.  As such, my first year of High School was like setting foot in a ‘new world’ of those long, hallowed halls of where the upperclassmen lived.  Here was little runt, me, walking around in the company not only of the 8th Graders, but towering Freshman, Sophomores, Juniors and Seniors.  I’ll gladly admit, I did really feel grown up to the point where now I could associate with these (mostly) mature young adults.  Heck, we even rode the same bus to school and partnered in social and athletic activities.

The issues of the war (police action) in Vietnam began to take on a ‘closer to home’ feeling for me, as a preteen, while I’d listen to conversations among those older upperclassmen who were now mature enough to be registered for what was known as the military’s Selective Service System (also known as The Draft).   Those young men, of those High School halls, were now, or soon would be, at the crossroads of being 18 years old and deciding to voluntarily join the Army, Air Force, Coast Guard, Marines or Navy.  Or, if they did not voluntarily choose a branch of military service (including the Army), all 18 year old males would then have their birth dates put in a jar.  As a date was pulled, all the boys with that specific birth date would be ‘called’ or drafted into the Army.  As the United States committed more and more troops to that war (police action), locally, we began to see a growing number of our young men being sent to that far away land to assist the government of South Vietnam, and through military might, work to thwart the advances of the North Vietnamese Communists that were pushing down from the north half of that torn land.

One of those towering upperclassmen, that I have described earlier, was a fine young man by the name of Daryl Garvick.   The Garvick family were farmers, like we were, and their two sons were brimming over with ebullience and vitality for life.  Whether Daryl was drafted into the Army, or volunteered for that military service to our nation, I’m not sure, but, I DO know that the Vietnam War (police action) would now have a local face for me to identify with.  Young Mr. Garvick was a tall, strapping man with blonde hair and a mischievous twist to his grin as he boarded my school bus each morning.   This young buck was just overall fun to be around and many of us guys gravitated to his gregarious nature.  Daryl and this farmer boy were team members of the Bulldog Wrestling Squad together.   I often observed his strength in his ability to make his wrestling opponent ‘suffer’ on the matted arena as he’d drive his muscled mass into that poor guy, from the opposing team, and ‘bury him’ into the mat for a pin and a win.

I counted it a privilege to get to know this fine frame of a farm boy as we’d joke and jostle each other during wrestling practices each day during that time of year when the wrestling season came around.  I found the bus rides to and from Wrestling Meets were actually more fun than the competitions themselves, thanks to garrulous Garvick keeping teammates laughing as we’d go bouncing down those graveled Minnesota roads.  Daryl had the adulation of many an underclassman runt, such as I, and we looked up to him in our daily life there at Kiester High School.

My lanky farmer boy friend took on a new aura of respect in my eyes when I started to hear of his soon departure into the United States Army.  That tall, muscular, blonde young man left our pastured Minnesota farm lands for Basic Training and then deployment, in June of 1967, to the rice paddies and towns of South Vietnam.  Daryl was bound towards that mystical sounding land that resided on the other side of the world from all that he knew as home and family there with us in Minnesota.

A little over a month, from the time young Mr. Garvick left for the Army, our family had sold our farm and moved to Washington State.  We all were busy settling in to our new life in that new State from August of 1967 until late February of 1968 when our hometown newspaper, The Kiester Courier, arrived in the mailbox at our new home in Battle Ground, Washington.   We had kept up our subscription to the paper to maintain connection with our dear friends ‘back home’ in southern Minnesota.  A page or two into the “Courier” and an emotional shock set in as we saw Daryl’s photograph and the article that shared how he had recently died in Vietnam from wounds sustained in street fighting within the city of Saigon.   I was stunned to the point of tears!!!   How could this be?  My wrestling buddy……..GONE???  He was just 18 years old!!!    His 19th birthday was just days away, yet he’d not see it come to fruition.  It seemed so unreal, yet there it was, in black and white.  The war in Vietnam became instantaneously personal and had ‘come home’ to me.  Someone I had known personally had his life taken in that bloody engagement that would eventually consume the precious lives of  over 58,000 of our young men and women in uniform.  I was now keenly aware of that conflagration that was never officially declared as a war.  It was a tumultuous time in our nation’s history and Daryl Garvick’s death caused a true mourning in the heart of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 15th…“WERE ONE OF YOUR SIBLINGS IN THE MILITARY?  SHARE WHAT YOU FELT AND WHAT YOU KNEW ABOUT THEIR SERVING OUR NATION.”

Adulation for my big brother, Lowell, came easily for me.  Being eleven years my senior, he was my automatic hero and I shadowed him adoringly as I watched big brother’s every move in my growing up years.

After his 1961 Kiester High School graduation, The United States Air Force captured Lowell’s attention and my hero left our family and farm and aimed his sights towards the Air Force’s Basic Training Camp to learn the ways of that “sky high” branch of military service.  I had been so used to having brother near me in those little boy days, that I was left agog without him being nearby anymore.  Up until his departure, all  I  had to do was step outside our farm house and listen to where work was happening and BINGO, there big brother would be.  But now, as the days lengthened into weeks and months, I missed my young father figure very deeply.  At that time, in my young life of about 7 years of age, I’ll admit that I was more focused on the cool, kid-impressing amenities that came along with Lowell’s life in The Air Force.  Yet, due to childhood ignorance, his daily duties and life, under the tutelage of Uncle Sam, were a complete mystery to me.

For a time, during his military service, our handsome sibling was stationed in Alaska at Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks.  Down in the “Lower 48”, we were happy for his assignment at that base, because it put him just a day’s journey from our father’s sister and family that lived in Palmer.  Having extended family like that, relatively nearby, made brother’s stay in the frozen north more bearable, I’m sure.

Lowell has always held that he’s not much of a letter writer.  In the wake of that statement, though, brother found another way to keep in touch with our family back in Minnesota.  One day, our country mailman had rolled down our gravel road and delivered a pretty good sized box for us.  The return address was from all the way up north in Alaska.  It was from our wonderful brother, Lowell!!!  Inside we found, what was known in those days as, a reel to reel tape recorder.   There were two round reels inside.  An empty plastic reel and another plastic reel that had what’s known as “magnetic tape” on it.  The reel full of tape was threaded through the recorder “heads” of the machine itself, and onto the empty take-up reel.  When we pushed the PLAY button, we could hear big brother’s voice that had come all the way down from Alaska for us to enjoy!!   After we’d enjoy hearing his stories a few times, then we, in turn, would talk into and record our voices to be sent back to Alaska for him to enjoy hearing from us “back home”.

That magic contraption was the very first tape recorder that I had ever laid my little boy eyes on.  To me, it was amazing how my dear brother’s voice was “captured” inside that magnetic tape all the way from Alaska and played so I could hear him as if he were in the same room with us!!!  The occasion, around the Dining Room table, of our family recording messages to Lowell, was the first time I had ever heard my own voice from outside my body, so to speak.  When our parents played back the tape of what we had just recorded, I asked, “WHO’S THAT???”  With simultaneous giggles n smiles, Mom and Dad responded, “That’s YOU!”  I was absolutely incredulous as I protested, “Unh Uhhhh, no way, THAT’s not me!!”  Mom and Dad confirmed, once again, that that was how my voice sounded to them and that what I had heard truly WAS my voice.   I remember vividly being appalled at the nasally drivel that came out of my mouth that was called my voice!!!

Another blessing to us, from our brother’s time in The Air Force, was when he sent me and my sister our very own ‘Dog Tags’ on a chain.  You see, ‘Dog Tags’, in those days were worn by every serviceman to easily identify him to his superior officers or medical staff.  When I opened that gift, I felt like I was ‘king of the hill’ and, in my childish ways, now considered myself a tiny military man, of sorts.  Lowell had the custom-made metal tags stamped with our name, address (Kiester, Minn), phone number (Axtel 4-3415), our relationship to him (Brother) and his title for me at the bottom (The Big Man)!!!  Now, over a half century later, I still have that gift in my collection and treasure it dearly.

Whenever our handsome brother was granted leave, he’d come home for a well-deserved rest and recuperation with family.   We were all so deeply impressed with that sharp-looking blue Air Force uniform that he wore so proudly.  I was especially impressed by the gleaming, sparkling dress shoes Lowell would wear with that uniform!!  Brother talked about spending hours and hours doing what was called a ‘spit polish’ on those shoes to make them resemble black mirrors on his feet that caught reflections of the people passing by as they admired them.   I was ‘hooked’ and began to try to emulate Lowell’s shine on all my shoes.  To this day, although it’s kinda cheating, I enjoy wearing patent leather dress shoes when I can.   They always remind me of those youthful days and my adoration, coupled with emulation, for my big brother’s life experience back then.

To this day, our wonderful brother sings the praises of his time in Uncle Sam’s United States Air Force.   On numerous occasions, Lowell has shared with me the following, “Heyyy, I enjoyed the whole experience of the Air Force!  They gave me food, clothes, a roof over my head and money in my pocket, AND, I enjoyed being able to travel as I was assigned from base to base.  Heck!, what more could a guy ask for??!!” 

Yet, as the Bible says in Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Our father had sustained some farm-related injuries that necessitated asking the military for a family hardship discharge for big brother so that he could come home to assist Dad with running our farm until he could heal up from his injuries.  After returning home from the service, Lowell met a young lady and married, thus started a new chapter of a civilian life for him.  I know, from our many conversations, that if big brother had life dealt differently with him, would have enjoyed staying in the Air Force for his 20 year career choice.  Thank you Lord, for the Air Force hero of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 14th...”TELL ABOUT YOUR HIGH SCHOOL PROM AND FORMAL DANCE NIGHT.”

A delicious effervescence exudes from the aura of one’s first love in our High School days.  And even though life may take each of us down our own separate and destined paths, those romantic memories are delectably imprinted within our hearts.  Cherished are those times that I enjoyed with a lovely young lady as we experienced those magical moments at the Battle Ground High School Junior/Senior Prom.

As is tenderly common among you couples “in love”, I, and my girlfriend, Derra Abernathy, had gifted each other with loving nicknames.  Derra bequeathed me with the cognomen of “Dimples” from the fleshly divots in my cheeks as I smiled.  I, in turn, gleefully tagged Derra with the sobriquet of “Pinky” because one Summer, while we were picking strawberries at Tsugawa Farms, I teasingly had smashed a juicy strawberry all over her chin, which stained it PINK for the rest of that day. 😉

Since 8th Grade, the two of us had dated and gotten to know each other deeply.  So, by the time of our Battle Ground High School Junior year and 1971 rolled around, I had become totally twitterpated by this lovely young soul known as Derra Joan Abernathy.

We were both in our Junior year, as the Spring of 1971 came waltzing by, and it was time for the annual Junior/Senior Prom.   For the benefit of young readers here, the word “Prom” comes from the full word of “Promenade”, which is from the French language and has the meaning “to lead out, or take for a walk”.   You see, it was tradition at these dances, to show the finery that you were wearing for that special evening.  Couples would present themselves to the chaperones of the dance and queue up two by two.  At the beginning of a song, columns of handsome couples would then walk around the perimeter of the dance floor so all in attendance could gaze upon and applaud the lovely clothing that these fine young people were adorned with.  Some schools would then enhance the moment by having the promenading couples link elbows in a side by side arrangement for now a four abreast promenade.  When all in attendance had enjoyed a stroll or two around the dance floor, the promenade was completed and individual couples would then enjoy dancing and fellowship with other students around them.

Unlike the generation of today, who somehow manage to afford limousines and tuxedos for a Prom, we two lovebirds were determined to dress as elegantly as we could within the reality of our cash on hand.  Derra’s mother either made her gown for the evening, or saw to it that it was modestly priced when purchased locally (but I think it was home sewn).

Rather than spend an exorbitant amount of precious dollars on a limousine, my parents had a better idea.  Knowing their love-struck buck was in need of a car for this gala evening, they allowed me to use our family ‘chariot’ (a Dodge Coronet 500) which was bought brand new by Dad n Mom in 1967.  For this illustrious occasion, I scrubbed, sparkled and waxed that princely coach to a royal sheen for my queen to ride in.

‘Prince ZITalot’ (alias ME) after donning my suit and tie, slipped inside that turbine-bronze Dodge coach and turned the ignition key to rev up those 318 ‘horses’ under the hood.  With the ‘reins’ of the steering wheel in my hands, I was off like a flash to the ‘castle’ of my ‘princess’.  Having arrived at the ‘castle’ of my teenage ‘princess’, I dismounted my metal steed and ventured inside to greet my lady and her family.  My breath was stolen from me, as if a tempest had just blown by, when I saw how lovely Derra was in her Prom gown!!  Her hair being done to perfection, coupled with that floor length gown made her a delight to the eyes.  Such a gentle feminine frame she possessed, and, with her bare-backed gown, her beauty was sweetly accentuated.

As the Coronet “coach” pulled up to the High School bearing “Prince” Elliott and “Princess” Derra, our ears could already hear the music of our era throbbing from inside the school cafeteria where the dance was held.  Once inside, we enjoyed the live band on stage that was playing a nice mixture of happy dance tunes, as well as slow, romantic songs so that couples could cuddle close on the dance floor when the lighting dropped to suit the mood of the music.

Cuddling, of course, was limited to what our teacher chaperones would allow.  To be safe, we decided we’d enjoy mingling with the other couples there that night and enjoyed the overall ambiance of the wonderful evening.

Even though I’m no dancer, I devoted as many wiggles and moves as I could to make the evening as fun as possible for my lovely lady.  It was one of those warm moments of joy for a boy and a girl caught up in making sweet memories that are still there to this day for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.