December 3rd...”TELL A WINTERTIME STORY ABOUT YOUR DOG ON THE FARM.”

Tranquility reigned supreme over the coal-black skies of our southern Minnesota farm yard during a midwinter’s evening.  All was well…….for the moment, that is.   Not a whisper of wind was to be heard or felt in the frigid air that surrounded our farm and a stealthily silent snow fell from the ebony sky in a dreamlike descent that lent to the absolute quietness that was almost palpable.

During the daylight hours, my faithful canine friend “Spotty” (who was a mixed short-haired terrier) and I had enjoyed our usual romping, stomping and ‘play fighting’.  Wintertime’s cold temperatures saw to it that I was clothed with layers of everything from Long-John underwear to coats and I’d have either thick mittens or leather gloves on.  In our happy warfare, I would clench my fists and allow “Spotty” to attack and gnaw on my fists as we’d wrestle; he’d then ‘break off’ to run frantic circles around me barking all the way.  He’d hop from side to side, planning his strategy of attack, then, of course, he’d lunge at me and we’d go at it again and again.  It was lots of fun and we both enjoyed each other’s company immensely!

One evening, I seem to recall that Dad had gone back down to the barn to finish evening chores and milking while I finished my supper.  Now, after getting myself re-layered for the night time walk to the barn, I stepped out of the warmth of the house and into the almost eerie silence of the night as I had described earlier.  To set the scene of what was to happen next; about three fourths of the way across our farm yard towards the barn, we had a tall yard light that was our only outdoor illumination and it was toward that source of light I began to walk.  On most occasions, “Spotty” would be waiting for me just outside the back door of our house as I exited our domicile.  That dog buddy would usually be a waggin’ his tail and happy to see me, but tonight, he was strangely absent and nowhere to be seen.  Rather strange, I thought, that he was nowhere in sight.  So, with just the soft, repetitive kathud of my rubber boots against the packed snow, I started out and had almost traversed my way to the yard-light lamp pole when suddenly, to the right side and behind me, I heard the staccato and rapid “pocketa pocketa” paw hits to the snowy ground of a fast approaching animal of some sort.

I spun around and SHAZAM!!! ……it’s “Spotty” who has launched himself in midair for another play attack on his master!!  The little stinker had been hiding in the black shadows of the farm yard to sneak up on me for ‘the kill’!  Well, even as a youngster, I can tell ya that my heart about jumped right outta my chest, but after the initial shock, he and I had another good time wrestling again before I finished the rest of the trek to the barn and helped Dad with the last of the evening’s chores.  Such were just one of the many dog adventures for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

December 2nd…“AS A YOUNG FATHER, DID YOU EVER HAVE A NEAR DISASTROUS CHRISTMAS HAPPENING?”

POEM – “Pyrotechnic Presto Power!” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Pyrotechnic Presto Power, On the Eve of Christmas time,

Exploded in the Living Room, T’was Elliott’s ignorant crime.

Wanting to increase the fun, Of Christmas even higher,

“Let’s pile up more of the Presto Logs, And make a brighter fire.”

Glass doors were closed to the fireplace, As we enjoyed the view,

And went about to open gifts, Of every color and hue.

But after awhile the bottom logs, Of sawdust had burned through,

And crumbled underneath the weight, Then bid their place adieu.

The upper Presto Logs aflame, Now tumbled ‘gainst screen glass,

And caused a scare as the fire there, Made a dread from Dad to lass.

KABOOM!! went that old fireplace glass, With too much heat KERPOW!!

Chaos erupts within the room, Dad’s really done it now!!!

I jump outside the front door quick, And yanked in garden hose,

“Gotta get this flame and smoke put out, Gonna be a mess, here goes!!!”

If Santa had tried to chimney down, Our fireplace that night,

He’d laugh me to scorn, cause I was forlorn, For the mess within my sight.

To this very day, our kids will say, “Way to go, Dad, we recall”,

“The mess and the smoke, as a ribbing we’ll poke,

“When dad made the Presto logs fall!!!”

December 1st…“WHAT UNLIKELY EVENT FOSTERED A LASTING CHRISTMAS MEMORY?”

Contemplatively speaking, it is an arresting thought to muse upon the mystique of our hearts in determining what we embed within our memories and what is set aside as dross.  With that parameter in place, travel with me back to my 1966-67 school year at Kiester High School in our village of Kiester, Minnesota.

I was a member of our Bulldog Wrestling Squad that year and we were bound for a wrestling meet in the distant town of Sherburn, Minnesota which lay to the far west of our farming community.  Our athletic event was transpiring in the weeks leading up to Christmas that year, so, as weather normalcy had it, we had been blessed with a wonderful pristine blanket of snow covering our southern Minnesota world.  Coach Parker, whom I greatly admired, gave team members permission to bring snacks and drinks onto the bus that was transporting the team to the wrestling meet.  Rejoicing in his graces, I aimed my voracious, pre-teenage Norwegian appetite towards Kiester Food Market for my very own ‘snack attack’.

As I emerged from the store with a box of “Chicken In A Biskit” crackers and some “Mountain Dew”, I witnessed a combination of events that were almost ethereal in nature.  It was a calm-inducing, quiet early evening on the Main Street of Kiester.  Businesses and residents had their festive Christmas decor and colored lights strung from here to there in a rainbow display of visual delights.  To make this scene even more magical, a silent snow had begun to float down to earth from the black velvet of God’s nighttime heaven.  This moment of bliss was elevated to an even higher echelon as a quintessential audio dessert alighted upon my ears.  There were holiday tunes that came from the sky above “Jim’s TV & Appliance” store.

Sweet business man (and former KHS Bulldog), Jim Engebretson set up, what I assume was, one of those bell shaped bullhorn speakers on his rooftop and he was playing splendid Christmas music for the entire town to enjoy!!!

My rubber, metal buckled, winter boots crunching upon the snow of the sidewalks only added to the beauty of the snow floating down from the ebony sky above.  The metal buckles on my boots seemed to keep cadence with the music by their happy ‘chinking’ sound as I strolled along in the darkness with the delightful music of Mr. Chet Atkins as he’d play “Little Drummer Boy” on his great electric guitar.   In gratitude to Jim Engebretson’s provision for this moment, it was as if that famous guitarist was playing just for me!   In my own private soliloquy, I pondered that this wasn’t just a wrestling match I was going to, I had, instead, experienced a Christmas epiphany of manifest joy that I have carried for over a half century in the heart of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 23rd…“WHAT WAS A DREAM, AS A CHILD, THAT NEVER CAME TO REALITY IN ADULTHOOD?”

Before I could even see my Uncle Doren Noorlun coming, I could hear the magnificent, bellowing power that was sounding out from the exhaust pipes of his handsome “Indian” motorcycle.  Upon that steel stallion, he crested the berm of the railroad track crossing that was near my paternal grandparent’s home on the outskirts of Lake Mills, Iowa.  Gravel dust spiraled behind him as he careened into the spacious yard and brought that beautiful beast to an obedient stop beneath the cool canopy of shade trees.

Dark aviator sunglasses above his mustache added to his mystique as my dad’s younger brother shut down those “Indian” pipes and leaned that sleek powerhouse onto its pedestal for a rest.  I’m sure little boy drool must have been evident from my mouth as I fawned over and inspected this amazing instrument of speed that seemed encased in sparkling chrome from end to end.  The broad, massive leather seat was complimented by a carryover from the Wild West days of some well-tooled leather saddlebags that straddled the back fender just like they would’ve straddled a horse in the old days.

Whether it was from my begging, or just the obvious yearning that Uncle Doren saw in my eyes, he offered to take me for a ride on his dream machine.  I was in little boy heaven!!!!  Doren mounted the “saddle” first and I saw the “Indian” bob up and down from his weight, almost like a horse feels its new rider before starting out on a ride.  My strong daddy then lifted me into the air and right down behind Uncle Doren for this ride of a tiny lifetime.  I was so young, at the time, that I recall my little legs sticking almost straight out to the sides as I was spread-eagle over those handsome saddlebags.   The mighty “Indian” motor turned over and sparked to life.  I was engulfed in the sound of power that transfixed me into loving this experience from the instant I felt the coursing vibration of that engine churning just below the two of us.

Uncle Doren popped the kickstand up with his Wellington boots and we tilted to the side a bit as that steel stallion obeyed its master and the pipes growled their language of speed as we began to roll down those Iowa gravel roads on a glorious summer’s day.  Every so often, my uncle would glance over his shoulder to be sure this little nephew of his was still aboard.  So happy was I, that I’m sure you could  have counted bugs on my teeth from the thrill!!

Little did my uncle realize that his cycle, and that ride, lit a lamp of desire and imagination within this farm boy to want to some day have an “Indian” of my very own.  Until that day, though, I would need to fuel that love with other ways of pretending.  Riding my bike around the farm yard was one thing, but to create the sound of a motorcycle’s exhaust pipes was another challenge.  Someone suggested that I bend some baseball cards and clip them to my bicycle frame with the cards facing the tire spokes.  Each time a spoke of the wheel passed by, the baseball card would make a popping sound and thus, I had a type of motorcycle sound to enjoy on my boy adventures.   The more baseball cards used, the larger the “motorcycle” sound was created.  Looking back today, knowing the dollar value of baseball collector cards, I could have easily retired from the income of all the Mickey Mantle ($1,400), Roger Maris ($2,000) and other famous baseball cards that met their demise as the “victims” of my cycle sounding apparatus.

Even though dreams and reality don’t always intersect, and even though I’ve never owned a motorcycle of my own; the deep, gutteral sound of an “Indian” motorcycle still brings a thrill to this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 22nd…“WHAT IS THE BIGGEST PHYSICAL PROBLEM YOU’VE HAD TO DEAL WITH IN LIFE?”

POEM – “Eye Of Mine” by N. Elliott Noorlun

The weak left eye, Of this here guy,

Started from the moment of birth.

This tiny little cuss, Wouldn’t “get off the bus”,

To start his journey on earth.

Inside Mom’s womb, Was a cozy room,

Where I laid rather transverse.

No matter the kneading, Even with doctor’s pleading,

I’m sure things got quite terse.

When the moment came,  Doc Hanson’s name,

Was called to help Mom out.

With forceps pull, This tiny bull,

Finally came popping out.

The squeezing of my head, Gave my folks some dread,

For the left eye was weaker than my right.

Especially in the sun, It t’weren’t no fun,

Cause I’d close that eye up tight.

My dad could tell, He knew quite well,

If I were angry or tired.

That left eye of mine, Wandered out of line,

As if it had been wired.

So, if in the sun, While having fun,

I squint one eye outta sight.

It’s only due, To the doctor who,

Had to yank this kid to the light!

April 21st…“WHAT IS THE BEST BOOK(S) YOU EVER READ IN YOUR YOUNG DAYS?”

Whether the stitching is by intricate coloring of words, or the fine craftsmanship in the needlework of a seamstress, both an excellent book and a magnificent quilt are kindred spirits.  Each one is created in intricate wonder by either one threaded stitch at a time, or one wonderful word at a time.  Each one can keep you warm, either in your heart or physically there in your comfortable bed on a frozen winter’s night.  Such a pairing led to the beauty that I experienced as a young boy with our beloved mother and even as a young man in the year of 1974.

Our beloved mother read many books to us as children and I cherish those memories.  But, to name a favorite book, I’ll fast forward the time machine to the year 1974.  I was 20 years young and stumbled across a book that led to a series of “best books” that blessed me AND my children.  Back in the 1970’s, some of you older readers may recall the fine television series called, “Little House On The Prairie”, which was very popular at the time.  During this season of my life, I was employed with the Battle Ground School District.  I worked the evening “Swing Shift” as a “Floor Scrubber’s Helper”.  On one particular evening, we were scrubbing the tile floors in the Library at Laurin Intermediate School.

As I was slowly pushing my battery-powered scrubbing machine past a row of bookshelves, my eye was captured by the title on a book that had the same name as the TV show that I had recently enjoyed watching…..”Little House On The Prairie”.  At the time, I had no idea that the TV show was based on these series of books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  After a quick flip through its pages that evening, I was driven by curiosity to purchase my own copy of the book and began to read and read and read.  I became happily addicted to this very talented lady’s writing style that described her and her family’s adventures while growing up during the latter part of the 1800’s.  Her gift, as a writer, would transport me back in time to see, feel, hear and even seem to smell all the wondrous things she encountered.

Once I had gleefully relished “Little House On The Prairie”, I just had to have the entire series for my own.  I consumed each volume with baited anticipation of following her stories into the next book and the next.  After I finished the series, my hunger for anything “Wilder” was satiated by seeking out any and all peripheral reference books that were written about Laura Ingalls Wilder and her family.  After purchasing it for my collection, I thoroughly enjoyed a songbook with all the songs from her books.  Each song had been historically researched and even contained guitar chords so I could sing the songs to our children and the students at the school where I worked as a custodian.

Here is where the kindred spirits of quilts and books comes into play.  I counted it as one of my sincere joys in this life to have read the entire “Little House” series of books to our five children…..TWICE!  On many a chilly evening, we’d cuddle under one of the quilts my mother made (or their other grandmother made) and be warmed both physically AND in our hearts by these grand stories from a bygone era.  I would embellish some of the characters with animated voices and even could sing the songs as we came to them in each story.  What magical times those were!

In the summer of 1998, while on vacation to the Midwest, I had such fun to be able to take the family to pursue our common love of “Little House” by stopping in DeSmet, South Dakota.  For the Ingalls family, this town was to be the last stop in their legacy of life travels.  Pa Ingalls built a handsome two story home there for he and Caroline to finish out their life together.  Our young family had the joy of touring that home and then, we drove to the other side of town to tour the house that Laura wrote about in the book called, “On The Shores Of Silver Lake”.

Later, that same day, we drove out to the south side of town and visited the local cemetery.  Most of the Ingalls family are buried there.  We even discovered other graves of neighbors and dear friends that Laura mentioned in many of her stories.

Next to God’s Holy Word, these dear writings of Laura Ingalls Wilder are the favorite books of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 20th…“DID YOU EVER WRITE SOMETHING THAT YOU WERE REALLY PROUD OF?”

It was 1968 and I was a youngster of 14 years in our new land of Washington State.  Being inspired in reading the “Boy’s Life” magazine, I then decided to join the local Boy Scout Troop 344 in our town of Battle Ground, Washington.  Our Scout Master gave us all an assignment to write an article about scouting for the local newspaper called “The Reflector”.  I was greatly honored when he selected my article above my other fellow scouts and submitted it to the newspaper for publication.  Within the week, I saw my first (and only) published writing appear in print for the whole town to see and read.  The newspaper staff even embellished the article by including a line drawing of a Scout in uniform crouched at a campfire while cooking.   T’was a proud moment for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 19th…“TELL ABOUT ANY SPORTS YOU PLAYED IN JUNIOR HIGH OR HIGH SCHOOL.”

If there were a sporting event for milking a herd of cows with broken ribs, our farmer father would have easily won Gold Medals with ease.  But, having grown up during the Great Depression of the 1930’s, the only “sport” our dad knew was hard work on his boyhood family farm.  Then, after finishing 8th Grade, his formal education ended and he became a hired hand at other farms and finally the owner/operator of OUR farm near Kiester, Minnesota.    Therefore, being inculcated in a “work only” life style, Dad had this to say about organized team sports of our day……“I can’t see any SENSE in grown men chasing a little ball around a field all day!!”

So, having grown up under our father’s example, in reference to team sports, I also never possessed the desire to pursue the customary athletics of football, basketball or baseball.  Instead, in order to facilitate some sort of sports experience, I decided to venture into more solo/solitary realms such as Track or Wrestling.  There, in those forms of athletic competition, I considered that I would only be competing against a time clock, a record goal or the need to engage a single individual and/or compete against a reduced number of competitive opponents.

Alongside the wind-whipped farmlands of southern Minnesota, was our oval, cinder track where I had my first taste of being on a team with our Kiester, Minnesota Junior High Track Team in the 1966 – 67 school year.  Dressed in the dregs of ancient tracksters before us, we green-horned cinder boys would begin our run round the bend of our track and were forced to lean deeply into the blustery prairie winds as we ran the one length of the track.  It was a challenge, to say the least, but once you rounded the bend and the wind caught your back, one became like a hurricane-filled sail on a high speed yacht and, suddenly, this boy could hardly run fast enough to keep from being blown flat to the ground by the invisible wind power behind me!!!

When I joined the Battle Ground High School Track Team in the Spring of 1970, I tried to compete in the High Jump competition.  You’ve heard of “trial and error”?……well, for me, it was more like “error and a joke”!  It seemed I developed a mental block on making it over the top of that High Bar.  The more I practiced, the lower I had to place the bar.  After awhile, I realized that the High Jump was NOT my type of athletic event and moved on to running events.

I was a pretty fair runner, as far as sprinting competitions, so dear Mr. Lawrence, our coach, had me run as an “anchor man” in the 440 yard relay.  Our “Tiger” team had a Track & Field Meet in Vancouver, Washington one late Spring afternoon.  What happened next has always brought a smile to my memory.  Keep in mind, that at that time, I had a VERY shiny silver crown over one of my front teeth.  During the relay race, I was the anchor runner for the last quarter of the track to the finish line.  When my teammate handed off the baton to me, I took off on the fly.  I must’ve been running with my mouth wide open, because, as I was sprinting around the last corner of the track, someone from the bleachers yelled out, “GO SILVER TOOTH!!!!”   The sunshine must’ve been sparkling off of my silver crown.  If I wasn’t preoccupied with winning that race, I think I would’ve busted out laughing right on the spot!!! 😉

Wrestling was my other sports choice in both Junior and Senior High School days.  Hard to believe it now (in my “Lardo Larry” stage of life), but I was once a slim n trim, zit-faced 120 pounds back in my school days.  Mr. Daryl Parker was my “Bulldogs” Wrestling Coach in Minnesota days and Mr. Richard Lawrence coached our “Tigers” Wrestling Team.  Both of these great men exuded the best in leadership and were admired by all!

On a late afternoon, the grapplers of our “Tiger” Wrestling Team boarded the school bus for a competition far to our north in the town of Centralia, Washington.  With both schools having the same mascot, it was going to be one “Tiger” against another.  As the referee’s whistle blasted, we two “tigers” came at each other, on that wrestling mat, and “locked on” for civil combat.  I swung around my opponent and threw my arm around his neck, intending to throw him over my hip for the “take down”.   In our sweaty condition though, my arm slipped over his head and now he took the advantage of weight and gravity as he smashed my head down HARD into the mat.

I saw “stars” and almost fainted right there from the pain.  The match then ended quickly with myself being pinned.  Almost immediately, upon returning to our team bench, I started to suffer with amazing head pain and loss of clear vision.  I was escorted to our team’s locker room, but my condition worsened.  Mr. Lawrence transitioned from being our team’s “Commanding General”, to a doting and loving father figure as he carefully ushered me into a waiting car and ran me over to the local hospital in that town.  The hospital confirmed that I was suffering with a classic concussion and that they’d like to keep me, at least overnight, for observation and treatment.  Coach Lawrence thanked them, but shared that the wrestling meet would soon be over and we had to catch our bus home to Battle Ground.   As I’m stretched out in the back seat of that bus, our compassionate coach rode next to me the entire distance home and personally drove me home in his car when we got back to our town.  I was so touched by the tender heart housed within that strong mountain of a man.  He was a person of sincere integrity who cared for others and, even though he suffered a “chewing out” by my dad when we got home (for allowing the injury to happen), I will always regard the Honorable Mr. Richard Lawrence as one of my young life heroes.

So goes the limited sports experiences of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 18th…“TELL ABOUT THE BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT YOU EVER RECEIVED.”

POEM – “L. I. F. E.”  by N. Elliott Noorlun

L……..oving each day, He has given to me,

I……….nspired by those who show love,

F………inding each moment, Unwrapped for the joys,

E……..xcited for God’s gift from above.

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

The best birthday gift EVER was life, itself, for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 17th…“WHEN YOU PLAYED MAKE BELIEVE, AS A LITTLE BOY, WHAT KIND OF ADVENTURES DID YOU PRETEND?”

The resources of a little boy’s imagination are contingent to what has recently been deposited into his active cranium by the world around him.  In most cases, the greatest majority of my play time was enjoyed by “me, myself and I”, due to the little boy fact that, at my stage of life, back then, sisters and other little girls had “germs” (and therefore not allowed in my little boy world).   Most of my boy buddies lived too far away on their own farms to make it easy for them to come over to play with me very often, so it was up to my own vivid imaginations to create play times of my own invention.  And, when it came to inventing fun, I often look back to the influences of television, with its in exhaustible sources of adventure, which became the primary catalyst for sparking my imagination station to propel me into many hours of fantasizing and play.

One of my inspiring television shows was the World War II program called “Twelve O’Clock High”.  Each week, on our black and white TV screen, it told the story of brave men who flew the B-17 Flying Fortress bombers in the skies over Germany during the war and all their battles, along with the drama of living in that time of history.  Sitting there in rapt attention, I stored up every moment of exciting stories while it was on the air.  After each week’s episode, my family could see my imagination take the shape of my arms spread out wide as I’d be “flying” my very own B-17 around our farm yard.   I’d make the droning engine noises and machine guns sounds with my very own “sound effects” machine……..namely, my MOUTH!! 😉

My imagination instigator of television also delivered me back into the Wild West of yesteryear in the form of the TV show called, “The Lone Ranger”.   Mr. Clayton Moore (the actor who played the part of the Lone Ranger) was one of my Western heroes and a prime candidate for little boy emulation.  Mimicking his Wild West exploits, I would either pretend to ride my imaginary white stallion (Silver) through the “wind break” of trees around our farm, OR, I would saddle up and ride my very own Shetland pony (Little Lady).  She and I would gallop through the woods of our “wind break ” while chasing blood-thirsty savages or outlandish outlaws.

At the inception of our farm being created in the 1800’s, the original owners planted a large grove of trees to the north and west side of our farm yard.  Those trees, planted in straight rows, were known as the “wind break” because that’s just what they did for us in times of storms, they would “break” the wind so that our home and other buildings were somewhat protected from the damages strong winds could incur.   Coming to the present time of my little boy adventures, those straight tree rows were fodder for fun as Little Lady and I would ride up into that grove of trees and ponder how grand it would be to build our very own Western Town there.  In my mind’s eye, I could envision a cowboy “Main Street” with hitching posts and a Sheriff’s Office, etc..  I could fathom myself as “The Lone Ranger”, “Matt Dillon” or “Ben Cartwright” as I’d right the wrongs of evil and make the world a better place for peace and justice………..hooooweee, how I could dream it up!!! 😉

The television show called, “Combat!” fueled my mini ego to march out into those woods of ours once again.  Only THIS time, it was to find just the right kind of sticks and branches that resembled rifles, machine guns and bazookas.  Pine cones made great “grenades” and the sound effects for all that weaponry was only a “mouth away” as I’d create many juicy KAPOWS! and RATATATTATS! from this little Norwegian repertoire of volatile, voluminous voices.  One could find me doing a reconnoiter for enemy troop movements across our corn fields as I would crouch, belly crawl, and then attack the German SS troopers that were surrounding our cornfields ready to assault my command post there in the woods.  My mighty mouth sounds accompanied my weapons as I began “mowing them down” with imaginary machine guns blazing, saving the day and winning all of World War II in one swoop!

Real life heroes would also fuel my vivid need for further little boy adventures.  In THIS case, I would pretend I was a veterinarian, just like Dr. Henry Blohm, who took care of the medical needs of our animals there on our farm.  Doctor Blohm was a very kind soul who was deeply respected in our agricultural community.  He even served our educational system for many years as he served on the School Board of Directors.  I was mesmerized by this man of animal medicine every time his fancy white truck pulled into our gravel driveway.

Many a time, our father would call good Dr. Blohm to come out to the farm to help a cow give birth to her calf.  With arm length rubber gloves, the doctor sometimes would have his entire arm buried inside that cow’s “rear echelon” to assist in bringing that sweet little calf into the world safely.  As he’d work on one animal or another, sometimes Doc Blohm would cast away some of his spent Vet supplies on the floor of the barn.  I’d ask if I could have them, and invariably, he’d answer in the affirmative, “Sure, help yourself!”

Wanting to emulate this fine local doctor’s ways, I asked my dad if I could use one of his old fishing tackle boxes.  Once in possession of my new “doctor kit” container, I now had a place to put my collection of old veterinarian syringes, drug bottles, etc. that I had acquired over Dr. Blohm’s many visits to our farm.  In my imaginative mind, I now became “Dr. Elliott Stoopenfunkle”…….world famous veterinarian!!   Even as a kid, I knew that Dad would NOT appreciate me “operating” on his live dairy cows, so I then had to find a play time cow substitute.  Out into our woods I’d go and found a fallen tree that had the center core/heart rotted out to the point of being an open hole.  Now I had my perfect “cow” to operate on with my play doctor’s kit of high falootin’, rootin’, tootin’ medical supplies.  Fun on the run for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.!!!