April 16th…“DID YOU EVER HAVE A RECURRING DREAM AS A CHILD IN YOUR FARM DAYS?”

As the sun winked “goodnight” to us at the horizon of our farm each evening, I eventually made my way inside of our century old farm house to enjoy our mother’s delicious supper.  With tummies full and happy, the inevitable time of day would arrive……bedtime.

Ours was a two story farm home with two bedrooms upstairs.  Our sisters, Candice and Rosemary, held territorial rights over the larger south bedroom.  Lowell and I  held sovereignty over the tiny north bedroom at the top of the stairs.  A door divided our two domains of the girls from the boys.

When it came to sleeping accommodations for big brother and I , our bed matched the nature of our antiquated, home……….OLD!!  If you’ve ever heard of a swayback horse, then you have a perfect picture of the bed us brothers slept on.  Maybe that poor excuse for a bed actually HAD been a swayback horse in a previous life because even if you TRIED to stay on the edge of the bed during the night, you’d always end up in the “valley” colliding with big brother in the center.  Being the little kid brother, I was assigned to sleep against the wall.  Only problem with THIS arrangement was, our dear old upstairs ceiling had the classic sloped roof line on my side.  Any quick moves sitting up in bed and  I’d get a “KA BONGOH ON THE HEADOH!!”

Our beloved mother, Clarice, took care that her children were always warm and cozy when it came to bedtime and her blessings came into play especially on winter nights.  Over the years, she had stitched together these heavy blankets (which is actually what a quilt is, in reality) from all kinds of thick fabric material she’d saved up or received as gifts from other ladies in our family.  Some quilting material even came from good, kindly neighbors who would share with us.  The batting (or filler) between top and bottom of the quilt helped to make the overall experience of these massive blankets to be wonderfully cozy on those frigid winter nights.  We’d snuggle under its loving weight and warmth as icy snow fell just outside our single pane glass window.

There was door at the foot of the stairwell, and most evenings, our spiritually-minded matriarch would have us scurry up the stairs and into our beds and have us fold our hands for our nightly prayers with her.  The following was the common prayer of the day for many families.  We would recite it with her listening from the bottom of the stairs…….“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen!”   Our darling mother would then wish us “Sweet Dreams” and our little heads plopped into our pillows with slumber close behind.

Having arrived on dreamland’s doorway, I think the influence of daily farm life guided the content of most of my dreams.  In the ethereal realms of slumber, I would see myself driving big tractors, trucks and even climbing the tallest trees.  Sounds pretty normal for a boy, ya?

Yet, sometimes, I would arrive to the darker spectrum of the dream world.  There, my dreams would be conjured and I’d find myself being chased by these giant, angry Holstein bulls!!!  The scenario usually played out in one of two tortuous ways; either I couldn’t get out of the bull’s way because my feet seemed to be made of lead (each foot weighing a TON each), orrrrrr, I would look down to see my feet running at a blurring pace, but I wasn’t hardly moving an inch to get away from the fast approaching male bovine who was gaining on me by the second with murderous intentions!  That behemoth, with flared nostrils, would now be lowering his massive head to make the connecting attack and crush me to death!!!!   It was at that critical moment of a death impact that I’d wake myself up by literally convulsing in bed as I returned to reality from almost being hammered by a Holstein.  Those were seriously scary dreams for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 15th…“WHAT CHORE ON YOUR FARM PROVED FRUSTRATING TO COMPLETE?”

As sure as the sun rises over the barnyard, growing up in a farm family meant each of us had responsibilities (also known as chores) to carry out daily.   On top of school home work, attempting to clean my room, and other tasks of family life, one of my numerous chores each day was to hike to the south end of our 120 acre farm and “call the cows” from the pasture and herd them up, through the cow lane, to our barn to be milked.

In the latter part of each afternoon, I’d get off the bus from school and boogie upstairs to my bedroom to change into my bib overalls and get my farm boots on.  As the late afternoon sun warmed my shoulders, I’d saunter to the south end of our U-shaped driveway and begin the daily trek down our gravel road and eventually end up at our large pasture land by the south boundary of our farm property.  Along that same gravel road was our cow lane that was about 15 – 20 feet wide and ran the length of our property line along the ditch and up to the cow yard.  Our Holstein herd of cows really had it “made in the shade” out there in that pasture land.  Lots of tasty grass was theirs to chew on all day and plenty of cool water that flowed along Brush Creek that was our south property line running from west to east.

Going to get the cows sometimes turned into an extra fun time when cousins would be visiting our farm.  The afternoon Minnesota skies above us would darken and then open up with a warm rain that soaked us all to the skin, but we reveled in the fact that it was as warm and comfortable as taking a shower in the house.  With the pelting of each raindrop, we would just continue on in the moment of childhood joy and relish the time of working and playing in one fell swoop!  Most days, though, I was solo in this farm boy task as I’d shuffle along the gravel road towards the pasture.  Even as a child, I recall musing on the lush beauty of our crop lands that grew vibrantly verdant as they were nurtured from below by the rich, black soil of our farming region’s glacial deposits.  As I paced along, I also noticed what our father called “soil bank”.  It was a fallow ground that Dad had plowed but left alone, as far as planting, so that it could rest a year and may be used for a different crop in the near future.

Eventually, my “shank’s horses” (another way of saying “legs”) had me arrive at the pasture of our farm that bordered along the banks of Brush Creek.  Father had taught me that in order to make my voice carry the farthest, in calling the cows, I should cup my two hands into a type of a megaphone tube and then hold them to my mouth as I called out, “COME BOSS!!!  COME BOSS!!!”  According to Dad, the cows had become accustomed to that human noise being associated with being fed their tasty grain “supper” back at the barn and would begin coming my direction and up the cow lane.  Most afternoons, my call of “COME BOSS” would do the trick and, sure enough, the older cows wayyyy out there in the pasture would lift their heads my direction and begin coming towards me.  The younger “ladies” then followed the example of their elders and the entire 15 Holsteins (with accompanying calves and youngin’s) would amble past me and up the cow lane towards our cozy barn and their tasty evening meal that was waiting for them.

On some afternoons, though, for whatever reason, there would be a “cow mutiny” against this farm boy who was only trying to carry out the orders of his farmer father.  I’d stand there at the gateway of the pasture, on those days, and holler “COME BOSS!” till I was hoarse and crying out of frustration!!!  How dare they not obey!!  Ohhhh the gall and audacity of those bovines to not heed my vociferous commands!!!   To compound my exacerbated predicament, clouds of Dragonflies must have heard my screaming as they rose up out of the mucky swamp areas of pasture and began dive-bombing me.  Although harmless, I’m told, my overly productive imagination saw those creatures as horrid helicopters that would either sting me to death with their long tails, or pick me up and haul me away to their swamp, never to be seen again!!!

Not only am I frightened to death by those Dragonflies, but now I’m getting MAD at those recalcitrant, milk-laden, horrid Holsteins!!! Down off the upper gravel road I launched my little boy body through the ditch, under the electric fence wire and out towards those bovines!!   Enraged, and at full speed, I ran out into the pasture to physically drag those ornery animals back with me to the cow yard.

As I circled the herd, I’m picking up sticks and rocks to fling at those disobedient bovines as I actually chased them back to the cow lane and, eventually, to the cow yard and barn.  The herd moved alright…..and FAST!!  Problem was, that when Dad saw them RUNNING up the cow lane, he saw their udders (milk bags) being thrown from side to side in violent slapping motions.  Dad bellowed at me at the top of his manly voice, “DON’T CHASE THOSE COWS!!!  THEY’LL INJURE THEMSELVES AND ALL THOSE CHURNING UDDERS ARE GONNA MAKE THAT MILK INTO COTTAGE CHEESE!!!”  Well, he was obviously exaggerating about the “cottage cheese” part, but, nonetheless, it was sometimes a very frustrating chore for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 14th...”DID YOU EVER INADVERTENTLY GET INJURED WHILE PLAYING WITH YOUR BROTHER?”

POEM – “Adventures With Good-Hearted Brother” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Handsome hero, That’s my bro,

I’d shadow him, Where’er he’d go.

Like the time we went, To Albert Lea,

Our dear grandparents, Were there to see.

My brother said, “Hey El, let’s play, 

Some baseball catch,  To pass the day,”

So out came the gloves, And the fun began,

Cause I’ve always been, Brother’s biggest fan.

He’d fling high balls, O’er power line wire,

I’d catch ’em and try, To throw ’em back higher,

Until the light, Of day did wane,

And to see that ball, I’d have to strain,

My young boy’s eyes, To meet that ball,

Inside my glove, Or let it fall.

Sure enough it got, So dark that night,

When bro flung it high, It went outta sight,

Before I could see, Where the ball would fall,

It cracked my head, Like sledge hammer maul.

Goose egg rose, Upon my head,

And for a moment, Bro thought I was dead,

But such are adventures, With good-hearted brother,

I still love him dearly, Like no other!!!

April 13th…“AS A LITTLE BOY GROWING UP IN SOUTHERN MINNESOTA, DID YOU EVER FIND A TREASURE IN A VERY UNLIKELY PLACE?”

Nestled among weeds and brambles, on the southern city limits of Kiester, Minnesota, dwelt our town junkyard.  Old cars, trucks and other paraphernalia came here to rust away or be parted out for folk looking for cheap repairs on a vehicle of their own back at their farm.  Dear Mr. Elmer Simonson was the proprietor who ran this business.  This was a metal-laden heaven for dead hulks that once were sleek traveling conveyances in their heyday.  Our father, Russell C. Noorlun, and Mr. Simonson were good friends and Dad would sometimes stop by the junkyard to see if he could get a part off of a wrecked car or tractor to use for repairs back on our farm.  It was times like this that I LOVED to tag along with Dad to town, cause while he was talking with Elmer, it was my opportunity to explore and climb through countless classic ol’ cars and trucks.  As I climbed inside the creaking contraption of what used to be a car, I’d settle behind the steering wheel and pretend to be driving the car on some imaginary adventure.  Like any bouncing, boisterous boy, I relished the clouds of dust that would billow up within the interior of the old automobile from those dirt laden seats as I’d bounce up and down in my vigorous play acting.

Amongst all of this caliginous clatter of cluttered clunkers, there lived a quite unique individual.  This man’s name was Beryl ‘Lightning’ Lark and his ‘home’ was literally a shack either in or nearby the boundary of the junkyard itself.  To create some form of income for himself, ‘Lightning’ would rummage through the junkyard and find discarded toys.  He’d bring them back to his ramshackle dwelling and do his best to repair and then re-sell them.

To promote his little business endeavor, ‘Lightning’ even advertised his business as a “Toy Factory”.   To drum up business and attention, Beryl would dress up in old lady’s clothing and ride a bike in the local High School Home Coming Parades while he’d throw out candy to the kids.  It didn’t seem to bother ‘Lightning’ in the least that this old, decrepit dress was wayyyy too small for him and resulted in his big belly bursting open the dress right up the side seams.   Besides his “Toy Factory” earnings, Mr. Lark would also garner income by working odd jobs around town.  He even got hired on to come out to our farm sometimes to help the grain grinders that would grind down the field corn into more of a powder form that was easier for our cows to eat.

On a very pleasant summer’s evening, our cows had been milked and other chores had been completed.  It was in those last golden moments of the day that Dad needed to drive into town for something and asked if I’d like to come along.  I was thrilled, of course, so we climbed into our 1950 Ford pickup and headed into Kiester.   Sure was a good thing that I just happened to come along that evening, because that was to be the evening I found my ‘treasure’ in that junkyard.  As the gentle light of dusk was bidding the world goodnight, Dad pulled up next to “Lightning’s Toy Factory”.   Us two farmers stepped inside that shack and ‘talked story’ with Mr. Lark.  While the two men were talking, my little boy eyes locked on to what I thought was the coolest looking piece of boy treasure I had ever seen.  It was a handsome, orange, dual axle, all metal Tonka brand dump truck.  It was a little on the worn side, but it was in basically great condition.  I must’ve used my saucer-sized, pleading eyes to Dad, cause he made a deal with Mr. Lark……..and the truck was MINE!!!!  My dump truck even had special piston hydraulic lifters that, when you tripped the dump box lever, it didn’t just flip up fast, but instead would slowly rise and bring the load of dirt up and allow it to dump out the back tailgate just like the real trucks did.    And ohhhhh, those real rubber, knobby-treaded tires made the greatest tracks in our soft soil back at the farm.  I cherished and played with that Tonka dump truck for many years!  As I grew out of that toy truck stage of life, I made sure to tuck this orange treasure away and brought it out years later when our only son was ready to play trucks in his generation.

One boy’s trash (of that orange toy truck) was definitely another boy’s treasure for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 12th…“SHARE A MEMORY ABOUT GOING TO CHURCH AS YOU WERE GROWING UP IN MINNESOTA.”

I’ve heard tell that some mothers almost “lose their religion” when it comes to getting their young family ready for church on Saturday nights or Sunday mornings.  Thankfully, our mom kept her frustrations in check….for the most part, that is…..heheheh 😉

At our home, going to church started on Saturday nights when Mom would almost have to bodily threaten me to get INTO the bathtub and scrub off my little boy scales of scum in preparation for church the following morning.  Therefore, once I had ensconced my boy body INTO that tub, I had so much fun that I became a prune from head to toe and had to again have Mom threaten me …..only this time it was to get OUT of my porcelain playground palace, dry off and prepare for the next phase of “gettin’ ready for church”.

Squeaky clean out of the tub now, and wrapped in a towel, it was to boogie into the Living Room and sit by the upright furnace for warmth and to wait for Mom to come with her clippers and fingernail files.  Nail time!!!  Not sure if we were too ornery, or if Mom was worried about us kids cutting off our own appendages, but next came the toe and fingernail clipping ritual.

In between our protests of Mom’s cuticle capers on our nails, we’d watch our family’s favorite television shows of “Lawrence Welk” and then “Gunsmoke”.  Our farmer dad, over in his easy chair, would sometimes “shush” us if we were too vocal when Mom inadvertently skewered us with a nail file while cleaning the leftover grime from our dingy digits.

Although our family lived within a modest income, Mom always saw that her children were scrubbed and polished for the Lord’s Day each Sunday morning!

As I look back, I treasured the kindness of our adult church “family” at Grace Evangelical United Brethren Church there in our hamlet of Kiester, Minnesota.  From the cheerful ushers who greeted us at the doorways, to the Sunday School teachers; I felt at home and comfortable there.

Now it’s true that I was happy to BE in church, but sometimes comprehending the spiritual aspects OF church were a whole echelon above the immaturity of this little boy brain.  It was hard enough just to sit still, say nothing of actually paying attention to the sermon and understanding what the minister was striving to preach about.  So, even though my little boy mind would wander, while looking at the stained glass window, I still felt the peace of our family being in another “home”, so to speak, in a spiritual sense.  My favorite treat of all Sunday mornings was to hear our dear mother sing those wonderful hymns of our Christian faith during congregational singing.   I thank you, Lord, for the young church days of this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 11th…“AS A YOUNG BOY, DID YOU EVER DREAM OF HAVING SOMETHING SPECIAL?  HOW DID YOU MAKE THAT DREAM COME TRUE?”

Tell me, does this add up?…….Christmas cards + 90 degree summer heat = new bicycle.  Well, it added up for me back in the summer of 1965.  Dreams are quick to course through the imaginative mind of a young boy when you’re 11 years of age.  A major desire was ignited for me by the arrival of a Christmas greeting card catalog that landed in our old metal mailbox out by the gravel road that passed by our farm.  Along with the greeting card catalog was a second catalog that contained all the wonderful array of prizes that could be earned by selling just the right amount of boxes of those cards.  The bigger the prize you desired, the higher number of boxes of cards you would have to sell to achieve that prize.  It was the card company’s way of rewarding your efforts to sell their cards.  It didn’t take too many turns of the prize catalog’s pages before my eyes LOCKED ON to the fabulous photo of a handsome, red, three speed bicycle.  My little 20″ bike, there on the farm, had only one speed……ME…..huffing n puffing as fast as my legs could peddle.  But this marvel of bicycle engineering would allow me THREE whole speeds and 26″ tires to shift into for lightning speeds (or so I imagined).

Now, the logistics of achieving that bike would take some doing.  First, I’m sure I whined my poor mother and father’s ears off into acquiescing to this young lad’s fortuitous hopes of selling enough cards to earn that bike.  The next step was who could I sell those cards to, and how many boxes to each customer?  The next hurdle was a timeline.  How fast could I sell those boxes of cards and get them back in time for the holiday season that fall?  And, IF I sold the required number of 65 boxes…….how fast could I get my new bicycle?  The great British statesman, Winston Churchill, once said, “Success is walking from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm”  …..THAT was how I took the ‘no thank you’ from people that summer because I wanted that handsome bike in a big way!

The next step was, how will I reach my potential customers?  We lived three miles out of town in the farm country and even our next door neighbor’s farms were a half mile and even farther away from our farm.   ‘Shank’s horses’ (my own two legs) would take forever to walk those kind of distances!!!  Hmmmm…….thinking, thinking, thinking………..YES, of course, of course!!!!  I would saddle up and ride my trusty steed, “Little Lady”, who was our gentle Shetland mare.  It has been common knowledge, over time, that Shetland ponies, in general, are known for their mean/angry dispositions, but not our dear lil filly!   Happily, we were blessed with a sweet little equine angel, so therefore, she was christened as “Little Lady”.   So, sales materials were now loaded into a satchel that could be hooked over my pony’s saddle horn, then it was foot to the stirrup, up on the saddle and off we’d go, “Little Lady” and I, on the gravel roads of our farming community seeking customers.

If I had been rich in those young 1965 days, I would have bought and brought along one of those new-fangled cassette tape recorders with me that hot summer of selling Christmas cards and here’s why.   Normally, Christmas, in our part of America, was associated with frigid temperatures and a blanket of thick white snow.   To the households I visited that summer, it seemed completely incongruous to the lady of the house to have a youngster selling Christmas cards in the boiling, 90 degree summer heat of July.

I would faithfully rattle off my sales pitch of how lovely these Christmas cards were, and how that they could be ‘personalized’ with the family name and any message they’d like to have printed on each card.  Inevitably, the lady of each home would ask the same question after my sales pitch.  “Young man, it’s July and it’s 90 degrees out today!!! Why are you selling Christmas cards in July?”  Like a ‘human tape recorder’ I would then have to repeat and repeat and repeat the reasons, to each household, why I had to sell the cards in July………THAT’S why I wish I would’ve had a tape recorder along 😉

Eventually, through perseverance and many generous neighbors and family, I finally achieved my sales goal.  Mom counted the customer’s money (cash and checks), and then wrote out one check (from our family’s checking account) to pay for the large order.  She then graciously filled out the grand official order form to the “Junior Sales Leadership Company” (or whatever that business was called).  When she finished all that, I literally ran the order form out to that old metal mailbox at the gravel road and wished that Mr. Kabe, our dear mailman, would come fast!  True to their word, the card company sent us a big, cardboard box full of the lovely and festive Christmas cards that everyone had ordered.  Each box of cards were handsomely embossed with each family’s names and personal greetings.   With fall, now having arrived with its wet weather, Mom and Dad and I piled into our 1956 Chevy to deliver all those cards to the farm families, town folk and relatives that had ordered cards from me.  They all were pleased and it was a fun moment for this little salesman to see!

It was late winter/early spring of 1966 before my cherished and greatly anticipated new bike came from the card company rewards division.  I rode that handsome set of wheels with great pride for it was the concrete evidence of a valuable life lesson of hard work for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 10th…“RELATE A FAVORITE SPRING MEMORY”

Having been encapsulated in a world of frozen white for up to five months each year, it was a genuine treat just to be able to see good old brown dirt again as warmer spring temperatures began to melt the snow and ice away from our Minnesota world.  The phenomenon of the season changing was an indicator to this farm boy that we were, once again, being released from the grip of “Old Man Winter”.  Day by wonderful day, the temperatures around our farm were slowly climbing and staying above freezing.  As the snow and ice receded, I could see a dark patch of dirt here, and then there as hope rebounded in me that spring was truly going to come to this land of my youth once again.

To this farm boy, who had been accustomed to “normal” temperatures being BELOW zero degrees, it was a pure pleasure to see the thermometer “peek a boo” into the mid 30’s or even low 40 degree ranges now.  These new temperatures, of course, resulted in my happy peeling of the layers of coats and sweaters that had confined my body over the former frigid months.  Heck, I even took off my longjohns underwear now that Spring was here!!

The happy harbinger of springtime came via the melodious songs of the American Robin.  From inside the cozy warmth of our house, there was a marbling effect of trying to see through our old house windows AND the layer of storm window glass.  Yet even with this impediment, from the Living Room I could see flashing by, the orange breast of the first Robin arriving for the spring.  It was a happy challenge to be the first one in the family to see this herald of a new season, and even more thrilling was to hear her song as Miss Robin sat in the snowy branches of our dormant Lilac Bush and let us know that warmth and greenery was on its way.  Her song confirmed that life was returning from the icy grasp of the deadness of Winter.

Now as any boy, in general, and a farm boy specifically, I enjoyed a fun component of this new season……namely MUD!!  The warmth now enveloping our world on the farm turned all that snow into the classic mess of mud.  The soil could only absorb just so much moisture before we began to get the gobs of gooo everywhere and in everything.  Even though I was as happy in the mud as a piggy in a puddle, our dear father did not adhere to the same mindset as his little boy.  Poor daddy, he had to deal with the tractors and equipment getting stuck, in those Spring mud bogs, as he tried to carry out the daily duties of our family farm.

The Olympic-sized mud arena of fun for this farm boy was the fenced in area around our barn, known as the “cow yard”.   It was basically a place for our animals to get some sunshine and exercise.  So, with four legs each, times fifteen milk cows, and many younger livestock, that exercise meant that the mud in the “cow yard” was deep and gooey for me to enjoy.  This venue was where mud and manure reigned supreme!   Barefooted boy that I was, and now in shorts thanks to a new springtime, I jumped at the chance to dive into the brown and black goo that squirted up between my toes.  I could, and DID, sink into the muck clear up to my thighs in that oooey gooey place of slime.  There were a few times that the suction of the mud around my little Norwegian appendages nearly captured me for good, but, eventually, I’d be able to somehow wiggle or roll out to freedom once again.

As the Minnesota spring winds swirled around me, my mucky mud legs eventually dried those layers of mud to the point where it looked like I was walking around with dry sea crustaceans for legs.  I wore that caked mud layer as a badge of boy pride around the yard and got a kick out of its crusty coolness as a reward for all the exploring I had done.  For some reason, though, my mother saw me coming towards the house and would block the door of the house with her body and forbid me any entry until I had washed off my badge of crud from my boyhood legs.  I can still hear her chiding admonishment as she’d say, “STOP RIGHT THERE, YOUNG MAN!! You’re NOT coming in THIS house like THAT!!”     Alas, being the queen of our castle, her regal announcement was LAW.  Vainly, I would challenge her concerns, like a young knight at a castle drawbridge, but to no avail.  Out would come the garden hose and scrubbing commenced.

Unlike today’s smooth ways of travel, paved roads were in a minority where we lived.  The melting snows turned gravel roads into mud-mangled motorways of mess.  The local use of those roads by tractors, cars and trucks resulted in deeply grooved ruts, mires and mud puddles.  If the family had to drive somewhere (church or visiting), I looked forward to the drive.  For, to me, as a kid in the back seat, it was an adventure of fun that was akin to a cowboy riding a bucking horse as our family would slog, slime and slide from one road rut to another as we bumped along down those gravel/mud roads.  I was always impressed with Dad’s driving skills as we’d almost get bogged down and stuck, but he’d hammer down the gas pedal and that powerful V8 engine would send mud flying out the back of our car like a jet engine spewing exhaust and soon, we’d be on our way once more.

Getting to school, in the springtime, was an adventure in itself.  Marie Meyer, bless her heart, was one heck of a bus driver on those mud-mangled roads.  She would plow and pound that yellow banana of a school bus through those road swamps , causing us kids to jolt and jump in our seats as the bus was catapulted from one road rut to another.  At times, we even became “airborne” towards the bus ceiling when she’d hit a particularly  bad patch of deep puddles.  It was like being at the Faribault County Fair, once again, riding the rides and we didn’t even have to pay to get on.

Spring had truly sprung, and I loved every minute and aspect of that wonderful time of life for this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.

April 9th…“WHAT UNIQUE TREAT DID YOU ENJOY, AS A BOY, WHEN YOU LIVED ON THE FARM?”

POEM – “Salty Joy Boy” by N. Elliott Noorlun

As a young lad, Out for one of my walks,

I happened upon, Yon wooden box,

Attached to the fence, Where cows mooed and jarred,

Was a big block of salt, There in our cow yard.

For bovines, a treat, That to them was like malt,

As they slathered and drooled, To get to that salt.

Our dad knew they needed, That salt in their diet,

So if good for the cow, By gee, think I’ll try it.

As a kid I yearned, And wanted that salt,

So when slurping cows, Made their licking to halt,

I broke off a corner, Where the salt was pristine,

And walked off to chew on, What I thought was keen!

I’d slurp and enjoy, That clean cow sodium,

As I’d walk here or there, Or stand on rock podium.

I’d eat it like candy, You say how absurd?

For me t’was the treat, Of this little farm nerd!!

 

 

April 8th…“MAKE UP A LIMERICK ABOUT YOURSELF.”

POEM – “Once Elliott Was…..” by N. Elliott Noorlun

Once Elliott was, Actually skinny,

You might even say, That he was mini,

But then lots of food, That tasted so gooooood,

Made him fat as a horse, With lard-filled whinny!! 😉

April 7th…“WHO WAS YOUR CHILDHOOD DENTIST AND WHAT WAS HE LIKE?”

Perched on the second floor, above the 1902 building that held the Kiester Food Market, was the office of our village Cavitary Caped Crusader, the honorable Doctor E. F. (Elmer Fred) Pirsig.  Doc Pirsig first opened his Kiester, Minnesota dental practice back in the year 1932 and when it came to being successful in dentulous delights, this dear man was the very essence of a professional that was sought after by farm families for miles around.

Even though Mom dutifully implored me to brush my teeth on a regular basis, it was just a matter of time when an errant tooth would give way to that dastardly, dilemmatic conclusion that I either needed to live with the pain of that tooth, or visit dear Doctor Pirsig.  So, wanting to get relief from the agony, Mom and I would climb into our 1956 Chevy and it would soon pull up in front of the Kiester Food Market building.  Mom and I then entered a stairway door that led up to the doctor’s office.

Our echoing footsteps, up the creaking stairs of that cavernous stairwell, eventually led us into the doctor’s large waiting room.  In between reading comic books, I found myself gazing at the quaint, tin-embossed ceiling high above me that likely had been in existence from when the building was originally constructed back in 1902.

As he took a step or two into the waiting room, Dr. Pirsig summoned me into his treatment parlor that overlooked our village’s Main Street.  I remember being fascinated with all of the medical equipment that he had and especially the massive dentist’s chair with its rope-driven drill that hung over me as I climbed up and settled into this dental ‘throne’.

As gently as he could, Doc Pirsig’s syringe needle invaded my little boy mouth to administer the anesthetic to put my feelings to ‘sleep’ while he worked on my cavities.  As the drug began to take hold, it was a strange realization of having NO sensation in that part of my mouth……no hot, no cold, no pain of any sort….WOW!!  What an intriguing and mysterious experience that was for me.  In the early to mid 1960’s, our dentist’s drilling apparatus was powered by an electric motor that spun pulley wheels linked together at articulated joints on long metal arms.  Along those pulley wheels ran a strong fiber cord that then powered the drill that was used inside a patient’s mouth for removing tooth decay.  Funny and freaky, at the same moment, were the times that Doc Pirsig’s drill bit would ‘bite off more than it could chew’ and became stuck in one of my teeth.  The main drill motor was still supplying full power to the pulley wheels, so they kept on spinning at high speed.  Problem was, the pulley drive cords were not moving, due to the stuck drill bit.  That’s when I’d see smoke start to emanate from those cords and wondered if they’d burst into flame?  😉  The good doctor took it all in stride, though, and just released the power, wiggled the bit loose and resumed his work on my dental behalf.

In between grindings in my mouth, I was given a small cup of water and the doctor asked me to swish a mouthful in my mouth to dislodge material that he had created.  I was then instructed to bend over a small, round sink that was immediately to my left side and spit the remnants down the drain.  That tiny, porcelain sink had a constant, small jet of water shooting in a clockwise whirlpool, of sorts, along the upper rim and eventually down the little drain in its center.   Being the midget comedian, I was amused how that rinse sink resembled a small toilet as it flushed my drool, blood and dental chunks away into the unknown from my kid-sized candy cavern……alias ‘mouth’ 😉

On a side note, since Dr. Pirsig’s profession was a rather sedentary one, therefore, he was well-known for faithfully going out for walks into our local farming countryside for exercise almost daily throughout the years.   One windswept winter’s day, our parents came up on a person walking along the side of the highway during a heavy snowfall.   The parka-clad figure was very well dressed with gloves, scarf, etc. and it turned out to be dear Dr. Pirsig on his daily walk.   Rolling down the window of our car, Dad offered the Doc a ride back into Kiester, yet, in his kind and gentlemanly ways, Dr. Pirsig reassured Russell and Clarice Noorlun that he was just fine and bid them a blessed day and that he’d be safe and well till he got back into town.  That’s one very determined soul of a fine man. 😉

Without the dedicated, dental delicacies of Dr. Pirsig, and others over the years, there would be one more totally toothless twerp in this world…….ME!   I’m so thankful for the few teeth I have remaining is this Norwegian Farmer’s Son.