May 13th…“TELL ABOUT THE FIRST DANCE YOU EVER ATTENDED AND HOW DID IT GO?”

The crispness of fall had descended upon our southern Minnesota farmlands like a frost encrusted blanket.  Farmers, with all the zeal of conquering heroes, were busy in the harvesting of their fields in the hope of getting their crops safely into storage or sale barn before the first snows enveloped the earth once again.

School life for this farm boy, at the age of 12 in 1966, was about to entail an exciting event that would soon transpire in our village.  That event was known as “Homecoming”.  Many Kiester High School Bulldog Alumni would once again come home to their “alma mater” (which comes from Latin for: dear mother…..referring to their school as a mother figure when it came to education).  Once again, as in their own school days, these honored guests could traverse the school hallways and enjoy memories of their youth in this quaint farming community of ours.

As was typical of Homecomings across the nation, the traditions of this fun-filled week were a faceted festival of frolic.  Activities usually included big cheerleading sessions at school, wearing of extra blue and white school colors, the “mile high” bonfire with rally led by our cheerleaders, a big all-out marching band parading through town and, of course, the traditional football game against our archrival football team from Frost, Minnesota.

For a small farming community, our town had a great spirit for taking part in these fun festivities.  It was a joy for this boy to witness the gamut of ages that took part in the annual Homecoming Parade; from us little ones in Grade School all the way through the High School classes.  Each Grade echelon made, or at least sponsored, a parade “float” that was usually comprised and created upon some farmer’s “flat rack” wagon and decorated with a theme of how we were going to be the victors over the rival town’s football team on the Big Game Day.

The “Royal Court” of Homecoming usually would ride through the town’s parade route in regal style.  Some generous community member would loan their new convertible and have the top down, so “King & Queen” could be best shown in their handsome royal crowns and robes spread across the trunk of that luxurious car.  Parade “floats”, themselves, were customarily towed through the parade route by sparkling tractors, a handsome car or pickup and even a team of horses, now and then.

I fondly recall, way back in 1966, that our 6th Grade Class chose the idea of creating BIG pencils that we would carry as props as we joined all the other Grade Levels in marching through the parade route.  The theme behind those giant tube pencils, with imitation erasers and points, was that our football team was going to “Rub ‘Em Out” on the gridiron that night.  Classmates John Steven and Vicky Estebo (if I remember her name right) even carried a banner in front of our marching class saying, “RUB ‘EM OUT!!!!”.

Once the football game had been won by our Bulldogs, it was now time to culminate the wonderful week by attending the annual Homecoming Dance.  One can only begin to imagine the hours that went into transforming the Bulldog gymnasium from a sweat-soaked athletic arena to an auditorium fit for the Homecoming royal court with their King & Queen.  Blue and white twisted crepe streamers were attached to the basketball backstops, those backstops were then cranked up high and towards the center of the gym ceiling creating a tent effect that was magnificent in its dimension, color and overall theme enhancement.

The gymnasium’s wooden floor  was to become a dancing haven for “tripping the light fantastic”.  In order to enhance the dancer’s movements, a concoction of sawdust with either oil or wax was applied over the wooden floor to allow for easier shoe movement as the Bulldog ladies and gentlemen danced the evening away.  For this prepubescent boy, though, that “powder” just increased the comedy factor in making it nearly impossible for me to stay standing; say nothing of trying to at least PRETEND to dance ……..which I could not do anyway.

There I was, an impressionable young man, trying to “make points” in dancing with my young lady who accompanied me that evening (who happened to be the local banker’s daughter).

Instead of being another Fred Astaire (famous dancer of long ago), you’d think I had contracted a neuromuscular disease that forced my wannabe dancing body into strange, irregular convulsions as the music pulsated around us from the live band on stage that night.  It’s a good thing that, in 1966, the in-fashion dances were so weird then, that I figured if my girlfriend asked, “What the heck are you trying to do?”, I’d just respond that I had just invented a new Norwegian Noogie Ooogie Woogie Dance!! 😉

Gloria Carlson, my date that evening, seemed to shrug off my antics and took this clumsy-footed oaf in stride as we wiggled and giggled that Homecoming Dance night away.

Donald O’Connor, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly would never have to worry about ME taking their jobs from them, but, overall, that Homecoming event was a memorable day and culminated in the first ever attempt at dancing for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 12th…“WHAT WAS A SPECIAL NICKNAME YOUR MOTHER CALLED YOU AS A LITTLE BOY ON YOUR FARM?”

POEM – “Puny, Puckered, Pickle Ole Pete” by N. Elliott Noorlun

With cucumbers fresh, From garden near,

Mom’s kitchen resounded, With things I’d hear.

Pots n pans, Clinking Mason Jar tongs,

As steam from hot water, Would sing its songs.

I’d watch with baited, Culinary thrill,

As fragrance flowed, From sprigs of dill.

A touch of color, Added seasonings right,

Guaranteed the flavor’d, Be out of sight.

Mom knew her best customer, Of pickles to eat,

Was none other than, Puny, Puckered Pickle Ole Pete.

Be they “Bread n Butter” chips, Or sour dills,

My tummy never grumbled, Or showed any ills.

Pickled Watermelon Rinds, Were a treat from Heaven,

For this farmer boy, Turning six or seven.

And Mom’s Pickled Beets, Were a tangy delight,

That sent my taste buds, Clear outta sight.

From boiler pan to jar, Our tastes were never fickle,

This Pickle Ole Pete, Could eat every last pickle.

Lord, bless our mother, In Heaven up above,

For feeding her dear family, with pickles made with love.

May 11th…“TELL OF A FAVORITE SINGER AND THE SONG THAT HE, OR SHE, MADE FAMOUS WHEN YOU LIVED ON YOUR FARM.”

“Angel” was in love with the singer, Andy Williams.  Well, o.k., she didn’t exactly tell me that in her own bovine tongue, but it was too obvious when one of his songs played on our barn radio.  You see, “Angel” was my favorite Holstein dairy, cuddly cow cutie and resided at Stanchion #15 in our barn there on our farm in southern Minnesota.  Her stanchion may have been at the “end of the line” in our herd lineup, but she was #1 in my book for gentleness.  There were horizontal pipe railings that bordered her last stall and “Angel” didn’t mind at all when I’d climb on those railings then up onto her back while Dad milked her and the rest of our herd of bovine beauties.

One would naturally think that a barn and music would be the antithesis of each other; polar opposites that would be repellent of each other, right?  Yet, as any working person can tell you, we all spend a lion’s share of each day “at the office”.  Well, our farmer father’s “office” was the barn where he milked and cared for fifteen Holstein dairy cows (and other young livestock) twice a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year.  So, in city life, as many offices have music playing to sooth the stress of business transactions, our farmer father had music playing to sooth the cows.

As I’ve shared in earlier stories, centered in the barn and resting on a dust covered shelf, above the cow’s heads, sat our old, yellowed plastic barn radio.  Dad believed that, not only were the radio broadcasts entertainment for him as he passed the long hours working in that bovine domicile; he also held that the music also tended to relax the cows and therefore they’d “let down” their milk for a higher yield of gallons to be sold at the local creamery.

As the winds blew across our farmlands, they blew dandelion seeds past our barn.  At the same time, within those wooden barn walls, that dear old plastic radio blew the “seeds of music” past our ears and minds.  I have found that, secreted in the mundane blandness of everyday life are moments of elevated wonder just waiting to happen.  For me, that wonder was in the wistful song that came across the barn radio one evening while I was laying forward and resting on the bony back of my favorite cow, “Angel”.

The famous singer, Andy Williams, debuted a new song in March of 1963 called, “Can’t Get Used To Losing You”.   There I was that evening, laying forward upon the back of “Angel”, as that magical melody filled the barn.  I was transfixed by the unique syncopated prelude of the song.  Then, that unmistakable voice of Andy Williams wove the words together in that signature sound that was all his own.  With my ear resting against “Angel’s” back , I thought I heard a gentle lowing (soft moo) from her, as if she’d heard the tune also and appreciated that human voice coming into her bovine ears, just like I enjoyed it in my human ears.  I suppose a realist would say, “Well, heck, she’s just enjoying her meal in front of her!”……be that as it may, the romanticist in me says she liked what she heard across that human radio 😉

Even after “Angel”, and the rest of our farm animals, left us in the farm sale of 1967, I found that, from that magic moment, I enjoyed “Can’t Get Used To Losing You” more and more each time it played on a radio over the years.  In 1963, when it first hit the airwaves, that great song climbed to the Number 2 position on the national popular music charts both here in America AND in England, as well.  Ahhhhhh, yes, the mesmerizing magic of music for a young nine year old boy known as the Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 10th…“WHO WAS YOUR FAVORITE SINGING GROUP OR BAND WHEN YOU WERE A YOUNGSTER ON THE FARM?

I could only speak “Minnesotan” at the tender age of 10 years old in 1964.  And even THAT was a challenge sometimes when I got twitterpated in front of a girl classmate that I had a crush on.  Living there on our farm, surrounded by other Norwegian, German and similar Nordic families, we pretty much rendered language in the everyday American way.   Then came……….. “The Beatles”!!

Now we all know that music can make magic happen, and at the impressionable age of 10, I was “captured” by the mystique of the “British Invasion” of these strange speaking Liverpudlians who were the Rock n Roll band called, “The Beatles”.    I’m sure part of the intrigue came from their British accents that flavored their English words in a way I’d never heard before.  Then, another magnetic pull, was their fast, funny and quick-witted ways of speaking to their audience and especially the way they “handled” reporters who were always prying into their lives with cameras and questions.

The American music scene was in a major paradigm shift from the “doowop” of the 1950’s that morphed into the folk singer times of the early 1960’s.   And, although
“The Beatles” had their influences from American music of the times mentioned, they brought an entire new sound into the ears and hearts of teenagers world wide…….almost overnight.

All the radio stations in southern Minnesota were heralding the exciting news that this new and sensational rock band was going to perform for the first time on American soil on the very popular television variety show called, “The Ed Sullivan Show”.   (I’ve alluded to this story earlier in my blog, but share it here again.)  I just HAD to see The Fab Four with my own two eyes, as well as hear more of their tremendous new songs that permeated the airwaves of the nation.

Our dear Mom and Dad were from the generation of Swing and Big Band music, so there was no way they were going to have any intention of watching some shaggy-headed gaggle of guys jumping around a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans.  With that stark fact in mind, how in the world would I make my dream come true to see these new famous musicians??? That night was to be their performance and I had only minutes to make something happen.   “Ahaaaaa!”, thought I!!  “I’ll just sneak upstairs into big sister Rosemary’s bedroom and watch those British Boy Wonders on that new little black & white portable television her fiancé had bought for her.”

I slithered up those stairs like a spy in a movie and, with a gentle turn of the knob on the front of Rosie’s TV, I heard it click “on” and the picture tube came crackling to life in front of my eyes.  YES!, there was old Ed Sullivan himself just ending his introduction as he threw his arms in their direction and proclaimed……..“Here they are, THE BEATLES!!”  Of course, the entire audience of mainly young ladies erupted in screams of unbridled delight as their British “boyfriends” launched into “She Loves You!”   Little did I realize, that my rock n roll joy was to only last for a couple minutes, at best.

My Beatles bliss was shattered by something called a vent grate in the floor of sister’s bedroom that basically covered an opening in the floor that looked down to the Living Room below us.  Old homes, in those days, made use of heat rising and had venting grates that would allow that heat to rise to the upstairs bedrooms and heat those areas, as well.   In MY case, the sound of the loud, “SHE LOVES YOU, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!!!!” filtered right downstairs to Rosemary’s horrified ears.  How DARE her little brother even TOUCH her precious television set; say nothing about using it without her permission!!  Next thing I heard was the stairway door being ripped off its hinges as my furious sister launched herself up those stairs, like a storm trooper to blow me out of my Beatles Bunker!!   I received one SERIOUS tongue lashing for having invaded HER domain and HER television.  With a vicious twist of her wrist on the power knob………OFF went the TV and “The Beatles”.  I was one vanquished little fan……..and in trouble, too!

Later that same year, “The Beatles” made their first movie called, “A Hard Day’s Night”.  I saw that, and their other movies, too, and enjoyed them all.  Even after “The Beatles” disbanded, I still found myself returning to and enjoying the musical genius of those great young artists.  Makes ya wonder if they wrote “Norwegian Wood” for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son. 😉

May 9th…“NAME SOME OF THE POPULAR HIT SONGS FROM THE DAYS OF YOUR YOUTH.”

One of the most intriguing songs of my young days grabbed my attention in 1963 (when I was 9 years old).  I was listening to the radio that Dad always had playing in the barn on our farm just northwest of Kiester, Minnesota.  Our farmer father had that dust-covered radio always playing during his milking times because he said the music relaxed the cows and enabled them to let down more milk from their udders (milk bags).  More milk meant more money for our family when Dad sold that “white gold” to the local creamery.

I can still picture myself down in the barn that evening and leaning over the bottom half of our ‘Dutch’ barn door.  I was gazing out past the cow-yard and over to our neighbor’s corn and soybean fields.  The waning evening sunshine had cast its golden blanket of light over those crops, and our agricultural world, before bidding goodnight beyond the horizon.  The unique lilting music I heard that evening was not even sung in English.  It was a Japanese tune that had an “Americanized” title of “Sukiyaki”.  The melancholy musical creation was sung by Kyu Sakamoto and was delivered quite soulfully by his voice while our cows softly lowed as they were being milked by my dad.

Strangely enough, the song “Sukiyaki” (which is actually a Japanese hot food dish and has nothing to do with the song) got its name from an American radio host who could not pronounce the Japanese title, so he just grabbed an oriental sounding name “out of the air” in order to promote this catchy new tune to an American audience.  The true Japanese title of this song is, “Ue o Muite Aruko” (translated = I Look Up As I Walk) and was actually written as a student protest song for a social cause that had failed there in Japan.  The author felt a sense of loss, on the evening that he wrote this, because nothing was going to happen from the efforts of his student-led organization that protested the continued presence of the United States Army in Japan during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s.  As the song caught on, many new admirers felt that it could also be seen as a song of suffering the loss of young, romantic love, as well.

Yes, music, in all its wondrous spectra, has been a sweet and addictive elixir of life to my soul from the earliest years that I can remember.  Like culinary courses in a fine meal, my tastes in music have been eclectic, depending on circumstances of a particular moment and what moves my heart emotionally.

There are a plethora of songs I could list here that made my feet go to tapping or move my eyes to tears in their power of lyrics and musical notations that brought to me the pinnacle of artistry for my ears to relish and enjoy.

As my music-loving heart encountered High School days, I continued to drink in the top tunes of my generation, as well as appreciate other genres of great music, too.  That love of music drew me to gain acceptance into our school’s Concert Choir.  I regret not following the inspiration of my beloved Concert Choir teacher, Mr. Orrell Peru.  He encouraged me, repeatedly, to aim my sights at attending Central Washington University because he felt I would be a good music teacher.  If only I would’ve heeded his challenge.  I could have been getting “paid to play” as I then could immerse myself daily in doing that which I have always loved……music!

In lieu of having that “sheep skin” (diploma) from a university, I have filled my years with a passion for singing, a little bit of studio recording (with a dear friend), composing lyrics, writing poetry, teaching guitar and singing in church choirs.  Thanks to the top tunes of my young days, there will always be music to enjoy for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 8th…“DID YOU EVER LOSE YOUR TEMPER?”

Never acquiesce to society’s verbiage without questioning and seeking a deeper understanding of the proper employment of words in every day life.  Take today’s question, as an example.  “Temper” is not a bad thing; it’s actually a VERY GOOD thing, for the word “temper” is synonymous with the word “strength”.

Muse with me upon this scenario………metal tools, gun barrels, metal knife blades and even windshield glass, etc. …….they all have wonderful uses in our daily lives because they have “temper”.  Or, to put it another way, they “have been tempered” with strength added, so to speak.

I’m sure all of us, over the years, whether in school or daily life, have heard someone described as having a “bad” temper or a “short” temper or even having a “short fuse”.   It’s very easy to assume that temper must be something bad, right?  Not at all.  What actually is being communicated is that that person has a bad “strength” or a short “strength”.   The conveyance here is stressing that the person in question truly has what is easily seen as an anger problem in showing that they have not the strength to control their anger and it bursts out against any and all that are sadly within the explosion range of their rage.

I gleaned some wise insight about today’s topic from our hard working farmer father, Russell Conrad Noorlun.   Dad’s young years were spent in the 1920’s and during America’s Great Depression of the 1930’s.  His large farming family had to make do with simple means of life offered to them from working the farmlands of northern Minnesota.  My Grandfather, Edwin A. Noorlun, being the loving patriarch of his handsome family, I’m sure was faced with the reality (brought on by those hard times) of not being able to afford to buy gifts for his eight children on a regular basis.  One day, though, a moment arose that allowed Grandpa Ed to present my father with a tiling spade as a gift.  That loving gesture meant the world to my Dad and he treasured that shovel as if it were made of gold, since it was his beloved father that had bequeathed it to him out of his fatherly love.

I observed that, without fail, EVERY TIME our dad used that shovel (or any of his shovels and equipment), he would hose off the mud, scrub it down and then coated the shovel with a heavy oil that was rubbed all over the metal and wooden parts of the tool.   Being the child that I was, and curious, I asked him one day why he performed this ritual on the shovel (and his other implements or tools).  Here was his reply, “Son, first off, if you take care of your tools, your tools will take care of you!   And, most importantly, by cleaning and oiling this shovel, it will never lose its temper.   Because, IF it loses its temper, it will rust and fall apart when you need it the most and try to use it!!”

At first, my little boy brain couldn’t quite grasp the totality of what Dad had just shared; but as time moved on, I began to  realize the correlation between what Dad told me and life as it happened right in front of me.

For instance, have you ever observed the scene of someone who is losing their strength (temper) and becoming angry?  Many people appear to be “falling apart” in shaking fits as they lose their strength (temper) and give in to tirades of anger or even rage.

Or, like Dad’s shovel analogy, have you ever tried to use an old shovel that has lost its temper?  I have.  The shovel could not stand the strain of the work it was expected to do because it had lost its strength (temper) by being allowed to rust from lack of care.    Therefore on that day, as I rammed that shovel blade into the ground and pulled back to lift a load of soil, it bent and snapped in half…….just when I NEEDED it most.

So, to answer the initial question…….yes, I have “lost my strength” from time to time in life and have lived to regret every single instance.  Why?  Because almost 100% of those anger incidents were based upon selfish reasons that could have been avoided if I had “cleaned and oiled” my spirit with God’s Holy Word and then acted accordingly.  It says in the Bible, “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city”….Proverbs Chapter 16 and Verse 32. (King James Version)

I still have that shovel that Grandfather Edwin gave to our father, Russell.  It now has been handed down to our son, Nathan.  I cleaned and oiled that family “treasure” and then laid it in a lovely bed of Periwinkle flowers.  I felt it to be symbolic of the fact that temper is beautiful, in its strength, and the flowers around this family heirloom complimented the beauty of God’s strength that is available for each of our lives.   So are the heart thoughts of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 7th…“DID YOU EVER SNEAK A TREAT FROM YOUR MOTHER’S KITCHEN?”

POEM – “A Cheery Cherry Chiseler” by N. Elliott Noorlun

I’m the cheery cherry chiseler,

A slinking through farm house,

In hopes I’d steal a cherry or two,

If quiet as a mouse.

With Ma out feeding chickens,

And Pa out in the field,

T’was time for a spy, This little guy,

To see what frig would yield.

Just like “James Bond, I’d check to see,

Of when “the coast was clear”,

If Mom or any family,

Was close enough to hear,

Me sleuthing through the kitchen,

White “vault” just full of stash,

Those Maraschino Cherries,

On my taste buds I would mash!

Once found, I’d sample two or three,

Round orbs of red delight,

Then with a wink, Screw on the lid,

And dash clear out of sight.

Mom must’ve wondered, At baking time,

How cherries were close to none,

They’d happily stolen, Into the gut,

Of her Norwegian Farmer’s Son!! 😉

May 6th…“WHAT COUNTRY DID OUR ANCESTORS COME FROM AND WHAT ARE SOME INTERESTING FAMILY FACTS?”

“Ja vi elsker dette landet” (translation = Yes, we love this land) …..I can just envision the musical refrains of “A Song For Norway” echoing off the crevassed walls of the glacial fjords of my ancestral homeland.   Likely, my paternal  Great Grandfather heard or sang that song in his youth before emigrating to this new land of America and settling into the State of Wisconsin.  My paternal Grandfather, Edwin Noorlun, there in Wisconsin, was the first generation to be born here in the United States in the year 1888.  His father, Arne (pronounced either ARnee or ARnuh), saw life start in the mother country of Norway.

Our beloved mother, Clarice, also had Norwegian roots in her family heritage.  Her paternal Great Grandfather, Ole Sletten, was born in 1825 within the south central village of Aurdal, Norway.  My Great Great Grandfather Ole Sletten so loved his newly adopted country of America, that he served with the Union Army during the Civil War between the States in the 1860’s.

In their former homeland, our Norwegian ancestors could enjoy the peaceful, lake-filled valleys of the fjords or the wind-swept wildness of the mountains and Troll’s Tongue.

For benefit of the young ones in our family, the motherland of our clan is nestled into the northwest coastline of the European Continent.  It must’ve taken some hardy souls to glean a living from that chilled and rugged part of the world.  For all we know, those aforementioned conditions may have been some of the very reasons that brought a change of mind and heart to our forefathers.  They then had to make the life-changing decision to make the trek of a lifetime as they boarded ships and emigrated to the new land of The United States of America.

To this day, and especially on festive occasions, Norwegians will bring out their fashion finery to share the elegance in attire that is worn by both old and young.

The new American saga of our two families continued as they set up new lives in this grand land of opportunity called The United States.

Maybe it was the wide-open spaces, versus the confined quarters of the motherland of Norway, but a great majority of Norwegian immigrants tended to settle their families into the Midwest heartland regions.

My Dad was born and raised in northern Minnesota before eventually migrating to northern Iowa to look for work on farms in that area.  His parents and siblings eventually followed their son by also moving to northern Iowa and finishing out their lives in a town called, Lake Mills.

My maternal grandfather, Clarence Sletten, like many other Norwegian sons, was born in the Midwestern State of South Dakota, but life drew him and his young family to the northern Iowa town of Scarville, where our mother and her siblings were born on a farm just north of that tiny village.  Farming, being an arduous way of life and susceptible to hard times, was going to come to an end for our maternal grandfather as they lost the family farm during the Great Depression of the 1930’s.  Clarence had to feed his young family, so he began work as a drayman (delivered supplies on flatbed horse-drawn wagon or truck) in the nearby village of Scarville and also worked for the grain elevator there.  As years went by, our Grandfather Sletten, and his lovely wife Amanda, took their family to the southern Minnesota city of Albert Lea and went to work for Rilco Laminated Products as a laminate worker who glued giant wooden construction beams together.

Spices in a kitchen cabinet are used to flavor the food on your table.  The spice in my Norwegian elder’s lives was the “flavor” of the way they spoke their English.  Even after moving to America, the generations born to our elders were bilingually fluent in Norwegian and English.  Yet, the Norwegian tongue was still dominant in the ways they tried to pronounce English words.

The Norwegian language was still dominant, even in my father’s generation starting in 1918.  There is a photo in our collection that shows our young daddy and his three other brothers.  The brothers are dressed nicely in their Sunday School best of clothing.  Yet all showed sour and serious scowls on their faces.  When I asked our mother why such faces, she responded, “You’d be a sour-faced grump, too, if you had to sit through TWO church services each Sunday.  One in Norwegian and the other a repeat in English!!”  My Dad used to talk about the commonality of speaking to one parent in Norwegian and then spinning around to chat with his second parent in English.  That’s how common the Norwegian language had survived in the families since coming over from Norway.

A fun Norwegian treat, when I was a child, was the eating of Lefse.  They look like the Mexican tortilla, but are actually a potato flatbread that is grilled, then buttered, sugared, rolled up and eaten with great delight whenever family would gather for holidays or just a good old Norski fun time.  There was another culinary favorite of Norwegian families called, Kringla.  That delicacy was a soft cookie made to look like a pretzel.  It would be lathered on its flat bottom with rich creamery butter and relished with each succulent bite.

My generation picked up a scattering of Norwegian words as we grew up, but what was fascinating was watching our parents interact with their parents when we were all together for family gatherings.  Since our parents and the elders were fluent in the Norwegian language, they’d use a tactic that I called, “shifting gears” when we little kids were around.  If there were sensitive family issues to be discussed by the grown ups, they would “shift gears” from speaking in English to each other and, instead, would begin to speak only in Norwegian.  We little ones were now “in the dark” as to what they were talking about.  Over time though, I began to discern that if the subject matter was “hush hush”, the adults form of voice tones were usually low, dark and serious.  I’d think to myself, “Yup, something bad or naughty has likely happened and they don’t want us kids to know about it!”   Yet, on the other hand, if our parents and elders wanted to share a risque family incident or “off color” joke, again they’d “shift gears” into Norwegian………only THIS time, their voices were light and bright and with smiles on their faces until the “punch line” was delivered and then all the adults would roar with laughter!!!!  Even as children, we got to where we could “read between the lines” and at least knew what MAY have been happening in the language of our ancestors.

To keep our family’s history alive and well, some dear souls have done research and have websites to share stories, photos and information of our history here in America and back to the mother country of Norway.  One of those websites is called,  http://www.sletten.name.   Another website is called, http://www.rogness.com.

Such is a taste of the historical origins of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

May 5th…“SHARE A HOT-ROD MEMORY OF YOUR MOTHER.”

Clarice Arlone Sletten Noorlun was our cute n quiet, conservative queen of conquest.

Our beloved matriarch covered the gamut, starting in 1938, by flying in a biplane over lush Iowa corn fields with her old boyfriend, Archie Knutson.  Yet, it was 30 years later, in 1968, that I witnessed Mom “flying” in another fashion…….behind the wheel of our powerful Dodge Coronet 500 and almost “lifting off” down a Montana highway at close to 100 miles per hour!!   Such was the wonder of our beloved mother, Clarice!!!

The year of 1967 was full of momentous change for our family.  We had sold our 120 acre farm in Minnesota and moved all the way out West to Washington State.  We settled into a town called Battle Ground in the southwest corner of that new State our family would call home.   Thanks to the sale monies, that now rested in the bank from our farm sale back home, Dad and Mom were able to pay cash for a new home on Hawthorne Street and also paid cash for a classy, brand new 1967 Dodge Coronet 500 Coupe.  We all thought our dream machine was better than any old Cadillac and loved to drive it with pride cause it rode like a dream.  I even had a High School friend tell me that our Dodge had a smoother ride than her family’s Cadillac.  That made me even more proud of our chariot on wheels.

It seemed like just a blink in time, and the summer of 1968 arrived.  One whole year had passed since we moved to Washington and our father’s new job with the local school district had given him a generous paid vacation time to enjoy as he pleased.  We decided we’d load up our “turbine bronze” colored hot-rod of  a Dodge and drive back to Minnesota to see family and friends that we had left behind the previous year.

That V8 Mopar 318 cubic inch engine purred like a kitten under the hood of our steel stallion as we happily rolled eastward down the Columbia Gorge with our sights set on dear old Minnesota and the loved ones who awaited us on our vacation “back home”.   Like the meaning of the word, coronet, our Dodge was one of the “crowns” in our parent’s lives after working so hard in farming all their years.  So, our “crown” car began this excursion and took us from our hometown in Washington and across Idaho as swift as a wish on angel’s wings.

After climbing over the Continental Divide of the Rocky Mountains and into Montana, we eventually stopped in some lower country to pull over and enjoy a family picnic.  Being  that our parents were from the “Greatest Generation”, it was common for them to bring food and drink along, rather than stop and eat at “expensive” restaurants or Drive-Inns for meals.   Dad sometimes would even take a can of corn-beef hash, rip off the paper label and then wire that can of food to the manifold of the car to heat it up for about a half hour or so of driving.   Donning thick leather gloves, he’d then pull over, pop the hood of the car and unwire the can from the engine block.  Then, continuing to use his gloves, for protection from the heat, he’d open the hot can, and presto……..a warm meal for us to enjoy!  😉

It was after one of those roadside meals that Dad decided he’d turn over the driving to Mom and take a nap in the passenger seat while she carried on the journey for a while.  Now the State of Montana, in those days, had an “open speed limit”.  As long as you kept your vehicle’s limitations in check, it was pretty much “anything goes” as far as your choice of speed.  Mom was now in control of our “bronze babe” as she pulled back onto the two lane highway and rolled down those seemingly endless straight miles of road that lengthened before us.  Being only 14 years old, at the time, and with nothing else to do in the back seat, I decided to follow Dad’s sleepy example and hunkered down in the corner of my seat for a snore of my own.

Time lapsed and, groggily, I came awake from my nap as I stretched and yawned to a fully conscious state once again.   I poked my head up over the bucket seats to see how Mom was doing at her turn with the wheel.  LOW AND BEHOLD, our super conservative mother was totally COOKIN’ down that Montana highway at over 95 miles per hour!!!

Not wanting to scare her into an accident, I whispered rather intensely, “Mom, do you know how fast you’re going?”  Now, she was surprised as well!!!  Seems those straight Montana highways and that powerful Dodge engine were components that resulted in ZOOOOOOM!!!  Mom actually took the whole incident in stride as she replied to me with an “Ohhhh welll!!”   What a cool-headed, hot-rod lady was the mother of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son!!  😉

May 4th…“DID YOU EVER TRY TO MAKE A LITTLE BOY FANTASY COME TRUE?”

POEM – “A Tiny Tike’s Treasure Trove” by N. Elliott Noorlun

At the end of the movie,

The good guys had won,

The pirates were dead,

Every son of a gun!

And as film credits rolled,

Everyone could see,

A treasure chest bursting,

That filled all with glee!

My brother had made,

Treasure chest in school shop,

Now all I needed,

Was treasure to drop,

Inside of that box,

For my boy fantasy,

But where to find jewels?,

That could come to me?

Of course!! My Mom’s,

Rhinestone jewelry would do,

I’d whine for her old ones,

So to her side I flew.

My ‘gold’ would be chocolate,

Quite easy to buy,

Pretty soon a treasure,

Would belong to this guy!

Now this little ‘pirate’,

Would have treasure to hide,

With his jewels n gold,

And fantasy in stride!!